A Knight of Honor (30 page)

She looked up at him.
 
“So beautiful,” he whispered as he lowered his lips towards hers…

A pounding at the door caused him to bolt upright.
 
“Sir!” a voice called from behind the closed door.

Slane stared at the door, practically frozen in place.

“Slane?” the voice called and Slane recognized it as John’s.
 
“I’ve seen several strange-looking men walking the streets nearby.
 
Clad in black.
 
They haven’t come into the inn yet, but I think they might soon.”

Slane shot a knowing glance at Taylor.
 
Corydon’s men.
 
He rose and took a step toward the door, but then faltered.
 
He shouldn’t be here.
 
He shouldn’t be in her room.
 
He turned his gaze helplessly to Taylor.
 
For a long moment, their gazes locked and held.
 
There was sympathy in her gaze, yet he saw humiliation in the grim set of her lips.

“He’s not in here,” she called to John.

“Sorry to disturb you, lady Taylor,” John answered after a moment.
 
“But if you see him, please tell him he’s needed downstairs.”

For what seemed like an eternity, they stayed motionless, their gazes lingering.
 
Finally, the footsteps receded and the spell was broken.
 
Taylor turned her face away, and Slane felt her agony, her shame.
 
What in heaven’s name am I doing? he silently demanded.
 
I shouldn’t be here in the middle of the night feeling like a criminal.
 
I only came because she is wounded.
 
But deep down, he knew that was not the reason he had come.
 
He had feelings for her, strong feelings.
 
And they compromised everything he stood for.
 
He was honor bound to Elizabeth, to his brother.
 
But in the face of all that, there was something inside of him that just didn’t give a damn.
 
He wanted Taylor.
 
He wanted her with every muscle in his body.

Slane stood stiffly.
 
“Are you going to try to run away again?”

“Not in this condition,” she answered just as formally.

At least there was no sarcasm in her voice.
 
“Please stay and let me see to it that your wounds heal properly.”

She nodded her head.
 
Slane moved to the door and paused.
 
How could he stay away from her?
 
How could he keep his vow to Elizabeth and honor his brother when Taylor was so near?

Slane opened the door and left the room.
 
How could he not?

“W
e can’t move her,” Slane told John.
 
He faced his friend in the common room, the fire from the hearth crackling behind him.
 
“Not until her stitches heal.”

“It’s not safe here,” John murmured, leaning close to him.
 
“Think of how dangerous it is for Elizabeth.”

“What would you have me do?” Slane demanded, his angry gaze burning into John.

John straightened under his harsh demeanor, but said nothing.

“I can’t move Taylor,” Slane repeated.
 
He crossed his arms, scowling at his friend.
 
“I was hoping the plague would scare Corydon away.”

“I can take Elizabeth,” John offered.
 
“I can escort her to Castle Donovan and you can meet us there when Taylor is ready to be moved.”

Slane shook his head.
 
“By yourself, you are no match for Corydon.
 
And I can’t leave Taylor alone.
 
If only there was someone else I could trust with Elizabeth’s safety.”

John grunted and sat heavily on a nearby bench.

“Have you confirmed that it was Corydon?” Slane asked.

“No,” John admitted.
 
“But we have to assume it is him.
 
Even if it isn’t, it won’t be long before he comes.”

Slane dropped his chin to his chest.
 
He knew John was right.
 
He knew there was no way for the two of them to protect two helpless women against Corydon’s forces.
 
But if they moved, Taylor’s stitches might open and the heavy bleeding could start again or the wounds could become infected.
 
He sighed.
 
“We have no choice but to wait until Taylor recovers enough to ride a horse.
 
We’ll have to take our chances here.”

***

Corydon’s men!

Taylor sat up quickly, her panicked eyes searching the room.
 
A hot flare of pain speared her side.
 
She touched her wound, feeling the soft cloth of the bandage that wound around her torso.
 
She grimaced and sat still for a long moment, waiting for the pain to fade to a dull throbbing.
 
Slowly, the agony eased and she took the moment to scan the dark room.
 
The hints of sunshine inching between the shutters showed her nothing but an empty room.
 
She eased her legs from the bed, favoring her wounded side, and she moved to the window slowly, taking careful, measured steps.
 
With one hand still clamped over her wound, she pulled the shutters open; the strong sunlight that flooded the room blinded her.
 
She covered her eyes and turned her face away from the blazing rays.
 
After a moment, she shaded her eyes with a hand pressed to her forehead and turned her stare to the street below.

It, too, was empty.
 
She didn’t see Corydon’s men.
 
She didn’t see any mercenaries.
 
As a matter of fact, she saw no one at all.
 
Not even Slane.

Suddenly, the door behind her opened.
 
Taylor whirled, her right hand instinctively moving to her waist for her weapon.
 
But it was not there.
 
Another slashing burst of pain bit into her side.

A woman entered the room, a tray of food in her hands.

Taylor grimaced and grabbed her side again, softly cursing.
 
She knew that face.

She hated that face.

The woman paused at seeing Taylor by the window.
 
For a brief moment, their eyes met.
 
Elizabeth was beautiful.
 
Her chestnut-colored hair shimmered in the sunlight; her skin was flawless.
 
Taylor lifted a hand self-consciously to her bruised cheek, trying to hide it from the woman’s searching eyes.
 
Something drained from her.
 
How could she have hoped to compete with a woman who was everything a man could want?

Elizabeth set the tray down on the table near the bed and rushed forward.
 
“You shouldn’t be out of bed so soon,” she said in a soft, sweet voice.
 
“The stitches will break open.”
 
She reached for Taylor’s arm.

Taylor yanked away her arm away from her so violently that she rammed her elbow into the shutters behind her.
 
The pain in her side ignited again and it took all her will not to double over.
 
“I can make it myself,” she ground out between clenched teeth.
 
But despite her claim, she stayed by the window, cradling her side.

Elizabeth folded her hands before her.
 
“I brought you some food.
 
The porridge is surprisingly good for that of an inn.”

What a wonderful wife she would make.
 
What a wonderful mother.
 
A well of grief opened inside of Taylor, threatening to pull her down into it.
 
She forced the lump in her throat down.
 
Elizabeth was everything Taylor could have been.

Elizabeth moved to the bed and gestured at it.
 
“Please.
 
I’ll have a look at the stitches now.”

Taylor couldn’t take her eyes from Elizabeth’s hand.
 
So slim.
 
So soft.
 
Graceful.
 
Uncallused.
 
Capable.

Taylor hated her.
 
Staring Slane’s betrothed in the face, she couldn’t find one reason, not one, why Slane shouldn’t marry her.
 
Even her damned hand was perfect.
 
Taylor set her jaw.
 
“I’m perfectly capable of tending my own wounds.”

Elizabeth clasped her perfect little hands before her.
 
“I see,” she said simply.

“No,” Taylor said with an anger and bitterness she had never felt before.
 
“I don’t think you do.
 
I don’t think you can.”

A frown crossed Elizabeth’s unblemished brow.
 
“Slane has asked me to see to your needs.
 
With all your knowledge of wounds, you should know that moving around might cause your stitches to open.
 
And we wouldn’t want you to bleed to death, would we?”

Taylor’s infamous grin stretched across her lips.
 
“Well, at least one of us wouldn’t”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed.
 
“Since my beloved has asked that I tend you, I’ll come to your room twice a day with your meals.”

Beloved.
 
Taylor felt her jaw tighten.
 
Afraid of what she might say, she turned her back on Elizabeth to look out the window.
 
The bright sun blinded her.
 
But she stared into the light nonetheless.

It was a long moment before Taylor heard Elizabeth’s soft footsteps pad across the floor and the gentle closing of the door.

Taylor slowly returned to the bed and gingerly sat down, holding her left arm tightly against her throbbing side.
 
Anguish filled her, warring with the anger, the confusion, but most of all the sense of defeat.

She lifted her eyes to the tray.
 
There were clean cloths on it as well as bread and a bowl of porridge.
 
She knew her wraps should be changed.
 
She knew it and she didn’t care.
 
Anyway, the longer she was hurt, the longer she would have a reason to stay near Slane.

***

Slane entered the inn quietly and spotted John sitting at one of the tables near the hearth.
 
“Nothing,” he announced with relief and stretched out his hands toward the inviting warmth.
 
He had been out most of the afternoon, searching the area for any sign of Corydon or his men.
 
But the only men to be found were either plague- infested shadows pleading for help or decaying corpses lying at the side of the road.
 
There had been no sign of Corydon.

Slane heard soft footsteps and turned to see Elizabeth approaching him with a mug of ale.
 
He smiled his thanks and took the offered mug from her hands.
 
He took a long drink, quenching his parched throat before asking, “All went well today?”

Elizabeth cast a glance at John.