Enduringly Yours (24 page)

She glanced at her brother, hoping he hadn’t noticed the exchange. Thankfully, he was still with the mare.

“I will pay for his services, of course,” John called.

Chester snorted at his fodder, looking for all the world like an overgrown lapdog. He shook his head, long mane flying around his neck. Alana blew an errant curl out of her face with an overheated breath and began undoing the buckles on the bridle, her hands shaking as she struggled to control herself. She slipped the bit out of Chester’s mouth, wishing she could beat back this monster inside of her. She had never felt this way before. At one point, she’d been besotted with a young knight, but she’d never been so preoccupied with him that she forgot herself.

“I mean it,” John said reappearing at the stall door. “I am looking.”

“What?” she breathed.

His brow creased as if he were thinking over their conversation to make sure he hadn’t missed something.

Alana shook herself. “Sorry. You were referring to Chester.”

“Aye.”

Was the offer to pay her for Chester’s stud services charity? Did she care if it was? They needed the money. “Just be sure you pay Matthew.”

“I was going to pay you.”

She looked around for her brother. He was no longer with the mare. She wondered where he’d gone. John’s offer was generous, but she shook her head, handing him the bridle. “I cannot. I will belong to the Duke of Besville soon.” Assuming she failed in her mission. Her voice cracked. “And so will Chester.” She laid a hand on the horse.

John opened his mouth, stopped, then turned away, walking back down the aisle toward the tack room with the bridle.

Alana took a good look at her hands, at her dirty fingernails, then at the roughness of her palms, knowing that every callous and every broken fingernail was bringing her one step closer to deliverance. She would not go to the altar without a fight. She would save Berkley herself. Or die trying.

“My lady?” John asked.

She looked up. My, he was efficient. She hadn’t expected him back so soon. “Just be sure you pay my brother.” She found herself whispering, even though Matthew had left the stable. “He needs all the help he can get.”

“How bad have things gotten? He has not told me.”

She turned to retrieve her bags, slinging them over her shoulder. “The tapestries are gone,” she said, shrugging. He took the bags from her, and she didn’t try to stop him. This time anyway. “As are the jewels Mother left me. We let my maids go. We are down to minimal staff and the walls are so bare of guardsmen that we practically beg to be overtaken. My betrothed only gave us enough to replant our fields and rebuild our village after the fire. No more.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you. Forget I asked,” he said, touching her elbow. “Try not to think about it.” He frowned like he wasn’t sure his words had come out right. “That is probably not possible, is it?”

“Nay, it is not.”

“Try not to . . . Do not let it ruin your training.” He frowned again.

“I will not, my lord.”

Chester’s head appeared in the doorway. Before she could react, the horse shoved her and she fell backward into a pile of straw. By the time she’d scrambled to her feet, John was holding his arm like her brother had when Chester had bitten him.

Nay, John was holding his arm
exactly
like her brother had when Chester had bitten him.

“Chester!” she yelled at the horse. He swung his head in her direction. “How could you?”

John lowered her bags to the ground with a wince.

“I’ve had worse,” he assured her, looking at it, and then clamping his hand back over as if he didn’t want her to see.

“I am sure that you have my lord, but please let me look.” She brushed his hand away. Fresh blood ebbed through his tunic sleeve. “I’m so sorry.” She attempted to examine the wound around his torn sleeve, then gave up and ripped it off altogether. Blood ran freely down his arm. “It is deep.” She tied the fabric around the bite to staunch the bleeding. Then she took his good arm and pulled. “Inside with me. Right now. I need to take care of it.”

He didn’t move.

“I assure you that I am fully capable of attending to a man.” She tugged again.

“Aye, my lady. I am sure you are.” He held his hand out to her. “Best take it,” he said, his voice threaded with that husky quality that made her heart pound. “Would not want me to get lost.”

She wasn’t sure why he would want her to hold his hand.

But she would not refuse it either.

She placed her fingers in his, more thrilled by the simple contact that she had any right to. His palm was calloused from the sword and horseback riding, warm, meatier than hers; yet she imagined that if she held her hand flat to his, her fingers would be nearly as long. She looked up. They were definitely of a height, leaving her staring straight into his eyes. Alana resisted the urge to hunch a bit.

He gave her hand a tug. “Who is leading whom?” he said . . .

A Worthy Opponent, coming June 2015.

About the Author:

Olivia is an enigma wrapped in a stigmatism. (No, that’s not right.) To find out about her, visit www.oliviastocum.com.