When he didn’t finish the thought, she asked, “Just?”
He drew his brows together into a deep frown. “Last night Joanne said the man who struck Niles was Draven de Montague.”
“Aye.”
He looked straight at her. “But that’s not the man I fought the night of the village fire. I know it.”
Emily’s heart stopped. “What are you saying?”
“I fought him, Em,” Godfried said, his voice certain and his gaze sincere. “I stood toe to toe in battle with the earl, or at least with a man dressed as he. I recognized the surcoat, but the man I fought was my height and wide of girth. Had I fought someone a full head and shoulders taller, I would have remembered it well.”
“Did you tell my father?”
“I tried to last night, but he refused to believe it. He said I was mistaken.”
“But you’re certain?”
“Aye. I even wounded the man. A cut across his right forearm halfway between his wrist and elbow.”
Chills erupted all over her. She had been right! There was someone else playing her father and Draven against each other. For she had no doubt that if Godfried had fought Draven he would now be lying in his grave.
But who could possibly have anything to gain by pitting them against each other?
Something strange was definitely afoot. And one way or another she would find out what.
Draven didn’t begin to calm down until they were out the gates and headed across her father’s property.
Emily had tried to speak to him before they left about some ridiculous notion of someone else perpetuating the hostilities between her father and him, but he didn’t believe a word of it. ’Twas more of Hugh’s lies.
And he had had enough of them.
But far be it from him to belittle her father to her. Let her have her delusions. He wasn’t a fool.
Not soon enough to suit him, they approached his property. And as they rode over a sharp hill, a movement in the trees to his left caught his eye.
Draven glanced just in time to see the flash of sunlight glinting off a crossbow in the forest. Before he could give a word of warning, a bolt snapped from the bow, piercing his left thigh.
Hissing in pain, he wheeled his horse about. “Attack!” he shouted to Simon and the others as more bolts rained down upon them.
Draven moved his horse to shield Emily from the volley of arrows. “Get Emily to safety!”
Simon grabbed Emily’s reins and pulled her toward a copse of trees while his men fell in by his side, drawing their weapons.
Grinding his teeth against the burning in his thigh, Draven unsheathed his sword and led his men toward his attackers who were hidden by the forest.
His horse reared as an arrow landed in its haunches. Draven struggled with his mount to keep the horse from bolting as his men continued on toward their assailants without waiting for him.
Just as he brought Goliath under control, a bolt buried itself deep within his chest, knocking him back. Agony coursed through his veins as the wound throbbed unmercifully.
Draven refused to be brought down by cowards lurking in the trees.
He locked his knees against Goliath’s ribs, determined to keep his saddle. Another arrow hit him in the leg. Pain ripped through his limb until he could no longer feel his hold on Goliath.
Goliath shrieked and reared and Draven felt himself slipping.
He hit the ground with a solid thud that knocked the breath from his body.
Stunned, he lay on his back, trying to feel his arms or legs, but he felt nothing save throbbing pain, while arrows continued to rain down around him.
From her concealment in the trees, Emily saw Draven fall.
“Draven!” she screamed as she took her reins back and started to head toward him.
“Get back!” Simon snapped as he jerked the reins from her hands.
Emily launched herself from her horse and ran toward Draven while the arrows fell dangerously close to her.
She didn’t think about the archers or anything else. All she could focus on was the still form in front of her.
Draven didn’t move at all.
She fell to her knees by his side.
“Draven?” she whispered as she carefully removed his helm and touched his cold, whiskered cheek. Her hands trembled as terror wracked her body. He couldn’t be dead. Not her champion. Not like this.
“Draven?” she cried.
He opened his eyes and looked up at her.
She sobbed in relief.
“Get down!” Draven said, but his voice had lost its thunder.
Tears streamed down her face as she saw the three crossbow bolts jutting out of his body. And the blood…There was so much of it.
Simon came up behind her and snatched her from the ground by her arm. “Get away from him,” he snarled, shoving her in the opposite direction.
His unwarranted fury startled her. “He needs help.”
“Not from you, he doesn’t.”
Stunned, she didn’t move while he stooped to help Draven up from the ground. Draven hissed in pain as Simon draped his right arm over his shoulder and helped him to stand.
It was only then she realized the arrows had stopped falling.
“We need to get him back to my father’s,” she insisted.
Simon’s hate-filled glare blistered her. “Why? So he might finish the deed?”
Her jaw dropped. “You can’t think my father had anything to do with this?”
“I saw their colors. They were Warwick’s.”
“Nay,” Draven rasped. “’twas not her father.”
“What? Are you mad?” Simon snarled as he helped him toward the wagon. “Who else?”
“I know not,” Draven gasped as he staggered in Simon’s arms. “But Hugh would not have attacked me with archers who like as not might have hit Emily. He wouldn’t have taken the chance.”
“How do you know?” Simon asked.
“I know,” he whispered. “Just get me home.”
Emily hurried her steps to keep apace of them. “But my father’s is closest.”
Draven looked at her, his expression calm in spite of his pain. “A wounded hawk doesn’t bed down in a fox’s den.”
When they reached the wagon, Simon let go of Draven who held himself upright by draping his uninjured arm over the wagon’s side. Simon pushed her trunk aside, but Emily stopped him. “Take it from the wagon and leave it.”
Simon frowned. “But your—”
“Leave it.”
Simon nodded, then did as she ordered. Once the bed was cleared, he helped Draven into the wagon and carefully laid him down.
Emily opened her trunk and removed her jewelry case and pulled out a light saffron-colored kirtle, then joined Draven in the wagon.
“What are you doing?” Draven asked as she started ripping her gown.
“Making bandages for you,” she said.
“Your dress—”
“Shh,” she said, placing her fingers to her lips. “Save your strength.”
The wagon lurched forward. Emily considered removing the bolts from him, but thought better of it. For one thing, they were in motion and it might maim him, and for another, she feared removing them would cause him to bleed even more. So she set about using her kirtle pieces to apply pressure to the bleeding to help slow it.
She kept checking his face, and as each minute passed he seemed to grow paler and paler. She took a piece of her dress and wiped the blood from his cheek.
The tenderness in his gaze stole her breath.
“You have such a gentle touch,” he said softly.
She smiled sadly, remembering the first time he had said that to her.
And then he did the most unexpected thing, he reached out and took her hand in his. He laid her hand upon his chest, just over his heart, and closed his eyes.
Emily didn’t know what startled her most. That he had finally reached out for her, or that he trusted her enough to close h
is eyes while she sat beside him. Both were such small gestures and with any other man they might have gone unnoticed, but for Draven they were monumental actions, and neither one was lost on her.
Emily stared at her hand. It looked so tiny in comparison to his. The darkness of his hand made hers appear all the more pale. His knuckles were scarred and she saw the purple bruise he’d gotten from hitting Niles when the man had insulted her.
And in that instant she realized she loved him.
She didn’t know when it had happened, but it had.
Her lips trembled as she allowed her love for him to fill her. It was a truly powerful thing. Marvelously warm and completely intoxicating.
Impulsively, she brushed the hair back from his brow. The black silken strands caressed her fingertips as she ran several strands between her fingers. It surprised her that he didn’t protest, but he said no more words to her while they made their way back to his home.
They reached the gates just after sunset. A fever had started, and he had shed so much blood that she had begun to fear even more for his life.
He’d lost consciousness as they rode, and Simon and one of his knights carried him to his room. Emily ordered Beatrix to fetch her sewing kit and wine, then ran to join Simon.
Simon’s face was only a shade less pale than Draven’s as he reached to grasp the bolt in Draven’s shoulder. “This is going to wake him. Monty,” he said to the knight who had assisted him, “stand ready to hold him when he strikes out.”
The knight nodded.
Simon pulled at the bolt. Draven came awake with a curse that brought heat to her cheeks. As Simon had predicted, he swung out his arm to strike him, but Monty caught him before he could lay Simon low.
Draven threw his head back and groaned.
“I know,” Simon whispered, then reached for the bolt in his leg.
Fully awake now, Draven locked his jaw and reached above his head with his uninjured arm to hold the headboard as Simon pulled.
She cringed as Draven’s entire body drew taut while his brother struggled to pull the bolt out. How Draven could stand it without screaming, she didn’t know. But at last Simon pulled the last two bolts free.
Simon held a bandage to Draven’s shoulder and Emily rushed to hold one against his leg.
After several minutes, the blood flow slowed.
“Cauterize it,” Draven rasped between panting breaths.
“What?” Emily asked in stunned surprise.
“Get her out of here, Simon,” Draven snarled, “and do it.”
Simon ordered Monty to escort her outside.
Emily shook her head. “But—”
“No time to argue,” Simon said, drawing the dagger from his belt.
The last thing she saw was Simon planting the dagger in the coals of the fire as Monty slammed the door shut in her face.
But she didn’t leave.
Her stomach twisted in knots from fear and uncertainty, she waited outside Draven’s room.
After a few minutes, Simon opened the door. Sweat covered his face, and he looked as if he would be sick.
“I need a drink,” he whispered, walking past her with Monty trailing in his wake.
Emily rushed inside the room to find Draven unconscious again. Simon had stripped his clothes from him and covered him with a fur before he left.
She paused by the bed and looked down upon his resting form.
Like Simon, he was covered in sweat. The skin on his shoulder was pink and blistered from where Simon had dragged his blade over the wound to seal it. And the stench of burning flesh still clung to the air.
Emily reached out, then stopped before she touched it. So much pain, and he hadn’t even cried out.
How had he borne it in silence?
Beatrix came in behind her with a ewer of water and towels. Emily thanked her, then poured water into the basin and dampened a cloth.
“How does he?” Beatrix asked as she stoked the fire.
“I know not,” Emily whispered. “All we can do is pray.”
Beatrix nodded, then left her alone with him.
As carefully as she could, Emily bathed his fevered brow. His roughened whiskers scraped the palm of her hand as she tested the temperature of his skin.
His long eyelashes rested against his tan cheeks. Never before had she seen him look so peaceful. So at ease.
And he was so handsome it took her breath.
She traced the cloth down his hard, muscular chest, cleaning the blood away from his wound and arm. She paused over his heraldic emblem and took it in her hand. Made of fine gold, it shone in the faint light. The petals of the rose had been meticulously made, and on the back it read simply “The Rose of Chivalry.”
She smiled as she traced the words. They fit him perfectly, and it was then she realized that though he wasn’t the blond-haired man she had dreamed of, he was indeed all she had ever wanted. He was her rose come to fetch her off on the back of his white charger.
Instead of dimpled smiles and poetry, he wooed her with courage and honesty.
Brushing her lips across his forehead, she inhaled the spicy masculine scent of him. One day she would win his heart the same way he had captured her own.
You will be mine.
And as she cleaned his arm, she remembered Godfried’s words.
Though numerous scars crossed his body, there was no sign of any wound on his forearm.
Emily went cold as she realized the significance. Who would dare such a scheme?
And why?
At least Draven wasn’t as obtuse as her father. He had known her father wouldn’t attack him so cravenly. Mayhap when he awoke he would look for the culprit and see justice finally met.
Consumed by her thoughts, she absently pushed the blanket down his chest to his waist.
Emily froze as she finally realized what she was doing. Almost the whole of his body was bare before her.
Swallowing, she trailed the wet cloth slowly over the mountainous terrain of his torso. His chest rose and fell with his deep, even breathing.
Draven’s dark, tawny flesh called out to her, and she wondered what it would feel like to touch it.
Biting her lip, she laid the cloth aside. Grateful for her solitude, she traced her hand over his fevered skin, marveling at the texture, at the feel of his taut nipples beneath her hand. He felt like velvet stretched over steel. Never had she felt anything so marvelous.
Hungry to feel more of him, she traced one hand over his pectorals, delighting in the feel of his skin against her palm.
Draven moaned.
Emily paused her hand over the planes of his rippled stomach.
Draven heaved a heavy sigh, then shifted his body to the right. His movements caused the blanket to slip down, exposing him to her.
Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at his unadorned nakedness. Even unconscious there was a raw, masculine power that emanated from him that warned the world just how dangerous a man he could be.
She had seen most of him when he fought the boar, but fear had robbed her of the pleasure. Now there was nothing to distract her from his hard, lean body.
Nothing to cloud her thoughts except the red-hot desire burning through her.
He was magnificent.
Impulsively, she leaned over and touched her lips to his. He groaned as she kissed him while trailing her hand down his ribs and to his naked back. Desire coiled in the center of her stomach, aching for his touch, for any avowal of his affections for her.
“Emily,” he breathed, her name a caress on his lips.
“I am here,” she answered, only to realize he was still unconscious.
Pulling away from him, she reached for the covers and pulled them over him.
“I will always be here,” she said to him. “And not even you will be able to drive me away.”
At least she hoped she could live up to that. She still had to find some way to reach him. Some way for him to open up his heart to her.
&
nbsp; She just hoped it was possible to get a man to open a heart he claimed he didn’t have.
Chapter 15
For days Draven drifted in and out of consciousness. But with each awakening, he recalled glimpses of heaven. Of a blond angel sitting beside him urging him to drink water and broth. Of her singing to him as he lay there unable to move.
And when he finally came to his full senses, he found Emily sleeping in a chair beside his bed. She was curled into a small ball and her chest rose and fell ever so slightly with each breath.
The only light in the room came from the lowburning fire that flickered across the planes of her precious face. Dark circles marred her eyes even in slumber.
Her long blond braid trailed down to the floor only inches from him. Without conscious thought, Draven reached out and touched it. Her hair felt like fine silk in his palm.
She had stayed.
Draven blinked at the thought as unknown emotions swirled through him. Every time he awoke, she had been there.
He could even remember Simon and Beatrix begging her to leave, but she had steadfastly refused.
Why?
He couldn’t fathom it. No one had ever been so diligent. No one.
Her arm fell from her lap and she jerked awake. Clearing her throat, she rubbed at her eyes.
Draven withdrew his hand from her hair, and it was that motion that drew her attention to him.
“You’re awake,” she said with a smile.
She left the chair and sat on the mattress next to him. Her touch gentle, she stroked his brow. “Your fever is gone.”
“How long have I slept?”
“A sennight.”
He frowned at the news. “A full sennight?”
She nodded.
Draven started to rise, but she stopped him by placing her hands on his chest and pushing him back toward the bed. “’Tis the middle of the night. Where are you going?”
“The garderobe,” he said gruffly. “And I suggest you let me.”
She blushed, then released her hold of him. “Then let me assist you.”
His head spinning from his effort, Draven sat up, and slowly put his injured leg on the cobbled floor. He gathered the fur pelt around his waist to cover himself from her gaze.
Master of Desire Page 21
