The Christmas Knight (9 page)

Freed, Bronwyn bent over him and started cutting away the material around his flesh. “Once I’m done here, I’ll apply that poultice, which I warn you, can be very painful, but it will help with the bleeding and accelerate healing. Unless the fever takes too strong of a hold, you will live.”

Ranulf shook his head. “I don’t get fevers.”

“We’ll see,” Bronwyn murmured as she dipped a clean cloth into some water and started to cleanse the wound. Then she picked up the needle and asked, “Are you ready?”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, don’t worry about Constance if you do hit me. There’s a good chance you will and I won’t hold it against you. I’ll know it was just the pain.”

Ranulf’s mouth twisted with pride. “I’ve been injured before and I’ve managed not to hit anyone.”

“If you say so,” Bronwyn replied.

Ranulf felt the painful pierce of being stabbed and let go a grunt. Ashamed she should see him so weak, he closed his eyes and counted each sharp prick and pull. After twelve, she tied off the string and sliced the end off with a dagger.

Then, a minute later, white hot agony seared his skin and wound. Ranulf fought from crying out but his hand instinctively reached out for hers and squeezed. His grasp had to have hurt and yet she held on and he didn’t feel so alone. Her father had made him feel that same way. “I’m so sorry, angel. I tried everything to save him. I didn’t know…”

“Shhh, whatever happened, no one blames you.”

“Angel…”

Bronwyn felt him suddenly relax and knew he was unconscious once again.

T
UESDAY
, D
ECEMBER
21, 1154
A
DVENT
F
AST

Bronwyn sat on the small bench and drummed her fingers silently against the windowsill as she looked out at the vacant, dark courtyard lit only by the faint moonlight shining from above. It would be a few more hours until the bailey became alive with activity once again. She wondered how her sisters were faring and hoped they would understand why she had decided to stay. Tyr had promised to send word at daybreak as to what had happened, and while Edythe would see the situation pragmatically, Lily would not. She would either believe the whole thing terribly romantic or just the opposite, unbearably oppressive. Either way, Bronwyn prayed they both continued to stay away from Hunswick.

Sighing, she turned from the window and squatted down by the hearth to throw another log into the fire. With the unusually warm weather, the fire was not necessary, but winter would reappear anytime now and it was always easier to add a log than create a fire from new. Rising again, Bronwyn wished she had something to do besides wait. She had cleaned the few garments that had been brought up with Ranulf’s things and even mended a couple of them, something she hated, but it was better than boredom. Patience was one fruit of the spirit of which she possessed very little.

The Tower Keep was a large rectangular structure situated at an angle from the Great Hall, making up in sheer size what it lacked in height. Disliking stairs and small rooms, the previous Lord Anscombe had designed each floor to have the space of nearly two towers. The moment the building had been completed, he had vacated the rooms above the Great Hall and taken the solar for his bedchambers. Only after he had become ill had Bronwyn ever entered the room, and after his death, she had thrown away all the rushes and closed its doors, letting dust overtake all that it housed.

Cleaning the room had been much more of a chore than she had anticipated. Constance had come in for a little while to help, but Bronwyn could see the old woman was tiring herself out and unnecessarily. The activity was a godsend, for watching and waiting for the fever to take hold of Ranulf was torture. Even now, she could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, defying all that she knew about wounds. Only once had he moved in an effort to turn over. He had winced and stopped, but the action had not roused him.

The room, though large, was sparsely furnished and, consequently, simple to clean. Rectangular in shape, it was divided into two areas. On one end was a great bed built on a massive wooden frame with a feather mattress covered with sheets, quilts, and pillows. The bed was curtained with linen hangings, but Bronwyn had pulled them back, tying them off so that she could watch Ranulf from anywhere in the room.

On either side of the bed were two small tables, one for his lordship, which also held a basin and pitcher of water, and one for the future Lady Anscombe, which was bare except for the candle Bronwyn had placed there earlier.

Across the room was a stone hearth, and though not elaborate, it was of ample size to heat the space. Two large, padded chairs that were originally meant for the Great Hall were placed to one side of the fireplace. In between them sat a small square table Bronwyn suspected typically supported a mug of ale, based upon the ringed stains on its surface and the previous Lord Anscombe’s fondness for drink.

Along one long wall were two tall windows, each with narrow padded seats that provided an excellent view of the courtyard and the setting sun. In between the windows sat a large chest standing on four feet that doubled as a sitting area for visitors. The opposite wall had three doors. One overly large door near the middle opened into the lord’s day room. Next to it was the garderobe and the one closest to the far end led out to the hall and the stairwell. Between them hung tapestries of the Cumbrian Hills and the waters of Bassellmere with a mist settling on the valley, designed and created by Bronwyn’s own mother.

Feeling warmer, Bronwyn sat down on the large beaver rug in front of the hearth. Earlier, while cleaning, she had put four woolen blankets too worn for the lord’s bed underneath it for padding, creating her favorite sitting spot. But its comfort was short-lived. She was going mad with the silence.

With her sisters about, there was never a time where she could just sit peacefully. Whenever she had tried, they would always interrupt, wondering what was the matter, or assume the timing was perfect to relate a story or problem or wish. Now that she was alone with only her thoughts, it was too quiet.

Bronwyn chuckled at the realization. Standing back up, she pulled one of the hearth chairs to the side of the bed, but instead of sitting on it, she sank onto the mattress next to Ranulf’s unwounded arm. She leaned over to kiss his forehead—to check for fever—and as his lordship had predicted, his skin was still cool to the touch. She pulled back and saw that he was dreaming again, but not a good one. His forehead was puckered and his jaw was rigid, giving the impression of being disturbed or angered.
Probably dreaming about me
, she mused.

She reached out and traced his square jaw, which was now stubbly with dark growth that was soft and inviting. “Why do some men shave and others do not? Does it hurt?” she pondered aloud. “Maybe more would if they looked like you.”

Bronwyn knew she should step away, but instead let her fingers travel upward across his cheekbone. She could feel the heat of his skin pouring into her hands and she craved more.

He had paled considerably under his tanned complexion and his harsh angular features seemed softer while he slept. His forehead was not high like her father’s, but neither was it too low, so that he looked like he was constantly questioning things. He didn’t look to be very old, not even ten years her senior. His short tousled hair created a boyish appearance while his face and body looked like he had been a man for many years. Along the forehead were creases, deep lines that ran into old scars indicating he had faced many difficulties in his life, and not just physical.

“You, my lord,” she declared softly as she stroked his cheek, “despite all the rumor and rhetoric are rather ordinary-looking.” But he wasn’t ordinary. There was something in him, an aura of latent power that had struck her when they had argued, the sort of strength that would have enabled him to survive when other, lesser men would have given up and died.

Her fingertips played at the edge of his hair and finally gave in to the temptation to dive in and caress the dark brown locks. “Why do you keep it so short? For ease?” Bronwyn raked her fingers through his hair once more. “Mmm, whatever the reason, I like it.”

Then she let her fingers slide down his nose. “Amazingly straight,” she sighed and then moved her thumb across his lips. The act raised gooseflesh on her arms, causing her to shiver as she contemplated exploring the one place she had dared yet to go. Not because of its appearance, but because of its familiarity.

“What happened, I wonder,” Bronwyn murmured as she followed the scar from the middle of his forehead down the left side, over the empty socket, and across the top of his cheek to his ear. “You were burned a long time ago, but this was not caused just by fire. Did something fall on you?” Whatever it was had seared his skin at the moment of impact.

“Your face,” she continued as she let her hand skim down his neck to his uncovered chest, enabling easy access to redress the wound, “does not prepare one for everything else.” Ranulf was attractive to look at, but his body was incredible.

Bronwyn had been around men all her life and both intentionally and accidentally had spied on them in her youth. But never had she seen anything to compare with Ranulf. His sheer presence spoke of authority and command. Even when he slept.

“I wonder if you realize just how imposing you are to everyone, including your men. But I doubt they follow you from intimidation. Respect drives their loyalty. How do I know this?” she asked herself, pretending it was he who posed the question. “Well, despite your treatment of me, which you must admit was quite repugnant for a knight, I doubt your friend Tyr is easily unsettled. He seems to be one who makes his own decisions. So there must be something to you for him to follow you north.”

Bronwyn let her hand stray down his arm, enjoying the feel of his thick and padded muscles. Caressing his wrist and then the fingers that lay across his stomach, she traced the ridged strength, wondering how it would feel to be pulled against them if he held her in his arms.

Ranulf’s face twitched, wincing, and Bronwyn snatched back her hand, reprimanding herself for being so naïve. No, the new Lord Anscombe didn’t possess a classically handsome face, but it did not matter. His presence was compelling with a vital power that pulled her toward him. “And I’m the strong one,” she whispered, “I’m glad my sister will never meet you. It would only make it harder to leave.”

Standing up, Bronwyn stretched. She had been talking for nearly an hour before her mind caught up with what she was saying…and doing. Embarrassed, she moved away from the bed, glad that no one but her knew of her brazen words and exploration. Needing something to preoccupy her mind until he either awoke or was overcome with fever, she decided that his day room could also be cleaned. At least there she wouldn’t be staring at him.

Upon wakening, two overpowering sensations had assailed Ranulf simultaneously. The pain in his shoulder was far from negligible, but it could be ignored. The warm pressure of soft lips against his forehead, however, had seized all rational thought. All he could do was hold his breath and refuse to move, to do anything that might disrupt the dream. His angel was kissing him. Then too soon, cool air replaced the tender touch.

The dream was not a new one. But none had ever felt so real. Ranulf was on the verge of visually dismissing the possibility when a fingertip lightly started to outline his face, and again he had to fight back the urge to see if it really was his angel. A soft low voice joined the caress, clearly unaware that he was now conscious.

He was not dreaming. This was real. His angel was there, with him, still blissfully uncaring of the wounds the rest of the world found so horrendous.

Ranulf knew he should say something, but he was riveted by her touch, her nearness, and his mind wouldn’t let him do anything to prematurely end the fleeting taste of heaven. All he could do was lie there, basking in her female ministrations, listening to the sound of her voice. It was melodic, neither deep nor high-pitched. And when dropped low, it took on a husky sound that would have been incredibly arousing. But then he realized she was talking about him.

Ask any man if he wanted to know what truly went through a woman’s mind and he would quickly reply “yes.” But ask him again and make him think through his answer and what it would mean…and he would ardently say no. Every man Ranulf knew—even King Henry II—questioned his masculine appeal. Ranulf never questioned his, he knew. Some women could get past the scars and even tolerate conversation and his company, but being intimate with a man who looked at them with one eye and one sunken eyelid deformed by flame was at best uncomfortable, for most frightening, and some even referred to him as a walking corpse.

So when his angel first began musing over his appearance, he had held his breath, praying she would remain silent and keep her thoughts to herself.

Then she had called him rather ordinary.

Nothing in the past twelve years had prepared him for such an assessment.
Ordinary! Was Bronwyn blind?
But she obviously wasn’t, for she continued with her appraisal. She studied all his facial features, caressing them, driving him wild. Even his scars. She had traced them, wondering aloud at their cause and coming frighteningly close to guessing correctly. Then her hand had slid lower.

Never had Ranulf endured anything more torturous in his life and all he could do was force himself to breathe and do absolutely nothing to halt this sweet version of hell. It was the most dishonorable thing he had ever done, letting her speak private thoughts aloud, believing him unaware. Still, if he had to do it all over again, he would again remain mum.

Never had a woman touched him like that. Those he had paid for their services had refused to feel his scars, avoiding them. Just the thought of being with one of those harlots after being sincerely caressed by Bronwyn caused him to wince.

Instantly, her touch was gone and he cursed his lack of control. He was about to reveal his conscious state when he realized she hadn’t withdrawn altogether. Bronwyn was whispering in his ear, weaving a new spell over him.

Then it all stopped. As if she suddenly realized she was pouring out her most personal thoughts and decided against it.

A second later, he heard a chair scrape and a door open. Hearing movement in another room, Ranulf forced himself to crack his good eye and confirm he was alone. As he suspected, the door had not quite closed but remained ajar enough to see through. By the shadows playing on the far wall, it led into a spacious setting that could only be the lord’s day room.