Elaine Barbieri (6 page)

“Mercy…for this wounded man…”

“Yea, for this
helpless
man.”

The baron stood stiffly, his handsome face flushed. Taking a sudden backward step, he said coldly, “If mercy is the tact that will turn those who resent me— including you—in my favor, then this man will receive my mercy.” Advancing again in sudden steps, the baron leaned down to whisper, “But keep in mind that my
mercy
will last only two more days, when I will expect you to return to the work that brought you here. Is that understood?”

Refusing to cringe under the baron’s heat, Rosamund said, “Yea, it is understood.”

Taking her chin roughly in his hand, the baron said more softly, “And then we will see what you have to offer…if it was worth the wait, as I envision.”

“What I offer? My lord, I offer only my expertise at the work Hadley has taught me.”

“Exactly.”

Flushing darkly at the inference of his words, Rosamund jerked her chin free and replied, “I promise nothing except my help to build your cathedral, my lord.”

“I do not need a promise. I take what is mine.”

“Yours? I do not—”

Interrupting, the baron hissed, “Silence! I warn you that another word spoken by you now may be your last.”
When Rosamund’s chin rose defiantly at his words, the baron added, “Think before you speak. Where would your patient be without you to tend him—and where would Hadley be without your help?”

Rosamund did not reply.

“Consider what I say, for my patience wanes.”

Wrapping his hand unexpectedly in Rosamund’s light hair, the baron yanked it cruelly. Satisfied that his action had raised tears to her eyes, he said, “Remember that…and remember me.”

The baron stepped back and turned to stride out the door. Within minutes the sound of his horse’s hooves declared his departure.

Swallowing, Rosamund wiped the moisture from her eyes and then turned back to her patient to see that he regarded her intently from a gaze that had been reduced to amber pinpoints of light. His eyes flickered closed, but not before she thought she heard him whisper, “Another offense…for which he will pay.”

Rosamund was about to speak when the wounded man went still.

R
osamund walked toward the barn as the rising sun touched the darkness of night. Two days had passed. She had awakened that morning to the realization that she could not afford to spend another day at Dagan’s bedside while Hadley worked at the construction site with Horace. If she stayed away any longer, she chanced disproving Hadley’s statement that her presence beside him was necessary to his work. She was only too aware that Hadley’s claim was true; there was no one other than herself who could provide the kind of support he needed. But the truth was that the wounded man’s recovery had somehow become more important to her than she was willing to concede.

Admittedly, she knew no more about Dagan than she had learned that first day. He still suffered from delirium although his fever had lessened. His facial swelling had receded, and strong features were emerging, including an amber-eyed gaze that studied her with heated intensity. The bruises on his masculine body had begun to fade, and she recalled reluctantly the uncertain feelings that assailed her when she bathed his wounds. She had become somehow protective of him despite the power he exuded even in his weakened state. He had too few lucid moments and had spent most of the time
since she had assumed his care in avoiding his pain in sleep. She had been reluctant to press him for more information about himself because of his intermittent delirium and because his explanation about Conqueror had cost his strength dearly.

Rosamund’s thoughts turned to the great war horse as she entered the barn and the aroma of heat, straw, and manure grew stronger. She noted that although the animals employed in construction had already begun their work for the day, the destrier remained behind. No longer fettered in any way, he was allowed to roam the barn freely at her insistence. The animal was immediately aware of her entrance but did no more than observe her with a cautious eye as she approached.

It occurred to Rosamund that once the great animal had seen Dagan, he had realized that she was caring for him. The few words Dagan had spoken to him at that time had been received as a rigid command that the war horse had immediately obeyed. She had come to realize in the time since, while she had cared for the animal, that Dagan had been correct despite his delirium. Conqueror did not suffer fear—only distrust. The great war horse had demonstrated that truth to her by his immediate acceptance of Dagan’s word. She was unsure if the animal’s attitude would change when Dagan was on his feet again. She believed somehow that the animal tolerated her simply because of Dagan’s brief instructions.

Those thoughts aside, Rosamund approached the great war horse cautiously. She spoke to him in a low tone as she prepared fresh water and feed, tidied the area, and wondered how the animal had come to exhibit
such great loyalty to anyone after having suffered as Dagan claimed. She instinctively felt there was more to the story than Dagan had related and wondered if he would ever tell her.

The echo of approaching footsteps set Conqueror’s ears twitching as Rosamund turned toward the doorway. Hadley paused there with Horace at his side.

Leaving Conqueror at the rear of the barn, Rosamund approached the two men as Hadley whispered, “I feared to wait any longer for your return, Rosamund. I leave now with Horace to study the walkways. I left the wounded man sleeping and alone.” As her brow knit, Hadley added more softly, “we have reached the deadline that the baron set for your care of the man. He expects you to accompany me today. He will want to know why you do not. I am uncertain what excuse I should give.”

Glancing briefly at Horace, Rosamund replied, “I had hoped to accompany you today, Father, but my chores delayed me.”

Hadley squinted into the rear of the barn and shook his head. “That great animal complicates the matter. Perhaps it would be best if we left the door open here and allowed it to run off.”

“That effort would be wasted, Father.” Rosamund glanced back at the war horse. “Dagan has ordered the animal to wait for him. It will obey until Dagan says otherwise.”

Glancing blindly behind him, Hadley said, “I must leave before the baron sends someone for me.”

Rosamund declared softly, “Do not fear. I will join
you. I will not allow the baron to direct his anger for me toward you.”

“My concern is not for myself, Rosamund. I fear the baron intends to use his position to threaten you.”

“I will not be cowed, Father.”

Pausing, Hadley replied, “That is my true fear.”

Unexpected tears filling her eyes, Rosamund walked a few steps to hug Hadley tightly. She whispered, “Do not worry about me. I will prevail. It is my destiny.”

Unable to speak further, Hadley nodded, and then turned on Horace’s arm. Rosamund watched his departure for a few moments before turning back to the great war horse to say, “Behave yourself. Our fate depends on it.”

Dagan awakened slowly to the dim light of morning and glanced around the small hut. The slender youth who had tended to him was gone.

Ross’s delicate, fair-haired image returned to his mind. The image was
too
delicate…
too
fair….

With this realization came a tug of emotion that was equally startling, one that Dagan forced himself to ignore as he attempted to sit up. Finally succeeding, he drew himself to his feet and staggered toward the fireplace. He managed to snatch up the clothing before returning to the mattress and flopping back down with an agonized grunt.

Dagan allowed himself a few moments for recovery before scrutinizing the hut more closely. The two other mattresses lay a distance from his, and a kettle on the fire emitted a pleasing aroma. Ross’s image returned
again to his confused mind. He recalled the appearance of Baron de Silva and the man’s vile proposals.

Dagan’s stomach knotted at the thought. Was Ross in the lecherous arms of the baron even now?

No, that could not be so. He remembered the baron’s ultimatum—two days, and Ross must return to work or he would suffer the consequences of his absence. Surely two days could not have passed already. In any case, how did the baron dare threaten someone who had tended one of William’s own followers?

Dagan sought to clear his mind as he sat on the edge of the mattress. Believing him to be Saxon because of his clothing, Ross had spoken to him freely. The young man had no love for William or for those who had fought with William. The old man…Hadley…had questioned his arrival on Conqueror, a Norman war-horse, and in doing so had revealed a similar antipathy. Ross had responded for him to Hadley’s question with the partially true explanation Dagan had given him— that Dagan had found Conqueror injured and wandering, and had earned the animal’s obedience and trust by nursing him back to health. Deliberately eliminated from his explanation had been the reality that Dagan had found Conqueror on the field of battle; that his own Norman war horse had been killed beneath him; and that Conqueror, similarly injured by a Saxon arrow, would have spent his last hours on the battlefield if not for his care. Nor did he mention that Conqueror had rewarded him for his care with limitless fealty and obedience through the many battles that had eventually won William the crown.

Memory stirred further. Dagan remembered the mission that had brought him to Hendsmille: William had hesitated to condemn de Silva because the baron had comported himself bravely in battle and had earned the land awarded to him.

Dagan recalled that he had originally agreed with William’s caution in approaching the matter. Despite de Silva’s surprising attempt to involve Ross in one of his sexual aberrations, he did not want to believe that the rumors about one of William’s most respected knights were true. Yet he wondered now. Were Ross and his father’s antipathy for William and de Silva simply a matter of the vanquished’s long-lasting hatred of the victor? Or were the rumors of de Silva’s mistreatment of the common man in Hendsmille, as well as of the illegal confiscation of William’s hunting grounds and rents from tenants on the land all true?

Dagan’s stability wavered. He needed to find out to complete his mission for William. It seemed to him that there was only one way.

Rosamund stepped into the doorway of the hut. She halted abruptly and demanded, “What are you doing?”

The wounded man sat on the edge of the mattress he had occupied for two days. Despite his muscular stature, he clutched his washed and dried clothing as if he had attempted to clothe himself in them but had run out of strength. Determination blazed in his eyes as he said, “I am well. I need to dress.”

“You are not well.” Advancing to his side, Rosamund lay her palm against his forehead and then scolded, “The unnatural heat in your body has subsided, but you
are only beginning to recover. You must allow yourself more time to heal.”

“I know myself,” Dagan responded. “I am well.”

“Are you?”

Her gaze moving down to the circle of blood rapidly widening on the bandage covering his chest wound, Rosamund kneeled immediately at his side. Applying pressure and ignoring his grunt of pain, she looked up to say, “You have lost much blood and it has weakened you. You cannot afford to lose more.”

“What?” Dagan replied caustically, “you do not believe that bloodletting will cure me?”

“I have already said that I do not employ that method of healing.”

“Yea…I recall.” Dagan nodded. “Good Saxon herbs…”

“Do you dispute the validity of my treatment?” Moving back, Rosamund stood and watched as blood again began seeping through the bandage covering the knife wound in Dagan’s chest. She said tightly, “Do you prefer to bleed further
so the impurities will escape
, or will you submit to my simple Saxon remedies?”

Dagan clamped his hand over the wound to staunch the blood draining from it as he replied, “I have seen many battles, but I have never watched emotionlessly as innocent blood flowed.”

Kneeling back down beside him, Rosamund replied, “Nor have I.” Waiting until the pressure of her hand had slowed the sudden rush of blood, she ripped back the bandage, ignoring Dagan’s instinctive protest. “The
wound is clean, but blood still flows. I need to employ the methods I used on the infected wound on your leg. You were all but unconscious at the time, but—”

“I was not unconscious.”

Rosamund looked up to meet Dagan’s gaze. She remembered the way his arm had held her against his muscular body—in protest, or was it more? The memory of his broad palm moving against her back made her flush with heat. In quiet moments since, she had sensed his perusal, only to find, when she approached him, that his eyes were closed. She had wondered if she had imagined his scrutiny and then chided herself at the thought.

“Your leg is all but healed because of my treatment. Will you object if I seal this wound as well?”

“I will not object.”

Rosamund hesitated, abruptly uncertain. “There is considerable pain involved.”

“Do what you will.”

Rosamund nodded. Turning toward the fire, she picked up the broad-bladed knife there, wrapped a cloth around the handle, and heated it to red-hot as she had done before. She turned back toward her battered patient when it was done and walked toward him.

Uncertainty returned. He was weak. Searing the wound would be painful—perhaps more than he was able to bear in his vulnerable state.

“Apply the blade before it cools.”

Resenting the attitude of command in Dagan’s voice, Rosamund held the flat of the blade to his wound without reply. She winced as the smell of burning
flesh rose again between them, but Dagan made no sound. His only reaction was the perspiration that beaded his brow, and Rosamund saw that his gaze did not falter despite his weakened state.

When she withdrew the blade at last, she saw the desired result. With a silent sigh of relief, she said, “Sit back. Allow the wound to settle while I fill a bowl with pottage left from last night’s meal. It will strengthen you.” She added, “Were the situation different, I would be able to offer more suitable fare hunted on the land and forests surrounding us, but through William’s generous victory, landholders were evicted to provide more land for his hunting preserve.”

Rosamund grew silent. Left unsaid was her determination that if she were the man she pretended to be, and were she not aware of Hadley’s ultimate concern, she would hunt where she liked and when she liked, allowing no one to take that freedom from her.

“I thirst.”

Snapped back to the moment by the sound of Dagan’s voice, Rosamund turned to fill a crude cup with the broth that she had prepared. She held it to his lips.

“I can drink by myself.”

With a short twitch of her nose, Rosamund watched as Dagan raised the cup to his lips and spilled its contents liberally. She allowed the liquid to seep down over his chest before asking, “Do you still thirst?”

A short shake of his head his only response, Rosamund took the cup, returned to the fire, and filled a bowl with pottage.

“I can feed my—”

Rosamund shoved the pottage between Dagan’s parted lips before waiting for him to finish. She watched as he slowly swallowed. “Are you ready for more?”

She was almost certain that she saw the flicker of a smile move across Dagan’s lips as he replied, “Yea…I am ready.”

Dagan watched as the young man raised the pottage to his mouth. He saw delicate lips part as his own did, as if accepting the food with him. The comforting concoction made from leftover fare warmed him as he swallowed slowly, watching Ross’s elegant features.

Yea, Ross’s eyes were blue…bluer than any he had ever seen before. The long, surprisingly dark lashes bordering them had not been a figment of his fevered dreams, nor had been the graceful brows all but obscured by the long length of fair hair that had been cut to hang across the forehead. A sweep of that same straight, crudely cut hair fell forward, almost obscuring finely sculpted cheeks, and yet the graceful contours were as unmistakable as the delicate profile and the graceful bow of Ross’s lips.

Lovely.

Feminine to a stimulating degree.

Yea,
feminine
…