One Snowy Knight (3 page)

“By the Lady’s blessing he lives. Remember that. Let us get him out of the mail and clothing.” Skena worked in hurried silence, unlacing the sides of the dark green surcoat. Galen and Owen raised him to a sitting position to allow her to pull off the fine raiment. Her cold fingers had a hard time unbuckling the arming-points of the metal hauberk underneath, so Owen did it for her. “Help me turn him to his side. Methinks rolling off those hose would be easier in that way.”

Skena gasped as she peeled the leather over his hips. “By the fires of Bel, what has harmed this man?”

This surely did not come from his fall and had naught to do with the cold. There was a palm-sized, reddish discoloration on his right side, curving around his lower back. She sucked in a harsh breath, fearing it was infected. In the dim candlelight she could not see clearly, but the patch of skin was crimson and puffy, likely why he cried out when they had placed him on his back in the wagon. She reached out and gingerly pressed the flesh with her fingertips. The marks remained white. Not a good sign. As she repeated the action, the knight moaned and started to awaken.

Skena was glad he roused; that he had remained unawake troubled her. Yet, in the same breath, she hoped his mind would stay cosseted in blackness while they finished the warming. She knew it would be painful as the skin and blood reacted to the warm water. Since the process had to be done slowly to protect his heart, she needed him as peaceful as possible.

Upon Jenna’s return, Skena told Galen, “Help him sit while I mix the tansy to relieve his mind of the coming pain.”

Hurrying to the table near the fireplace, she opened the large wooden box and quickly measured out pinches of St. John’s wort, vervain, skullcap, valerian, chamomile, and crampbark into the wooden bowl and ground them with the pestle. The worts would work to relax the body and stop muscles from knotting. The ointment she had Jenna fetch also contained most of these in the special salve. It would ease his surface distress. Mixing the finely ground powder with water in a cup until dissolved, she then carried it to the bed.

“Sir Knight, please drink.” She lifted the cup to his sensual lips, which were no longer tinged blue. Again, she was struck by just how handsome he was—nay, the man was beautiful.

The lids lifted on his eyes; their power hit her full force. Their paleness like liquid silver. That alone would be striking enough, but around the dark inner circle was a ring of amber. Never had she seen eyes such as his, so lovely she could lose herself in their shimmering depths. She had seen plenty of gray eyes before; they oft looked dull or flat. None had the special brilliance of this man’s. The outer edge of the paleness had another ring, this time of black, which only made the eyes stand out. Arresting.

A razor to her soul.

Skena could not think, could hardly breathe. She stood enthralled by the stranger’s spellbinding eyes. They were sleepy, softening their effect. A shiver slithered up her spine as she considered how it would be to see them alert, focused.

See the fires of hunger burn in them for her.

“Skena, I fetched broth,” Muriel said, as she shuffled into the room. It broke the enchantment that held Skena frozen. The elderly woman put the small metal pot on the stand by the bed. “Enough for you both. Brought two spoons. Figure you will get more into him if you feed him, lass.”

“Thank you, Muriel. Can you and Jenna please set more warming stones to heating? Then change the covers to dry once we move him? See the bed is as warm as we can get it.”

After taking a swallow of the wort mixture, the knight scowled and pushed the cup away. “What foul poison do you feed me?” he grumbled.

“Oh aye, tastes like it was brewed with stump water, no doubt. Even so, you needs must choke it down, my braw warrior. Quickly.”

He looked up at her, then offered her a lopsided smile. “Skena?”

“Aye, ’tis my name. You remembered.” On impulse she reached out and brushed the three damp curls back from his high forehead. “And what is your name,
Sasunnach?”

“Noel…de Servian,” he managed to get out before a shiver racked his body. His eyelids fluttered, half-closing. She could see the gooseflesh on his skin. Not good, still better than his body ignoring the cold. The words were slurred as though he had a hard time concentrating. “I am at Glenrogha? Where is Brishen…my horse?”

“Leave it to a man to fash about his bloody horse. Your mighty steed is fine, well fed and safe within my stable. Come, drink up, and I will answer all your questions.” She aided him in turning up the cup to drink the dark liquid. “Good. You can wash the horrid taste down with a wee bit of broth. It helps warm your blood as well.”

She nearly jumped when he placed his arm about her back to help steady himself, and then scooted to the edge of the bed. It brought her in close contact with him, which in turn sent her heart to rocking. Well, it was not every day a man as bare as a newborn babe held on to her! And never one so pretty, so perfectly formed. That sort of excitement was not good for her, she knew. Chilled, too, she had to be careful about sudden jolts to her heart until she was warm once more. Forcing deep breaths, she tried to slow the pace. Her silly heart failed to pay heed. Her reaction to him was upsetting, frightening. No man had ever before caused such a flutter inside her, forced it to be hard to draw air.

And she paid for it. The increased pounding set her blood to speed up. Thick from being chilled, it ached coursing through her. Noticing he had not finished everything in the cup, she picked it up and drank the dregs. Pain came from the cold, yes, but more because of the effect he had upon her body.

“My lady, you hurt?” Muriel touched her right arm in concern.

Not capable of guising her feelings, Skena failed to meet her old nurse’s stare. The woman held the power to discern her thoughts only too well. “Some. Being in the cold slowed my blood. The warming is always distressful. Like when you sit on your foot too long and try to stand.”

“Drink some broth, lass. You must keep from taking ill,” Muriel whispered the warning. “This warrior needs all your skills to save him. Auld Bessa taught you much, but it will take your strength to see him through this.”

“I will drink it, soon. He needs it more.” Skena fed him a spoonful of the hot broth. Then a second. So caught in the web of magic spun from his ensorcelling gaze, she was barely aware of Owen and Kenneth dragging in the wooden tub. De Servian’s glimmering eyes watched her every move, her every reaction to him. By the fifth spoonful, the potion’s effect was starting to hit his mind. She quickly gave him a bit more liquid, while they filled the tub. “Make sure the water is only warm. ’Tis too distressing to stand it hot at the start. Howbeit, put cloths into a pan and soak them with hot water. I need to put those on his neck and chest to heat the heart first.”

Noel de Servian appeared alert, but Skena kenned that was often deceiving. Auld Bessa told how men too long out in the cold would go running around and actually yank off their clothing, their minds too numb to know the difference between hot and freezing. The blue tinge was leaving his lips, fingers, and ears. The shivering was more violent. Clearly, his muscles were not responding. His movements were slow, labored as he tried to push the spoon away. He frowned at his hand as if not understanding why it failed to respond as he wanted.

“Skena?” he asked again, puzzled. “Where am I?”

“At Craigendan. You told me you were going to Glenrogha, but became lost in the snowstorm.” She hoped if he talked he might fight the lethargy.

“Challon…I sought him,” he finally said.

She nodded. “You spoke that was your aim. When the storm lessens and is not dangerous, I will send word to Glenrogha to let the Earl Challon ken you are at Craigendan and safe.”

“At Craigendan?” He tried to stand, so she jumped to support him by putting her arms around his waist.

Muriel clucked her tongue and rushed to wrap a sheet about his hips. “You are a braw and bonnie lad, Sir Noel, but my old heart cannot take all your fine splendor at once.”

Bemused, he watched the elderly lady tuck the fabric in at his waist, plainly unawares he had been without any clothing. While that brought a fleeting smile to Skena, it showed how the cold still had him in its grip. She needed to get him into the tub without delay.

“Can you walk, Sir Noel? We have a warm bath prepared for you.” She gave a nod to Galen, who took the knight’s arm and wrapped it about his neck to help prop up the warrior.

De Servian’s steps were uncontrolled, but they finally got him to the tub, and with a little maneuvering, into the warm water. It seemed to sap his remaining strength, so she permitted him to lean against the side of the tub and rest.

“Galen, you and the lads go
beek
yourselves by fireside. I will call you again if I need help getting him from the tub. I do not think I will. He will regain his strength as he shakes the cold from his flesh,” she assured him. Recalling it was her night to keep watch on the wall, she fussed, “By Bel’s fire!”

Galen turned at her exclamation. “My lady, what troubles you?”

“This night is my turn to hold watch upon the—” she started to explain only to have her retainer cut her off.

“Mind your tongue, Skena.” His eyes jerked to the warrior and then back to her with a stern glare, silently admonishing her that their secrets were not for the man’s ears. “Fash not, on this night few souls would be daft enough to venture out in this stour. Not even a bloody Campbell would be so mooncalf as to take the risk. One less doing their duty will matter little. You stay. You are needed here if you have your mind fixed upon saving this knight of King Edward. Though I would bend your ear on the wiseness of that path, I have doubt you would heed my words.”

“You are right, my friend. Even a Campbell would not go aroaming in this whiteout, and right again, I will hear no discourse on withholding treatment that saves this man’s life.” She exhaled her trepidation. “I will deal with consequences of his coming soon. Too soon, I fear.”

Jenna and Muriel finished changing the bed and then wadded up the damp bedclothes. Her maidservant glanced to the bowl by the bed and back to Skena. “You have not touched the broth, lass. Now it cools,” she chided. “I will fetch you some more.”

“You have my thanks, Jenna, but I am not hungry this eve,” Skena replied.

Jenna placed her fists on her hips and frowned. “Do not try to pull the wool over these eyes, Skena MacIain. I ken you miss supper to see others have a full belly these past sennights. Stop that. We need you. Many depend upon you, lass. You require your strength to stay healthy and get through this winter. So you will be eating your supper, or I will get Galen and Owen to pin you while I pour it down your throat.”

“Very well.” Skena gave Jenna’s arm a squeeze to let the woman know she appreciated the fussing over her.

Muriel held back, hesitating, but finally stepped closer as Jenna closed the door. “Skena, did you see the man’s side?”

Skena gave a stiff nod. Taking the salve, she smeared it thickly across his neck and shoulders. “I meant to give it a closer look.”

“My eyes are not as sharp as they used to be, but I have seen many a man damaged in battle. That wound is not too old. He took a dirk or mayhap a sword to his side, likely through the seam of his mail shirt. I would say not a year gone either.” Muriel appeared anxious.

Skena’s movements stilled. Not a year gone? Dunbar? Or worse, Berwick? She did not know which would make her sicker. That she now worked to save an Englishman, when he likely had been killing her countrymen just months before, caused her empty stomach to roll.

“My fear, the wound is tainted and was not made pure before they allowed it to heal over. Something now inflames it. Oft when a man’s skin is pierced, the weapon embeds small pieces of fabric or mail in the flesh. Injuries must be made clean before they allow the skin to seal. We needs must make a poultice, draw the impurity to the surface and then lance it. It will only grow worse and likely poison his blood. He will sicken otherwise. Mayhap die.”

Skena knew the old woman spoke the truth. “Let us see if he makes it through this ordeal. Come morn, we can examine his side and what needs to be done. Go eat your meal.”

“I will come back to see if you need help getting him to bed.” Muriel smiled and touched Skena’s shoulder for reassurance. “Though, seeing as he is a braw and bonnie lad, I doubt any woman would have trouble getting him in her bed.”

Skena’s insides twisted at the thought of her knight being in the bed of another woman. It was most odd. She was jealous. Silly nonsense. She did not even know this man. He was not
her
knight.

A lump rose in her throat, but she swallowed back the pain.

Intending to rub more salve on the knight’s chest, Skena stepped to the side of the wooden tub. She jerked upright as her gaze collided and locked with that of the handsome stranger. The stupor lifting, the silver eyes were clear, aware. They watched her with a feral intensity. Big cats or wolves had that same focus, the ability to single out prey and track it without blinking. The pale eyes robbed her of the capacity even to breathe, held her spellbound with their ascendancy. Never had she seen such dominant eyes, as if this man held the craft to look inside her deepest heart and ken her secrets, her longings, things she dare not admit even to herself.

Noel de Servian scared her in ways she scarcely understood, aside from the myriad questions summoned by his presence in the vale. Knights did not journey alone through Scotland, especially English ones. So why had this beautiful warrior been found in her small glen with nary a soul about him for support? Knights of the nobility had squires, men-at-arms, servants, and yet this man traveled with none? Skena shivered, from the chill of being out in the storm, true, but also from fear. His arrival heralded a change ahead for Craigendan.

No fool, she was aware the frisson was also provoked by those enthralling eyes, aware no male before had caused this fluttering in her chest. Barely able to remember why she held the pot of salve, she dipped her shaky fingers into the silky ointment again, and then smeared it across the other side of his chest.

De Servian glanced down at her hand rubbing his skin. His expression bemused, he asked, “Pray tell, what are you doing, Lady Skena?”

“The salve…is special,” she stammered out. “Oils protect the skin from cold burn, salve to speed the healing. Also, the herbs calm pains your flesh feels from the heat of the water.”

“But my chest is
above
the water.” The weak smile he offered her faded when a shudder racked his body, so severe he seemed to lose what little strength he had regained. Eyelids half-closing, he slumped.

Panicked that he was not shedding the chill from his body quickly enough, she snatched up one of the cloths soaking in the pail of hot water. She spread it across the plane of his broad chest. When he flinched she jumped.

“God’s wounds!” His lids flew up as he grabbed hold of the cloth and tried to fling it away.

Skena caught his wrist and stopped him. So odd, her strength did little to restrain this knight. Even in his weakened state, she felt the fearful might of his strong arm—his sword arm. It was her touch, naught more, which stilled him. His eyes looked to her hand where it gripped his wrist, then traveled slowly up to her face.

“Please, Sir Noel, you must allow me to place these hot cloths upon your chest…to warm your heart.”

“Noel,” he corrected.

“’Tis what I said.” Skena relaxed when she felt resistance leave him.

“Nay, you said
Sir
Noel. I would have you address me in the familiar.” He had said it as granting leave, but she did not miss that it held the ring of a command to it.

She offered him a shy smile, trying to hide the fact she still found it hard to draw air around him. “As you wish, I shall call you by your given name—provided you let me tend you without fashing. I promise all I do is necessary to haste to your recovery. You shall sicken with ague, mayhap chilblains…or worse, should I not care for you in a timely fashion.”

His lids fluttered once more as if his mind was slipping away, but he finally nodded. Skena carefully spread the cloth over his chest. Satisfied he remained quiet, she laid another on top of that one. His jaw flexed and he ground his teeth, but they were his only reactions.

“You may curse if you wish,” she suggested, reaching for a third rag. “Men seem to find comfort and release with such words.”

“Too much effort…” He paused as another shudder shook his body, and then faintly recoiled when she put the rag to his chest. “I am having trouble keeping my thoughts together…. So explain, why do you scald me? Surely, this serves some purpose other than torture?”

Skena slowly poured warmer water into the tub. “For those left out in a storm too long, ’tis important to warm them in steps. Auld Bessa, a great healer, says blood thickens and will freeze, same as ice forms in water. The blood must be warmed to stave off chilblains, but foremost, you must heat the heart. She cautions a body can be taken in seizure if care is not used to do this painstakingly. These cloths applied to your chest shall set you on the path to it beating right. Then I can raise the water’s heat gradually to thaw the rest of you. The tansy you drank will ease the pains which come. It will also make you sleepy. Once the warming is done, I will dry you, apply the salve to your skin, then put you in bed with heating stones—and pray you are not seized with lung sickness.”

“So you do this to heat my blood, and you are not truly a Highland witch planning on cooking me…
eating me.
” He chuckled, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though she was unsure why.

“Och, what a horrid thing to say!” Skena paused to consider this
Sasunnach.
“Is that what you Englishmen say about Scotswomen?”

“They speak of a pagan land with ancient ways, ways the church frowns upon. They say Auld Gods lurk in the shadows, calling Scots back to their heathen rituals, and warn of witches with strange powers that spellbind a man until he forgets his name.” His right hand reached out and lifted her long hair away from her neck and shoulder, exposing her throat. The pale eyes moved over her body, watching her with that predator’s intensity, which set her to an alarm she failed to understand. “’Tis warned Scotswomen have blue and green scales upon their belly and breasts. Tell me, Skena, do they speak truth?”

“Englishmen,” she said in scorn. “Bloody fools who believe tales meant for wee bairns.”

“Mayhap a man believes such things because he is tempted to search out the answers for himself.” As he fingered the long strand of her dark auburn hair, a fire lit his unearthly eyes. “I always imagined a witch as a hag with black hair. I suppose they might be young, fair, and with hair the shade of fire.”

“Fire, indeed,” she scoffed, using it as a shield against the wildly skittering emotions ignited by his close scrutiny.

“Very well, ’tis truth your hair is dark. Only, the light from the flames plays around your tresses lending them a fiery glow.” His words held a husky cant. “Your eyes lower when I look at you. Why is that, Skena?” He stroked the back of his hand against her throat, watching the shiver he conjured ripple along her skin.

Skena raised her shoulders in a faint shrug. “Because of the way you look at me, my lord. ’Tis very direct.”

“You are a beautiful woman, Skena. Surely, men watch you all the time.” His curled fingers cupped under her chin as he brushed the pad of his thumb back and forth over her jaw. Applying the gentlest of pressure, he forced her to look up and meet his stare.

Skena blushed as heat flooded her face. “A fright is what I am. For you to say such things only tells me your blood is still slow and clouds your mind. Any lackwit can see my hair is caked with wolf’s blood.”

“What I see is a lady of valor who stood over me…saved my life. Not many women could have faced the charge of a wolf as resolute. Blood is my lady’s badge of courage. It serves you well. Your attention in warming me shows you are a good woman, Skena. A caring woman.” Noel de Servian dragged his thumb slowly over her cheek. “Howbeit, there are other ways for a woman to warm a man’s blood. Faster ways…”

De Servian leaned forward, his mouth softly covering hers. Shocked, she tried to gasp ‘oh,’ but that merely gave him an opening to deepen the kiss. Trembling, she was lost to the flood of wild sensations. Left terrified by this magic he wielded so ruthlessly.

For so long, she had avoided kissing. Angus was a good man, kind in his treatment, but he had failed to elicit any desire in her. She assumed such was the way between men and women until she overheard servants talking about having relations with their husbands or men they fancied, heard their bawdy laughter, their joy. Then she had wondered in guilt if there was something wrong with her. Oddly, she had lain in the dark and done her wifely duty to give Angus an heir, yet kissing him had seemed to ask for something she was unwilling to surrender to the man who had been her lord husband.

Her reactions to this stranger were startling. First instinct had been to pull back from him, thinking him too bold, too reckless. But, when he sensed her resistance, his hand moved to clasp the back of her neck and allowed her no retreat from him. With the gentlest of pressure he held her captive and taught her that she knew nothing about kissing. His lips were cool, but soft, slowly forming hers, encouraging Skena to follow his lead. Her struggles faded as she found her will yielding to his tender assault.

Mayhap she should be vexed that this stranger dared such advances when he barely knew her name. Her mind failed to summon the outrage befitting a lady. Instead, she found herself leaning toward him, giving over to the wondrous flood of sensations. How his lips were warmer now, how his tongue brushed against the seam of hers, almost teasing them to open. Heat rushed through her body as if her blood boiled. A hard cramp lodged in the pit of her belly, twisting with a need so strong it was almost blinding. Flames licked at her mind, making her faint. Her hands clutched the backs of his arms, her fingers desperately curling around the smooth skin and hard muscles.

De Servian shivered, then a deeper quake racked his body, and his hand dropped from her neck. He leaned back and gave her an exhausted smile. “I thank you…for helping
warm
me, Skena.” His head tilted to one side, as though he found it too hard to hold up.

When his lids started to close, she scooped up water and rubbed some on his cheeks. “Please stay awake, Sir Noel, for a wee bit longer. I must see you warmed, dried, and in bed.”

“Noel,” he corrected. “Call me Noel. I gave you leave to use my name.”

“Aye, you did. ’Tis a lovely name, too.”
Suiting a man with lovely eyes,
she thought. Skena swallowed back that bit of folly. If she encouraged him to talk he might not drift off to sleep, thus she prodded him about things he had spoken of before. “You said you were trying to reach the Lord Challon at Glenrogha? You are kin to the mighty Black Dragon?”

“Brothers…after a fashion. I believe you Scots call us foster brothers. When I was five my father was killed in a tournament. A freak accident. A lance splintered and a long shard got through the ocularium and was driven into his skull. The duke took our family’s holding and gave it to another lord. Unable to face existence without my father, my mother…took her own life…drowned herself in the lake.”

Skena’s heart squeezed at the thought of Noel de Servian as a child of five, smaller than Andrew, and losing both his father and mother. How any mother could have left her beautiful son to deal with life alone was more than she could understand. “I sorrow you faced such heartbreak when you were so young.”

“’Tis a long time ago. Fortunately, Earl Michael took me in and gave me a home. I served as page at Castle Challon and was raised with Julian, his brothers, and their cousin, Damian St. Giles. When I was age eleven, we were sent to be squires for King Edward, and then later served as his knights.”

He leaned his head back and shut his eyes, so he failed to see her still at the words, which brought darkness to her heart. This was no ordinary English knight. He had powerful friends. Though not through blood, he was bound to the men of Challon deeply. Scots knew foster brothers were often more devoted than true sons of the same blood. There was a chance he was merely coming to pay visit to the new overlord of Glen Shane. A chance. One she doubted. Well, no use begging for trouble. She took a steadying breath and turned to pick up another rag from the pail, adding it atop the others. He flinched slightly, but offered no further complaints.

“I sorrow to cause you distress. ’Tis important the warming be done in the right way.” Skena took up another rag and wiped his face and neck. “You come to visit your foster brothers?”

His head gave a small shake no, his hands gripping the sides of the tub to keep himself upright. “How long does a proper warming take, my lady? I find I weary and wish to sleep. Mayhap if you were to kiss me again it shall speed haste to your methods.”

“My lord, ’tis unseemly for a woman to permit a stranger to kiss her whilst they are alone in a bedchamber. I should not have allowed you to do so the first time, but you caught me unawares.” Skena bit the corner of her mouth, telling herself she did not want him to kiss her again. Nay, a thousand times nay.

She frowned. She never used to lie, but with the passing days mendacity came too easily to her lips. Lies to her people about how precarious their situation was—a fortress with nary a male over ten and four summers to man the ramparts or to hunt for meat, more deceit covering how the drought left them with little in the way of supplies. All Craigendan’s people looked to her for assurances they would come through this winter without their bellies rubbing their backbones.

So the lies came.

Now there would be more untruths, she feared. Lies to this man. Lies to her people about what his coming meant. So tired and hungry, she just wanted to curl up in bed and sleep, only she had a way to go before she could rest assured about his condition.

Skena misliked how he kept trying to fall asleep. Yes, the potion was relaxing him, pushing him to be drowsy. But he was too alert one breath, then slipped away from his thoughts the next. Scared, she wished Auld Bessa was here to guide her.

“But we are not strangers, Skena. I have given permission for you to address me as Noel. May I call you Skena?”

She chuckled. “I believe you already have. We Scots hold little keeping in the use of titles. Most call me Skena of Craigendan or Skena MacIain.”

His eyelids lifting, a cautious glimmer flickered in his unusual eyes. “You do not call yourself Skena Fadden?” There almost seemed to be a guarded tone to the question, but she could not gather why.