Sharon Schulze (8 page)

P
adrig held Alys’s fingers closed tight over the stone and counted himself a most fortunate man.

Thank God she didn’t seem to recognize—would hopefully
never
know—how close he’d come to completely losing any sense of restraint just now.

What the devil was wrong with him?

He’d never been so swept away by a woman. Jesu, even as a youth eagerly beginning to indulge his passions, he’d never been so out of control as to lose all awareness of his surroundings, of all rational thought.

And to do so under such circumstances as these…

In truth, he must be going mad.

He glanced at Alys—so brave in the face of pain, so bold when challenged by an impudent knight.

Her lovely face, her expressive eyes…those lips capable of surprising him with both words and deeds…

What a sweet madness it had been!

He gazed into her eyes yet again, and realized he could distinguish their amber color, could see her features, the scratches on her face, more distinctly than he’d been able to a few moments earlier.

While they’d been so involved with each other, a new day had begun.

“’Tis growing lighter.” Still holding her hand cradled within his, he reached out with his free hand and swept the disheveled mass of her hair away from her face, his fingers lingering within the thick, silky strands. She leaned into the caress, intensifying his desire—and his regret that this was apt to be the last chance he’d have to touch her as a lover would. “The men will likely be stirring soon.”

They’d little time left before the responsibilities of the day would fall upon them all.

What should he say to her? What should he do to bring an end to what must remain naught but a brief interlude between them, something that
must never
happen again?

In the harsh light of day, Sir Padrig ap Huw was a soldier in the service of Lord Rannulf FitzClifford— Lady Alys Delamare’s loyal servant for the nonce.

Nothing more than that.

He’d do well to remember his place, for both their sakes.

However, Padrig thought, casting a swift glance out the narrow doorway of the hut—the sun had not made its way into the sky quite yet.

Until this night was completely gone, he vowed, he would remain Alys’s tutor—in one way or another.

Silence yet reigned in the shelter, but he expected someone would be up soon. ’Twould be wise to prepare accordingly.

He hadn’t let go of Alys’s hand when he’d given her the stone; he released her now and settled beside her on the ground, sitting so it appeared as though he’d been examining her arm.

He didn’t dare touch her again, for ’twas obvious he had little control where she was concerned. Instead he let his gaze settle upon her as he wished his hands could, lingering over each feature of her face, stroking the dark river of hair flowing over her shoulders and bosom.

Her indrawn breath, and the color rising to tint her cheekbones, told him she felt the phantom caress. “Padrig, what are you doing to me?” she whispered, her voice faint, pleading.

“I cannot touch you as I wish to—as I did before. But I want you to know I don’t regret what we shared.” Her hand, still clasped tight around the rock, lay in her lap; he glided his fingertips over the back of it, the touch come and gone in an instant. “I thank you for the gift of your kisses, Alys. I shall treasure them always.”

Before he could say more, he heard voices. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Rafe sit up, heard someone else speak.

He turned back to Alys. “Always,” he whispered.

Rising to his feet, he left her and went to check on his men.

By the time Padrig, Rafe, Jock and Peter had cared for the injured, armed themselves and left the shelter to go investigate their situation, the sun had come up and brightened the sky to full morn.

As was so often the case after a storm, it was a light-filled and glorious day.

Every joint and muscle protesting loudly, Alys made her way to Marie’s side to check on her once more before venturing outside. The maid lay in a deep swoon, her body covered with bumps and bruises, several bones unmistakably broken.

Worse than that, though, was the long, nasty gash running from her temple up onto the top of her scalp. Padrig didn’t believe her skull had been cracked, but it was difficult to recognize such an injury. Whether it was or no, there was little they could do for her beyond setting her broken bones and cleaning and binding up her wounds. They’d no healing herbs or soothing tisanes to ease her ills; they could only watch her closely, pray for her recovery and hope that nothing they did caused her further harm.

Between her dislocated shoulder and twisted ankle, along with myriad scrapes and bumps, Alys felt like one huge bruise. She moved gingerly as she made her way to the entrance of the ramshackle hut, careful to avoid the trees propped on either side to support the roof.

All she needed was to knock into it and send the entire building down atop the poor souls inside!

Considering that the men had gathered the materials and constructed the shelter in the midst of a terrible storm, with scarce enough light to see their hands in front of their faces, the structure was a marvel.

Under any other circumstances, however, ’twould be considered a collapse waiting to happen. Remembering how often she’d leaned her full weight against the wall as she rested upon her pallet, ’twas a wonder the entire hut had not fallen down atop them then.

When she added the possibility that she and Padrig had bumped into that wall several times besides—though she couldn’t vouch for that fact, since she had little recollection of anything save what they’d been doing—’twas a miracle, indeed, that the shelter had remained standing throughout the night.

Just thinking about the hut coming down and bury
ing everyone was enough to send a shudder of horror rushing though her.

Even if she’d not been completely distracted by Padrig and his “lessons” in the last dark hours of the night, she knew she wouldn’t have been able to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes for longer than a moment, she felt transported back to the stygian depths of the mound where she’d been trapped.

She was tired, yet she didn’t know if—or when—her fear of being closed in would end. Until then, she didn’t think she could close her eyes long enough to sleep. What little rest she’d gotten before Padrig had carried her here had been the result of exhaustion, the cold and a dose of whiskey.

Once he’d settled her in the shelter, where she was dry and warmer, she’d awoken. The hut, small and dark, had reminded her too much of her earlier resting place for her to relax and sleep again. If it hadn’t been for the comfort—and in all honesty, the distraction—of Padrig’s presence at her side, she didn’t think she’d have been able to remain there until the sun rose.

Once it was light, thankfully, her fear had begun to ease. Still, she’d sit out in the sun gladly, and savor every bit of its warmth and comfort.

Mayhap then she’d be better prepared to face her next trial—when Padrig returned, he planned to reset her shoulder.

In the meantime, she’d rather think about anything else but that.

How were the men faring in their search of the area? She wished she had been able to ride out with them, for she was familiar with the demesnes of several holdings along this route. Somewhere in the vicinity her father
held two small manors in his own right. She’d visited them several times before, and she’d once attended a hunting party at another keep nearby.

Glancing out at the complete devastation surrounding her sent a rush of cold through her, chilling her to her bones. ’Twas eerie to see such complete destruction, the piles of wet, blasted trees glistening in the warm sun, clouds of moisture hovering low to the ground all around them like some hell-born miasma.

’Twould take a sharp eye, indeed, to recognize anything in conditions such as this.

Of course, there might not be anything at all left to recognize after the storm. Still, ’twas possible she could have helped.

She prayed they would find
something
familiar and realize where they were—or at the very least, happen upon a village or manor—for they were in desperate need of someplace where they could find shelter and aid.

After the men had ridden out, Alys had done what she could for the injured, giving them water and food, talking to them so they’d know they were not alone and checking their injuries.

Though to her shame, in truth she knew little about how to treat them.

She should have paid more attention to Lady Gillian’s training in the healing arts, and less to daydreaming and collecting information for her stories. Even once she began her new life, when she joined the abbey, ’twould be useful to know—

Dismay filled her. Had she ruined her chance for the future she’d wanted for so long?

Jesu, what had she done? After her bold behavior with Padrig—behavior she could not make herself re
gret one bit, to her shame—would the abbess be willing to take her on as a novice?

Did she still want to
be
a nun?

Mayhap the true question was—had she ever wanted to be one?

She’d never had a vocation to serve God—that lack she’d freely admit. Yet if she joined the order, she would be doing the Lord’s work in some form.

Her primary reason for joining the order, however, was purely selfish. It was the only place she knew of where she would be free to continue her writing. Indeed, at the Abbey of St. Bridget writing was encouraged. It could even be considered a requirement. As with some of the monasteries, the purpose of this convent was the compilation and dissemination of knowledge.

They wrote and copied books.

When Alys had heard of their objective, she’d been overjoyed. A place where she would fit in, be able to continue her work. A place where she could discover more about the world far beyond her tiny corner.

She ought to have been able to join them several years ago. Her father had already found a well-connected husband for her sister, and her brother had wed an heiress from a noble family of higher degree than their own.

Surely after having twice developed such valuable bonds by marriage, her parents didn’t need
her
to further their ambitions.

Yet they’d refused her request to join the abbey, had gone so far as to send her nigh to the other end of the Marches to foster with Lady Gillian at l’Eau Clair.

They’d said ’twas to give her a good education in the arts of housewifery, to broaden her prospects by giving her the chance to meet other young nobles.

Young noble
men.

’Twas to broaden
their
opportunities to form more noble bonds, more like.

And to move her far away from home, where they wouldn’t have to listen to her constant entreaties.

Once she’d gone to l’Eau Clair she’d kept up a steady stream of letters to sustain her campaign, but there was no guarantee they’d read any of them.

Indeed, she doubted they had. They’d been amazingly skilled at ignoring her in person. How much easier must it be to simply toss her missives into the fire unread?

After all, it wasn’t as if they needed to worry about her, or concern themselves with her well-being at all. They’d placed her with Lady Gillian FitzClifford. What more could any sensible parent have done for their child?

Lady Gillian’s familial ties extended all the way into Ireland and Wales, while within England she had connections to several of the most noble households in the land. She was also known far and wide for her ability to train young noblewomen to be skilled chatelaines.

A woman trained under Lady Gillian’s tutelage made a fine wife for a man of the highest degree.

’Twas all too likely her parents anticipated that after a while in Lady Gillian’s world, Alys could make a match with some high-born fool they could manipulate.

Why, then, had they sent for her to come home now?

She’d believed they’d sent for her because they’d finally yielded to her pleas and arranged for her to enter the abbey.

Now she could only wonder how she could have been such a fool.

Had she let her desires blind her to reality once
again? It had ever been her way, to see only what she wished to, rather than what truly was.

Now, however, the possibility she’d finally attain her heart’s desire seemed to grow smaller the more she thought about it.

Had they made arrangements for her to provide them with another high-born son by marriage?

By the Virgin, if that were the case, what poor fool might they have chosen to be her husband?

She swiftly considered possible choices, though she could think of few likely candidates.

One thing she did realize, however.

No matter who the man was, she knew he would never be a simple knight such as Sir Padrig ap Huw.

Alys sat out in the sun, letting it ease her aches and trying without success to secrete the memory of Padrig’s kisses deep in her brain. Her ankle, thank heaven, was not broken, but it twinged with pain when she walked, else she’d have tried to pace away her agitation.

Her fingers itched madly for pen and parchment. ’Twas as well she could not write, for otherwise she’d surely have been compelled to note what they’d done, how she’d felt and what she’d thought of the experience.

Lacking the opportunity to record her thoughts had never stopped her from thinking about what she’d write once she got the chance, however. Other than going back into the shelter to look after the others, she spent most of the time until Padrig’s return doing what she’d promised herself she would not do.

Reliving the moments in Padrig’s arms.

Ah, she’d drive herself mad if she kept up such foolishness!

She welcomed the sound of approaching horses, glad of the chance to think about something—nay,
anything
—else.

Padrig and the others rode into the clearing. It seemed they’d been gone forever, though a glance at the sky showed the sun had not yet journeyed a quarter of its path to midday.

They’d plenty of daylight left to move on to someplace better than this one.