The Christmas Knight (8 page)

Then she saw him. Ranulf was lying near the top of the tower on the stairs that had been built into the stone structure. Bronwyn wrenched free of Tyr’s grasp and leapt up the stairs before he could stop her.

Ranulf felt cool fingertips stroking his cheek and decided he was dreaming. His angel had returned and was whispering softly into his ear and he longed to know what she was saying. As consciousness took hold, he realized they were words of fear and remorse and he knew then that it was not a dream, but a nightmare, and if he were to open his eyes, his angel would be there, looking at him…with pity.

Ranulf reached out with his working arm and snatched her wrist. “Don’t look at me,” he hissed. His confidence had already taken a hit when she dared to argue with him. No one did that. No one.

“Shh. Don’t try to move.”

Ranulf tried once again to push her away, but his arm wouldn’t cooperate. His shoulder hurt, but that pain was negligible compared to the one in his head. “Leave me,” he pleaded. Never had he begged before, but he could hear it in his voice, imploring her to go.

Soft lips caressed his right ear. “Please, my lord. Let me save you as you saved me.”

Ranulf opened his eyes and tried to lift his head. Intense pain shot through his temple and the world started spinning around him, making him very nauseous. He had already made a complete idiot of himself. She was tending to his shoulder as if he were an unskilled soldier with his first wound and unaccustomed to dealing with pain. He was
not
going to add vomiting to the day’s events.

Her fingers reached the edge of his tunic and were about to pull back the opening to further examine the wound when he reached up and stopped her. “Don’t. Get someone else. Anyone else.”

Bronwyn was about to argue when comprehension sank in. She should have realized that such a severe burn injury would not be localized to just his face. The man neither wanted nor would get sympathy from her because of his past wounds. Everyone had nightmares, and he obviously was stilling dealing with his.

“Why? I’m not afraid. Are you?”

Ranulf recognized a challenge when one was issued, but he could not recall the last time someone had made such a direct one. He held her gaze for a long moment. “Only of you, angel.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why? You look like one.”

“Then the fall has made you delusional, and the sooner we get you off these stairs and remove the wood lodged in your shoulder, the better.”

Hearing that he was not on the ground and that they were about to move him, Ranulf was in the process of saying “no” when someone jerked up his shoulders and head, causing the world to grow dark.

Ranulf’s last thought was that Tyr and the old lady had been right. He really was a fool.

Ranulf awoke to the smell of flowers and the tantalizing scent of woman. Once again he had the unfamiliar sensation of being caressed. This time the feeling of fingers ran softly across his forehead and into his hair again and again, completely overwhelming his other senses, including the painful banging in his head that matched the beat of his pulse. He concentrated on the gentle ministrations and listened to the raspy tones of his angel issuing instructions. Her low, sultry voice did not carry the songbird qualities heard so often in court, but it was soft, clear, and possessed a dangerous quality that could awaken his once-dead heart.

Ranulf held his breath. The silky sounds had changed from sultry tones to playful ones…and they were chiding him.

“You’re smiling, my lord,” Bronwyn whispered into his ear so that no one else could hear. “Not the large type of grin your friend wears so easily, but enough for me to know that you are awake.”

Ranulf blinked his one working eye and saw the face of his angel peering down at him. Her hair had been haphazardly pulled back in a loose braid that at any minute threatened to fall apart. The angry midnight eyes he had witnessed from afar were not nearly as dark as he had originally believed. Lined with concern, they were a deep misty blue, the color of the sea after a storm. He could see no pity or fear in the overly large pools. Only one other pair of blue eyes had ever looked at him that way. Sir Laon le Breton’s, her father.

Ranulf discovered not long after his injury that only a certain type of woman would be attracted to his bed. Tyr and a few others had tried to convince him otherwise, and usually it was a mercenary heart he held in his arms, attempting to woo him for his money. But there were a few times, when the woman he held looked back at him with such cold detachment it made him feel only lonelier and less of a man. Three years ago after a highly unpleasant encounter, he decided to forgo female companionship altogether, and until today he had never been tempted to change his mind.

Ranulf could not remember ever wanting any woman more. But indifference from her would be a soul killer. He suspected that if he should try, she might indulge him in a kiss, but he didn’t want her pity or her compassion. He desired something else. Something so rare that he had not once encountered it in the last decade. He needed Bronwyn le Breton to see him as a man.

A knock on the door pulled Bronwyn away from his side. Perturbed by her sudden absence, Ranulf shifted slightly to see the old nursemaid followed by Tyr enter the room. Unable to stop himself in time, he groaned. Bronwyn immediately flew back to his side, but Ranulf could see his tall friend arch a brow inquisitively and flash him a knowing grin as he crossed his arms. Tyr had seen him injured—and more seriously—too many times to believe that pain was behind Ranulf’s grimace. His friend recognized Ranulf’s desire to be alone and apparently was enjoying himself too much to care.

Bronwyn licked her lips, drawing his attention back to her. “When the floor fell, part of one of the beams broke off and lodged itself in your shoulder. I managed to take it out and slow the bleeding, but I am going to have to sew the wound shut and treat it. I’m afraid it will be very painful.”

Ranulf watched as she bit her bottom lip, worried at the agony she was about to inflict on him. But all he could think about was how he wanted to pull her mouth down to his and discover just what heaven tasted like.

“Do you need me to get you something to bite down on?”

Behind her, Ranulf could see Tyr cover his mouth and fight to keep from laughing aloud. The damn man was enjoying this too much.

Bronwyn poked him. “Do you?”

Ranulf blinked and refocused on what she was asking. “Do I what?” he groused.

Bronwyn issued him a scathing look, but the nursemaid was not consoled. “Maybe he isn’t right in the head,” Constance muttered, standing over him. “Do you know your own name, my lord?”

Ranulf scowled at the interfering old woman and said, “Ranulf to my friends, Lord Anscombe to my people, and Deadeye to everyone else. You choose.”

The response from both women was immediate. The one from the nursemaid was as he intended. After shooting him a withering look, the wild, gray-haired woman spun around out of his sight. Bronwyn’s expression, once tender and concern-filled, had transformed into one of exasperation. “It’s not his head that you should be worried about, Constance. After years of dealing with my sisters, I thought you would recognize obstinacy at the expense of pride,” she purred lightheartedly, giving him a wink.

Ranulf almost choked as a result. Unprepared, he started coughing, and for the first time, the pain in his shoulder rivaled the one in his head. Her anger had been stimulating and her compassion disarming, but he wasn’t sure he could handle this playful side of her without completely embarrassing himself.

“Stop moving,” Bronwyn ordered, “else you’ll start bleeding all over again and this time it will be on your own bed. Constance, would you go to my room and bring the black bag and a needle? And Tyr,” she said, keeping her focus on Ranulf and his shoulder, “take yourself out of here. Your friend does not need your type of support right now. Come back when silent smirks and dampened laughter will be welcomed.”

Unrestrained laughter filled the room. “Damn, Ranulf, the women you meet and order away. Perhaps it is I who should have been enlisting you for female help all these years,” Tyr teased and then ducked out of the room before Ranulf could retaliate.

Constance followed, leaving Ranulf and Bronwyn alone. He suddenly felt uneasy. “Where am I?”

Bronwyn stood, walked over to a large chest, and pulled out several old, worn linen shirts that could only have belonged to his cousin, the late Lord Anscombe. She grabbed one sleeve and started ripping. “We are in the Tower Keep of Hunswick and this is the bedchamber of the previous Lord Anscombe. Now, it is yours.” She pointed to the double doors across from her and to his left. “There is your day room.”

Ranulf studied her as she ripped each garment into wide strips. “And you are the daughter of Sir Laon le Breton, my single vassal.”

“My father is dead. I would have thought you had heard.”

Her voice had trembled and Ranulf felt a wave of guilt overcome him. “I did and I’m sorry, angel.”

Bronwyn stopped abruptly and captured his gaze. “Don’t call me that.”

Ranulf mentally scolded himself. The epithet had just slipped out, but her reaction to it had been severe and it had not been due to his being too personal. “Then what should I call you?”

Bronwyn licked her lips and swallowed. Then after several seconds, she took a deep breath and said faintly, “Lillabet, my lord.”

Ranulf fought to keep his face immobile. He had not met Laon’s youngest daughter, but he knew one thing for certain. The woman in front of him was not his betrothed. Why would Bronwyn say she was?

She was clearly far from comfortable with the idea of lying, but yet she had still willingly entered its treacherous domain. Ranulf was tempted to expose her falsehood, but decided not to at the last moment. Bronwyn was shaking, just slightly, as if she was nervous. Practicing deceit was completely unnatural for her. She didn’t like it. Ranulf wondered why she felt the need to lie now, with him and about her identity. The surest way not to discover the truth was to confront her. Still, he couldn’t call her by a name that wasn’t her own. “You don’t look like a Lillabet.”

Bronwyn finished ripping the linen shirt and gathered all the torn pieces into a pile. “And just what do I look like?”

“I told you. An angel, and until you give me a good reason not to call you that, I believe I shall continue.”

Bronwyn clamped her jaw tight. In truth, she was relieved. She had no intentions of staying for any length of time, but being called Lillabet would be a constant reminder of just who he was…and for whom he was intended.

A single loud knock boomed, and without waiting for an invitation, Constance marched in and handed Bronwyn a bowl, a black bag, and a needle and thread. “He won’t like it.”

“Thank you, Constance,” Bronwyn said casually, taking the items. “You don’t have to stay. But could you ask someone to send up some yarrow tea?”

Constance gave a brief nod and headed for the door. Just as she was about to step through, she looked back and gave Ranulf a contemptuous look. “If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchens. And you,” Constance directed to Ranulf, “lord or not, you hit her and there’ll be hell to pay.”

Hearing the threat, Ranulf tried to sit up and was about to order Constance back in to explain herself when Bronwyn pushed his shoulder down to keep him prone. “Just what did she mean by that? Why would I hit you?”

“Are you hurt anywhere else that I don’t know about?”

“Answer my question!”

“If you can’t tell me, I can always check,” Bronwyn said with a teasing smile as she reached out to pull back his already ripped shirt and reveal some more of his chest.

Ranulf clutched her wrist. Falling hadn’t felt good, and he knew he was bruised. Just how bad he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want her to find out either. “I thought maidens were not supposed to see a man.”

Bronwyn’s smile deepened into laughter and she moved to mix some of the contents in the black bag with the water in the bowl. “And just how do you know me to be a maiden?”

Ranulf blatantly raked his gaze over her once and then returned to meet her eyes. “I would know.”

Bronwyn scraped the edge of the bowl. “Mmm. You ever been married?”

“No,” Ranulf muttered as he watched her spread the nasty olive green-and-brown paste on a strip of cloth.

“Someone claimed your heart?”

“No,” came his sharp reply. Suddenly, he realized why she was pretending to be Lillabet. She was doing it to protect her sister…from him. Bronwyn wasn’t different. She was like the rest, just a little better at hiding it. “I’ve been busy doing other things with my life and haven’t the time or inclination to spend energy wooing a silly female.”

Only the disappearance of her smile indicated that Bronwyn had heard him and the bitterness in his voice. Picking up the needle and the cloth, she came to sit down beside him. “First I am going to sew that wound up. It is going to hurt. Normally I would give you some ale, but it might not be wise with an impending fever.”

Her playful banter in both expression and tone had vanished. His harsh words were the cause and it bothered him. “I don’t have a fever,” he countered, reminding himself that she was duplicitous not only in nature but in identity.

“Not yet, maybe, but with this wound, you
will
have one.” Bronwyn reached out to pull back the opening to his shirt and hesitated when his hand covered hers. “Do you need some wood to bite down on?”

“Do you?” he demanded, knowing that a deep puncture wound could be unsightly, but nothing compared to the burned scarred flesh that surrounded it.

“No, my lord. I’m not afraid, and I promise, I have seen worse.”

The seriousness behind her words could not be faked and Ranulf released his grip, understanding at last just why this woman could be so unperturbed with his appearance. He had been drenched in the obvious since the moment Bronwyn had first looked at him with her steadfast gaze, seeing his mottled skin and missing eye. She had to have seen something—something far worse than his injuries—to be so unaffected. And if that was true, the sight had to have been grisly, far too grisly for a lady.