FLAME OF DESIRE (7 page)

As if sensing her searching eyes, the man stirred in his sleep, a soft groan escaping from his mouth.

“You are safe now. There is none here who will harm you. Rest,” she whispered. His pain tugged at her heart. In his defenseless slumber he brought out all the protective instincts within her and she vowed to do everything in her power to see that he would be safe. Reaching for a linen sheet, she pulled it over his half-nude form.

“How is he, mum?” The voice was Harold’s. Harold Periwinkle. How could she ever thank him for his help tonight? It had been quite a struggle to place the wounded man’s unconscious form in her father’s wagon, but Harold, whom Heather affectionately called Perri, had been more than up to the task as usual. Despite his advanced years he was still a strong man.

Heather turned around to look into the kind brown eyes of the faithful servant. “He’s in a deep slumber from the sleeping draft the barber gave him, but so far there is no sign of a fever.” Now that the danger of his bleeding to death had passed, it was the worry of a fever which haunted Heather, for it was this that had taken many a man to the next world.

“’Tis a pity we have no chamomile or nettle,” the servant answered. He had fought in many a war as a young man, being as it were an adventurer, and knew all about wounds and the like.

“I cannot chance going into the kitchen now. The door is most likely locked for the night. I will stay here with him, and with the first cock crow will go inside to gather all I need.”

He grinned his toothless smile at her. “’Twould perhaps do him good to have a swig of ale. Nothing like strong drink to heal a man right proper. Take me bloody oath on that.”

Heather smiled at the man, knowing full well that he too wanted a sip of the brew. It was the least she could do to thank him for the help he had given tonight. If her father ever found out that the servant had gone off into the night with his wagon to aid an injured man of unknown name, it would mean instant dismissal. Jobs were scarce even for those of younger years. But then Perri had always been one to use his wits, and the chance of her father coming out to the stable was slim.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she promised. Again the old man smiled, and then took his leave of her to sleep in his own small quarters adjacent to the stables.

“If you need me, mum, just call,” he flung over his shoulder.

Heather realized how tired she was. Tonight had been a harrowing experience that she would not soon forget. For a time she had thought never to have the stranger safe within her father’s stables as one problem after another had arisen to keep her from sneaking out of the house.

First she had the food to prepare, the cleaning, mincing, blanching, and parboiling of vegetables; then she had to crush herbs in the mortar and do the other tasks which a servant would normally do. Since her father was so miserly there was only Tabitha to aid them; thus both Blythe and Heather had to take on such chores every night in order to see that the meal was prepared. Tonight each hour had dragged by with the speed of a snail while Heather had worried that the barber would grow tired of waiting and put the wounded man outside his door. Was it any wonder that she could not eat a bite when finally supper was on the table? Her mother and Tabitha had both anxiously watched her, fearful that she was ill.

Only when the house had made ready for bedtime did she dare think of carrying out the plan to return to the barber’s shop. Her father had taken an unusual interest in her health, lingering by the door and asking questions. Only when he himself had finally sneaked out into the night had Heather been able to run quickly from the house to rouse Harold Perriwincle.

With each squeak of the wagon wheel she had feared they would be caught, but at long last they had arrived at the barber’s door, and banging upon that portal, had been let inside to regain their precious cargo. Now the wounded man was safely ensconced in the stable behind her father’s house, hidden away from the danger which threatened him.

Suddenly remembering the letter, she reached in her bodice and pulled the missive out, curious as to its contents. The paper was of the finest quality, the writing of a bold lettering.

“It is from Mary Tudor!” she exclaimed in a soundless whisper. So he had not lied about his desire to aid the rightful queen. She would not call him a rebel again, for surely there had never been a truer subject of the crown. In the dim light she anxiously skimmed the words written. It was a letter to the council ordering them to acknowledge Mary Tudor as rightful queen and promising them forgiveness if they would do so promptly. Now she knew why the wounded man had cried out over and over for the letter.

Finding a safe hiding place for the queen’s missive, a spot that only she knew behind a loose board, Heather returned to the side of the bed to look at the man who had nearly given his life for this precious piece of paper. No wonder he had been stabbed. The assailant undoubtedly knew about the message. And what of Northumberland? What was his part in all of this? Had it been by his orders that this man had nearly been killed? She wondered what her father would do if he knew that they harbored an enemy of the duke. For that matter, what would become of them all if it were known?

“I care not. I will not betray him,” she vowed fiercely. She knew nothing about this man, not even his name. Why then would she put herself so in danger?

Touching his face with her hand, she knew the reason. This man had stolen her heart as surely as the Duke of Northumberland had stolen the crown.

“Sleep,” she whispered to him. “I will find out who you are on the morrow and see to your letter.”

The light from the oil lamp sputtered, then died as Heather removed her bloodstained apron. Clad in her loose-fitting chemise, she paced the floor until exhaustion overcame her, the excitement of the day taking its toll.

Lying down next to the wounded man, Heather sought her own slumber, feeling serene in the comfort of the warmth of his male body. Despite the circumstances, the danger and his condition, she felt giddy at his closeness, in much the same manner as when she had partaken of  too much wine at her cousin’s wedding. She drifted off to sleep with the rebel’s head on her shoulder, his arms and legs entwined with her own.

Richard Morgan was lost to his haze of dreams, frantic visions which tortured him as he twisted and turned in the throes of sleep. Edlyn. He could see her face before him. No. He did not want her. Tricked. Tricked by his own mother for gold.

“No. How could you? You knew all along. Edlyn. I am bound now. No happiness for me.” He reached out his hand, grasping, groping like a drowning man, wanting to escape, to get away from this madness. “Edlyn.”

His loud mumbling woke Heather. Fearing that his thrashing about would do injury to his wound, she sought to quiet him, putting her hands on the center of his chest to hold him down. What had the barber given him to make him act in such a manner?

In the haze of his dreams Richard Morgan felt the hands upon his chest and tried desperately to escape them. It was  if he were walking down a long tunnel, moving toward a garden, but someone was holding him back, trying to keep him from his destination. He saw the face looming in his path, blocking his way.

“Seton! Hugh Seton. You devil. Get out of my way. Let me go,” he murmured, reaching out to clutch at the villain’s throat. Destroy him. He had to destroy him just as Seton had tried so hard to destroy the Morgan family. He reached up to squeeze the neck of that leering face which mocked him.

Heather fought wildly against the strength of the hands which held her. His fevered energy was nearly more than she could manage as she sought to tear his fingers from her slender neck. He was choking her; she couldn’t breathe. He envisioned her as some devious enemy.

She tried to call out for Harold, for her beloved Perri, but no sound escaped her lips until at last she managed to gasp, “It is Heather. Heather.”

As if he recognized her name, his hold upon her loosened. Heather’s heart was still pounding wildly in her breast as she sought to calm her trembling. A nightmare had caused his violence and she wondered what demon he had been grappling with.

“It’s only a dream,” she said softly, reaching out to touch his brow. There was no sign of a fever. The barber’s potion then? Her words soothed him, for he quieted.

“Heather.” He was calling out to her, yet she could see in the dim moonlight that his eyes remained closed. He was still in that state of  consciousness halfway between reality and dreams.

Fearing that his thrashing about had reopened his wound, she gently examined it with her fingers. At her touch he stiffened and issued forth a moan, but the wound was dry. The barber’s stitches had held tight.

“Heather. So lovely.” She felt the warm, soft touch of his fingers upon her breast, sending a shiver of desire coursing through her blood. His hand cupped the tender flesh, caressing the peak through the thin material of her chemise with infinite tenderness. She moved her hand with the intent to remove the fingers, but the sensation was so stirring that she somehow could not bear to do so. She rationalized that he did not know what he was doing, that she must not wake him.

His exploring hand moved lower, sliding over her small waist to rest on the full curve of her hip. She had never known that a man’s caress could cause such a spark, a fire in the blood. The shock of pleasure took her breath away and she shivered, or was it the night air which caused her to tremble so? Seeking his warmth, she nestled close to his body once again. His warmth enveloped her and she raised her hand to touch his face. Somehow she had the feeling that she was dreaming too. If that was true, then she never wanted to awaken.

Richard held the vision of loveliness tightly in his arms. He had dreamed about her so many times, and now she was with him. He brushed his lips over her cheek, tracing the curves of her ear with his tongue, smelling the soft spice scent of her hair. He moved his mouth to her lips and gently kissed her, rolling with her to one side to draw her against him possessively, enraptured by the embrace. A violent storm of feeling shot through him, pushing away the clouds of haze from his mind, but it was not passion which shook him, but pain. It shot through him and he groaned.

“Your wound!” heather was mortified as the spell was broken and reality flooded over her. She had forgotten all in the wonder of his arms, and now she had caused him pain.

“Wound?” He tried to get up but instead lay back down.

“Be careful!” she cautioned, touching his shoulder with gentle hands.

“The letter. Where is it?” he mumbled.

“I have it. All is well,” she assured him, her eyes moving to that hidden alcove where it rested securely.

Again he tried to get up, but was overcome by his weakness and in despair lay once again back down upon the hard straw bed. “Must get it to council. Mary.” His eyes closed tightly as he relaxed against her, all strength completely drained. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t leave you,” she promised. “I’ll stay right here by your side.” She lay back down beside him, her hair spread out like a satin cloak over them both. He slept now as peacefully as a babe, and she too closed her eyes to return to that blissful mist of slumber.

Chapter Nine

Heather awoke as the first pale pink streaks of the dawn’s light filtered through the tiny window of the stable. She opened her eyes slowly, expecting full well to be within the familiar confines of her bedchamber, but instead saw before her stark brown wooden walls. Her heart quickened as she stiffened, eyes opening wide to take in her surroundings. She could hear the steady breathing of the man who lay beside her and she turned her head in that direction to stare into his sleeping face.

“I was not dreaming,” she breathed, assailed by the memory of being held close in this man’s arms, of the hard planes of his chest teasing her breasts, his strong thighs touching hers. Flushing, she turned away, only to return her gaze to him.

His face was etched with pain, yet still such a handsome face. His dark eyelashes cast a shadow on his cheekbones, and his full lips were parted as he drew in a shallow breath. She was tempted to reach out and touch that soft mouth which had tasted of hers with such passion, but she did not.

“There is such a strength about him, even in his wounded state,” she whispered. This time she could not resist the urge to caress him, and let her fingers touch the prickle of his beard. He stirred in his sleep and Heather, not wishing to awaken him, molded her body once again to his.

The heat of his body was arousing as they lay curled up together, his uninjured arm flung across her stomach, his leg resting between hers in a position of intimacy. They seemed to fit together with perfect unity as if made each for the other. She spread her hand over his chest and felt the light furring of hair there, heard the beat of his heart, and closed her eyes in contentment.

The sound of neighing horses, chirping birds, and Harold Perriwincle’s hammering awoke Heather anew. Easing herself onto her elbow, slowly so as not to waken the man beside her, she let her eyes drift down his body. The wound did not appear to be infected, nor was there any sign of bleeding. Her gaze moved lower, lingering on his chest and hips in a manner unmaidenly and quite bold. Having slept alone all her life, she now wondered what it would be like to awaken to this man beside her, his arms about her possessively, his hands tangled in the long strands of her hair, for all the mornings of her life.

“Am I still dreaming?” A husky voice startled her and she looked up to find the penetrating blue depths of his eyes staring at her. He shook his head in confusion.

Heather flushed as she wondered if he remembered what had passed between them, or had nearly done so, in the night, but the look in his eyes told her that he did not. He would no doubt think it all a dream.

“You’ve been wounded,” she said stiffly, reaching for her soiled gown to cover her scantily clothed body.

“How in hell….” He swore beneath his breath. His jaw tightened in anger as the memory of the deed came back to him.