Mary Reed McCall (8 page)

Gray roared in agony and tried to throw himself from the pallet, but Alban pinned him down, cursing along with him. “Get him something to ease the pain,” he barked at a squire, who nearly tripped in his effort to fetch a goblet and strong, herbed wine.

“Nay,” Gray muttered at first, turning his head aside when the cup was brought to his lips. Someone pressed it to him again, and he dashed it aside, growling, “No wine! Just some water.”

A beaker was brought. Gray sipped from it and then fell back, his face ashen, mouth tight. “Saints, Alban, did you need to scorch me with the iron?”

“If you wish an honest answer, my lord, yes,” murmured Catherine, nudging Alban aside to inspect the cauterized area. “The wound was bleeding
heavily enough to take your wits from you, and we had to stop the flow.” She saw now that the flesh around it looked red and sore, but the puncture itself had turned to a blackened scab. Nodding in satisfaction, she stepped aside and began to prepare a poultice for it from the herbs the serving boy had fetched for her.

Now that the worst of the danger seemed past, a weakness flooded her limbs. Her breath caught in her throat, and she forced herself to blink back tears of relief. Concerned that someone might notice her reaction, she moved farther from the pallet and sat at a stool to work the poultice.

From that position, Alban blocked much of her view, but she couldn’t stop herself from glancing toward her husband as she mashed the marjoram and fennel together. Gray showed improvement already. He had Alban prop him to a half-sitting position with cushions, and though ’twas obvious that his wounds still pained him, he was managing to carry on a hushed conversation. Someone brought more water, and Catherine was surprised to see her husband dutifully sipping from the beaker. When he’d emptied it, he handed it back to his friend.

“You’re being almost agreeable for a change,” Alban chuckled. “Mayhap I ought to arrange for you to be knocked about the field more frequently if I can get such cooperation from you afterward.”

“Knocked about? Ambushed is more like. Where did they take the whoreson after he stabbed me?”

“They carried him, senseless, from the field; he’s
being tended in another chamber, bleeding from nigh on a half dozen slices. ’Tis said you broke his nose for him, too.”

Gray scoffed. “He deserved no less. I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

Catherine looked down with deliberate concentration as she poured hot wine over the herbs she’d crushed, but she saw from the corner of her vision as Alban gestured toward her with a murmur.

Her husband fell silent, obviously not wishing to offend her, and her heart welled with regret and grief. More than anything she wanted to beg his forgiveness for staying his hand on the field. But unless she exposed the lie of her identity, ’twould be impossible. She could never tell him that she hated Eduard even more than he did, but that his death would have placed her children’s lives at greater risk.

“Aye, well, I owe you thanks for seeing to my wounds, friend. I’ll not forget it,” Gray finally said.

“’Twas not my doing. Your wife made the decisions for your treatment before I knew which direction to turn. ’Tis she who saved your skin this day.”

Silence reigned again. Alban stood and moved toward the door, and suddenly Catherine felt Gray’s stare on her.

“My lady?”

She looked up, meeting her husband’s penetrating gaze and telling herself that the sudden heat in her cheeks was only from the warmth of the chamber. “Aye, my lord?” Catherine kept her gaze constant, though the sight of Grayson reclining nearly naked on the pallet was most unsettling. Some of
the usual glint had returned to his eyes, and she tried not to notice the way his powerful muscles rippled as he shifted to a more comfortable position.

“I require your assistance, wife. And more of your tending, if it so please you.”

The heat in her face intensified, and she clutched the mortar and pestle as she rose from her stool to make her way to the pallet. Alban coughed lightly and mumbled something about checking on the other injured. Then he was gone, leaving her alone again with Gray.

“I was just finishing with this poultice for your wound, my lord. It should speed the healing and take away some of the pain from the burn.” She tried not to look directly at Gray, now that she stood less than an arm’s length from him.

“And this?” he asked, indicating the cut on his shoulder. “I see you have your needles at the ready. Will you be stitching it so I may keep what little remains of my blood inside my skin?”

Catherine hazarded a glance at him, uncertain whether or not he mocked her. He appeared in earnest, his focused gaze eliciting another flush of heat in her cheeks. She turned away to fuss with a new strip of linen, soaking it to prepare it for the poultice.

“Aye, my lord. That wound was not so urgent as the other, though I did intend to close it as well.”

“And glad I am that you’ll be using a method other than scorching to heal it.”

Catherine’s mouth tightened as she sat next to
him. She stared down at the cloth as she smeared the ointment over it. “Truly I did not wish to pain you with the iron, but I saw no other way to stop the bleeding. And if the flow continued, I was afraid that you might—” She paused in mid-sentence when his finger gently caught under her chin and lifted, raising her gaze to his.

“Nay, truly, my lady, I wish to thank you for your care of me. The hurt you inflicted was not so much.”

“’Twas enough to make me regret the giving of it.”

“Aye,” he murmured. “And yet I’ve suffered much worse at other hands. My own included.” He released her chin and looked away.

His enigmatic words intrigued her, at some level even frightened her. That he’d been wounded before seemed likely, considering the battles he’d fought as a knight. But when he spoke now he seemed to recall a particular suffering, a defined instance in his memory, and she couldn’t help but wonder at the cause of it.

“My lord?” She waited, uncertain whether he intended to speak further on the subject. But he only shook his head and breathed deep, which made him wince as the movement stretched his wound.

“Mayhap you should apply the poultice now, lady, and stitch the other gash. I’ll not be lying abed long.”

“You’ll not be rushing about anytime soon, either. The wounds need time to heal, and I’ll not have you tearing them open to taint and fester.” As she spoke, she began to wrap the strip of linen around his waist, centering the poultice over the burn. She
punctuated the last of what she said by yanking his bandage tight, drawing another wince from him.

“I’ve a feeling that if a festered wound didn’t lay me low for stirring too soon, you would, lady,” he answered with the hint of a smile. “Do you always nurse those in your care so aggressively? You’re like a mother hen, pecking at her chick when it gets too near the stable cat.”

“Aye, well when you’re used to tending chicks who are always skinning their knees and romping underfoot—” Catherine abruptly swallowed the rest of her words and stood to fetch her needle.
Heavens above
. How could she have been so foolish as to let such a memory slip?

Gray remained silent, though she could tell that he studied her. She tried to keep her hands from trembling as she knotted the end of the thread, in preparation to stitch him.

“So you’ve had children in your care, then? I didn’t realize you—” His questioning came to an abrupt end when she jabbed the needle into his shoulder.

“Aye. My niece and nephew often stayed with us.” She tried to sound unconcerned. Pulling the stitch through, she tugged it secure and then stabbed again, before pausing. “Are you certain that you don’t wish to drink some of the herbed wine the serving boy brought? ’Twill at least dull the sensation while I finish the stitching.”

“Nay,” Gray muttered, obviously rigid with discomfort. She was relieved that her effort to divert his attention, deplorable as it was, had born fruit.

“I prefer to keep my wits intact,” he added. “’Tis why I don’t partake of strong drink. Why I haven’t for nigh on seventeen years.”

Catherine contained her surprise. Most men she knew relished their ale and wine, preferring intoxication to almost any other pastime. She fixed Gray with an intent look. “Do you also object to herbed cider, or water that’s mixed with healing extracts?”

“Nay,” he admitted, “as long as the herbs don’t dull my wits. ’Tis the clouding effects of alcohol that I won’t abide.”

“Then here.” Letting the needle swing from the thread in his shoulder for a moment, Catherine sprinkled some of the crushed marjoram and fennel into a water vessel, then added a few dollops of nettle juice. She swirled it together and handed it to Gray. “Drink it down in one gulp. ’Twill ease the pain, as well as speed the healing inside. The taste would improve with honey, but if you quaff it quick enough, it will not matter.”

He drank it down with a grimace, coughing and shaking his head once it was swallowed. “Saints, but the stuff wouldn’t taste better if you poured an entire bowl of honey on it. I’m beginning to think that you enjoy tormenting me, what with the iron, then the needle, and now this.”

Catherine suppressed a smile. “And you, my lord, sound more like an unruly boy than the fierce warrior you showed yourself to be on the field today.”

“I doubt that anyone will even think me skilled in
the fundamentals after today’s spectacle.” He looked at her askance, and she was relieved to see that his good humor hadn’t completely disappeared. “’Tis not my custom, you know, to swoon at a tourney.”

“Aye, but ’twas not a lack of skill that led to that.” She paused, weighing her next words carefully and knowing that while she might not be able to tell Gray the truth of why she’d asked his restraint against Eduard, she could at least try to make some amends. “I—I wish to beg pardon for Eduard’s cowardice against you, my lord. ’Twas his weakness and my interference that led to your wounding, and I regret it most heartily.”

When she mentioned Eduard’s name, Gray’s eyes darkened. Once she finished, he remained quiet for a while. Not a muscle of his face moved. Finally he answered, “Then don’t compound the error by taking on the guilt of it. You may have asked me to spare your brother’s life, but ’twas I who chose to comply. Let us agree to leave it at that.”

She nodded. Turning her attention back to his shoulder, she finished stitching the cut; in silence she knotted off the silk and cut the needle free. Gray cleared his throat but seemed lost in his own thoughts, so she continued to prepare a cloth to wash away the dried blood around the stitching. When she finished cleansing his shoulder, she moved to the rest of his torso, wiping the stains away with smooth strokes.

As she worked, she recalled the battle between her husband and Eduard in her mind’s eye, remembering the look on Gray’s face as he’d turned to her,
and seeing again the emotional struggle in the depths of his gaze when she’d begged him to listen to her.

But in the end he’d walked away. Gray had looked into her eyes, and at the moment when he might have plunged his sword into Eduard’s heart, he’d walked away.
For her sake
.

Warmth rushed through her even more potent than what she’d experienced in the pavilion when he’d attached her ribbon to his armor. It welled up and filled her; sudden moisture bathed her eyes, and she murmured, “My lord?”

Gray glanced to her. “Aye?”

“I know you wish to leave it be, but I need to say one thing more about this afternoon, if I might.”

He nodded, his expression both cautious and questioning.

Catherine took a deep breath and forged ahead. “I think that you are a truly noble knight, my lord. You showed fairness and honor today, far more than anyone could expect, and I—I wish to thank you for it. ’Twas a lesson in nobility that I’d never glimpsed before in my dealings with men.”

Her face flamed as she spoke, not only from the voicing of her most intimate sentiments, but also from the liquid heat that had begun to unfurl inside of her as she pulled the warm, wet cloth across her husband’s chest and abdomen. It suddenly occurred to her that she was ministering to a virtually naked, completely virile man. A man with whom she would eventually join in the most intimate of ways.

A man who was staring at her right now, by sweet
heaven, as if she was the most beautiful woman in the world
.

Her breath came more shallow. Her fingers clenched the cloth, and drops of water trickled down his belly. She caught the spill quickly, but silence stretched on as she worked over him, winding her tighter and tighter inside; she felt the heat of his gaze on her, adding to the heightened atmosphere. Finally, she could bear it no longer, and she pulled away to wring out the cloth.

“Wait,” he murmured, his voice husky as he gripped her wrist. “You missed a spot.”

The words sent tingling warmth up Catherine’s spine, and she glanced up. His sensual expression devastated her, making the linen drop from her hand to land with a faint plop in the basin. “There’s a little more right…there,” he added, twisting toward her to show a rusty smear that ran from the flat just below his navel, downward, where it disappeared beneath the rolled edge of his
braies
.

Catherine licked her lips, realizing that her mouth had gone dry. To stall for time, she said, “I—I think the water has cooled overmuch. Let me freshen it.” Hands trembling, she emptied the basin into a waste barrel near the door. Then, walking to the fire, she dipped out several ladles of simmering water before adding some cool cups full from a pitcher.

“Here,” she murmured as she sat next to him again. “Tell me if this is too warm. My hands are used to it, but your stomach and…well, what with that part of you being covered all of the—or at least,
most of the time—” Catherine came to a stuttering halt, and a flush crept up her neck again. She pressed her lips together. “I just meant that you might be sensitive to the heat.”

While she spoke, a slow smile had spread across Gray’s face. “Aye, lady, I’m sensitive enough to it. And I’ll be sure to let you know if ’tis too hot for me to bear.”