Slane glanced down at Taylor. Trepidation made him tighten his grip. If he left, if he released her, she might just slip away. She might close her eyes and never open them. Something akin to panic flared to life in him. He noticed the blood on his fingers. Taylor’s blood. But if he didn’t release her and let Elizabeth tend her wounds, she would bleed to death.
He eased her to the floor and watched Elizabeth lift Taylor’s tunic. Her wound was worse than he thought. Blood oozed out of her body. Spilling over her creamy flesh, the dark liquid looked like an ugly stain moving across her skin.
Worry ate at the borders of Slane’s soul. He turned his head to find Taylor staring at him. In her eyes, he saw such panic that he impulsively picked up her hand. “It’s okay,” Slane assured her. “Elizabeth has sewn me up more than once.”
“Darling,” Elizabeth reminded him. “My bag.”
Slane nodded and rushed to the door, passing the order along to John. He spoke briefly with a barmaid, giving her instructions for clean towels and warm water. Even as he spoke, his eyes remained on Taylor. He watched her every intake of breath, her every grimace of pain. And he knew the second she closed her eyes. He waited for her to open them again. But her lids remained down. Open your eyes, Taylor, he willed. Her eyes stayed closed. She looked so peaceful now, as though she were sleeping or...
Unable to bear his gnawing dread any longer, Slane raced to Taylor’s side. “Elizabeth?”
“We need to move her to a room. I can’t do it here. She’s going to have to rest for a while. You know how easily these stitches come undone.”
Slane nodded in agreement “I’m sure there are plenty of rooms available here now.” Slane glanced down at Taylor, at her once again bruised and battered face, but this time he knew of the beauty that lay beneath the awful travesties marring her features. And it was a beauty that still shone through the bruises and the dried mud. A lock of hair had again fallen over her eyes, and he desperately wanted to brush it aside. Instead, he bent and picked her up in his arms, trying to ignore the limpness of her body, the way her head lolled backward. He tried to ignore the anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Elizabeth followed him to the stairs. She shook her head, dusting off her dress. “I can’t imagine where a woman received a sword wound. She must be very ill bred. Who is she, Slane?”
Slane’s teeth clenched. “She’s my brother’s future wife,” he replied.
“Poor Richard! I fear he will be gravely disappointed.”
***
“Slane?”
Slane started awake. It took a moment to remember that he had seen Elizabeth to a room and then had left her to come and sit by Taylor. He had been so angry, so furious, with Taylor when she had left. But now, faced with the thought that she might very well die, he found his anger gone and something else -- something he had not known before -- surging in his chest.
His eyes adjusted to the dim light cast by the candle. Taylor’s beautiful green eyes were open and looking at him. He surged to his knees before the bed and captured her hand in his. His body shook with relief. He leaned forward, brushing his knuckles over her cheek; he was not surprised that her skin felt feverish to the touch. Hurriedly he dipped a rag into the bowl of water that was positioned on the floor next to the bed and ran the cool cloth across her forehead.
“Taylor, Taylor,” he whispered to himself, “what am I going to do with you?”
“You could get me an ale,” she whispered.
Slane grinned as he continued to rub the cloth across her forehead, but his gaze shifted to her eyes. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
She groaned. “I feel like a horse trampled me,” she finally answered. She lifted her hand to her side, gently touching her wound. A slight scowl darkened her features. When she again turned her gaze to Slane, her eyes were resolute. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she wondered.
Slane looked away, returning the rag to the bowl by the bed. Why did he feel guilty? As if he had betrayed her somehow? The thought was ridiculous. He had no allegiance to this woman, only to his brother. “It wasn’t important,” he said defensively. “Our relationship -- yours and mine -- is nothing more than it seems.”
He still couldn’t lift his eyes to meet hers. He heard a sound and turned his head to see that cynical twist to Taylor’s shapely lips.
“I guess I was mistaken,” she whispered.
Slane saw the way her lips trembled, the way her throat worked. “I never intended to hurt you, Taylor,” he said quietly.
“No, it just seems to work out like that.”
Determinedly, he pushed the guilt away. “Tell me. What were you going to do? Where were you planning to go after you ran out on me?”
“It didn’t really matter where,” she answered. “Just as long as it was away from you.”
This time he managed to hold his gaze steady. Her eyes were large and the deepest green he had ever seen. They made him think of a lush green forest. The candlelight shimmering around her head made her almost angelic.
Unbidden, his fingers picked up a lock of her hair, and it curled around his knuckles. “My God, you are beautiful.”
“You’d better get away from me. Very far away from me,” she advised. “I’ll bring you nothing but trouble.”
Slane nodded. He knew she was right, knew he should get as far away from her as he could. But she needed him. “Very far away,” he echoed. But he lifted his hand to rub it along her jaw, over her bruised cheek. He ran his finger across her hairline, whispering, “I thought I had lost you.” Then he found himself leaning his arm next to her head, his lips mere inches from hers. Her sweet breath fanned his face.
She looked up at him. “So beautiful,” he whispered as he lowered his lips towards hers…
A pounding at the door caused him to bolt upright. “Sir!” a voice called from behind the closed door.
Slane stared at the door, practically frozen in place.
“Slane?” the voice called and Slane recognized it as John’s. “I’ve seen several strange-looking men walking the streets nearby. Clad in black. They haven’t come into the inn yet, but I think they might soon.”
Slane shot a knowing glance at Taylor. Corydon’s men. He rose and took a step toward the door, but then faltered. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be in her room. He turned his gaze helplessly to Taylor. For a long moment, their gazes locked and held. There was sympathy in her gaze, yet he saw humiliation in the grim set of her lips.
“He’s not in here,” she called to John.
“Sorry to disturb you, lady Taylor,” John answered after a moment. “But if you see him, please tell him he’s needed downstairs.”
For what seemed like an eternity, they stayed motionless, their gazes lingering. Finally, the footsteps receded and the spell was broken. Taylor turned her face away, and Slane felt her agony, her shame. What in heaven’s name am I doing? he silently demanded. I shouldn’t be here in the middle of the night feeling like a criminal. I only came because she is wounded. But deep down, he knew that was not the reason he had come. He had feelings for her, strong feelings. And they compromised everything he stood for. He was honor bound to Elizabeth, to his brother. But in the face of all that, there was something inside of him that just didn’t give a damn. He wanted Taylor. He wanted her with every muscle in his body.
Slane stood stiffly. “Are you going to try to run away again?”
“Not in this condition,” she answered just as formally.
At least there was no sarcasm in her voice. “Please stay and let me see to it that your wounds heal properly.”
She nodded her head. Slane moved to the door and paused. How could he stay away from her? How could he keep his vow to Elizabeth and honor his brother when Taylor was so near?
Slane opened the door and left the room. How could he not?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“We can’t move her,” Slane told John. He faced his friend in the common room, the fire from the he
arth crackling behind him. “Not until her stitches heal.”
“It’s not safe here,” John murmured, leaning close to him. “Think of how dangerous it is for Elizabeth.”
“What would you have me do?” Slane demanded, his angry gaze burning into John.
John straightened under his harsh demeanor, but said nothing.
“I can’t move Taylor,” Slane repeated. He crossed his arms, scowling at his friend. “I was hoping the plague would scare Corydon away.”
“I can take Elizabeth,” John offered. “I can escort her to Castle Donovan and you can meet us there when Taylor is ready to be moved.”
Slane shook his head. “By yourself, you are no match for Corydon. And I can’t leave Taylor alone. If only there was someone else I could trust with Elizabeth’s safety.”
John grunted and sat heavily on a nearby bench.
“Have you confirmed that it was Corydon?” Slane asked.
“No,” John admitted. “But we have to assume it is him. Even if it isn’t, it won’t be long before he comes.”
Slane dropped his chin to his chest. He knew John was right. He knew there was no way for the two of them to protect two helpless women against Corydon’s forces. But if they moved, Taylor’s stitches might open and the heavy bleeding could start again or the wounds could become infected. He sighed. “We have no choice but to wait until Taylor recovers enough to ride a horse. We’ll have to take our chances here.”
***
Corydon’s men!
Taylor sat up quickly, her panicked eyes searching the room. A hot flare of pain speared her side. She touched her wound, feeling the soft cloth of the bandage that wound around her torso. She grimaced and sat still for a long moment, waiting for the pain to fade to a dull throbbing. Slowly, the agony eased and she took the moment to scan the dark room. The hints of sunshine inching between the shutters showed her nothing but an empty room. She eased her legs from the bed, favoring her wounded side, and she moved to the window slowly, taking careful, measured steps. With one hand still clamped over her wound, she pulled the shutters open; the strong sunlight that flooded the room blinded her. She covered her eyes and turned her face away from the blazing rays. After a moment, she shaded her eyes with a hand pressed to her forehead and turned her stare to the street below.
It, too, was empty. She didn’t see Corydon’s men. She didn’t see any mercenaries. As a matter of fact, she saw no one at all. Not even Slane.
Suddenly, the door behind her opened. Taylor whirled, her right hand instinctively moving to her waist for her weapon. But it was not there. Another slashing burst of pain bit into her side.
A woman entered the room, a tray of food in her hands.
Taylor grimaced and grabbed her side again, softly cursing. She knew that face.
She hated that face.
The woman paused at seeing Taylor by the window. For a brief moment, their eyes met. Elizabeth was beautiful. Her chestnut-colored hair shimmered in the sunlight; her skin was flawless. Taylor lifted a hand self-consciously to her bruised cheek, trying to hide it from the woman’s searching eyes. Something drained from her. How could she have hoped to compete with a woman who was everything a man could want?
Elizabeth set the tray down on the table near the bed and rushed forward. “You shouldn’t be out of bed so soon,” she said in a soft, sweet voice. “The stitches will break open.” She reached for Taylor’s arm.
Taylor yanked away her arm away from her so violently that she rammed her elbow into the shutters behind her. The pain in her side ignited again and it took all her will not to double over. “I can make it myself,” she ground out between clenched teeth. But despite her claim, she stayed by the window, cradling her side.
Elizabeth folded her hands before her. “I brought you some food. The porridge is surprisingly good for that of an inn.”
What a wonderful wife she would make. What a wonderful mother. A well of grief opened inside of Taylor, threatening to pull her down into it. She forced the lump in her throat down. Elizabeth was everything Taylor could have been.
Elizabeth moved to the bed and gestured at it. “Please. I’ll have a look at the stitches now.”
Taylor couldn’t take her eyes from Elizabeth’s hand. So slim. So soft. Graceful. Uncallused. Capable.
Taylor hated her. Staring Slane’s betrothed in the face, she couldn’t find one reason, not one, why Slane shouldn’t marry her. Even her damned hand was perfect. Taylor set her jaw. “I’m perfectly capable of tending my own wounds.”
Elizabeth clasped her perfect little hands before her. “I see,” she said simply.
“No,” Taylor said with an anger and bitterness she had never felt before. “I don’t think you do. I don’t think you can.”
A frown crossed Elizabeth’s unblemished brow. “Slane has asked me to see to your needs. With all your knowledge of wounds, you should know that moving around might cause your stitches to open. And we wouldn’t want you to bleed to death, would we?”
Taylor’s infamous grin stretched across her lips. “Well, at least one of us wouldn’t”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “Since my beloved has asked that I tend you, I’ll come to your room twice a day with your meals.”
Beloved. Taylor felt her jaw tighten. Afraid of what she might say, she turned her back on Elizabeth to look out the window. The bright sun blinded her. But she stared into the light nonetheless.
It was a long moment before Taylor heard Elizabeth’s soft footsteps pad across the floor and the gentle closing of the door.
Taylor slowly returned to the bed and gingerly sat down, holding her left arm tightly against her throbbing side. Anguish filled her, warring with the anger, the confusion, but most of all the sense of defeat.
She lifted her eyes to the tray. There were clean cloths on it as well as bread and a bowl of porridge. She knew her wraps should be changed. She knew it and she didn’t care. Anyway, the longer she was hurt, the longer she would have a reason to stay near Slane.
***
Slane entered the inn quietly and spotted John sitting at one of the tables near the hearth. “Nothing,” he announced with relief and stretched out his hands toward the inviting warmth. He had been out most of the afternoon, searching the area for any sign of Corydon or his men. But the only men to be found were either plague- infested shadows pleading for help or decaying corpses lying at the side of the road. There had been no sign of Corydon.
Slane heard soft footsteps and turned to see Elizabeth approaching him with a mug of ale. He smiled his thanks and took the offered mug from her hands. He took a long drink, quenching his parched throat before asking, “All went well today?”
Elizabeth cast a glance at John.
Slane straightened his back in dread. “What is it?” he demanded. “What’s wrong?”
Elizabeth returned her eyes to Slane. “I tried my best -- truly I did. Please don’t be disappointed.”
Slane quickly set his mug on a nearby table and grasped Elizabeth’s hands. “Is it Taylor?”
“She’s such an obstinate girl. She wouldn’t accept any of my offers of help, wouldn’t allow her wrappings to be changed,” Elizabeth said.
Slane lifted his eyes to the ceiling, dropping Elizabeth’s hands.
“And she wouldn’t eat. Not all day,” Elizabeth added. “I thought she was going to hurl the tray of food at me when I was last in her room.”
Slane’s face was flushed as he headed for the stairs. How did Taylor expect to get her strength back if she didn’t eat? And she knew the wrappings needed to be changed! What was she thinking? God’s blood! Slane thought. It isn’t enough that I come back to the inn exhausted from a day of searching, but must I return to this nonsense? By the time he reached the second floor, his fists were clenched so tight that his knuckles ached.
He shoved Taylor’s door open so hard that it smacked against the wall. “You didn’t eat...” he proclaimed, but his voice trailed off. Taylor was sitting up in
her bed, the glistening candlelight flickering over her wild hair, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheek. His anger, as well as his breath, rushed from him at the sight of her.
“I wasn’t hungry,” she said.
God’s blood! he thought. Why does she affect me like this? He crossed the room in two strides. He saw the dark rings beneath her eyes before she turned her head away. “You didn’t let Elizabeth change your wrappings.”
A scowl crossed her face and she looked toward the window.
The candlelight flickered, brushing her skin in its golden glow like the loving stroke of a painter. Slane had expected an argument, had prepared himself for one. Perhaps she really was as tired as she looked. He sat on the side of the bed. Still, she would not turn her eyes to his.
A grimace flickered over her face for a brief moment and then it was gone.
“It will do you no good to starve yourself,” he said more quietly, hoping to draw her into conversation.
It worked. She snapped her eyes to his, and he saw the rage shining almost as bright as the fire snapping on the wick of the candle. “Then don’t send your damned beloved with my food,” she retorted hotly. Suddenly, her brows knotted in agony and her eyes swept closed.
Slane felt her body stiffen in the bed beside his. “Taylor,” he said in alarm and reached out a hand to her.
“Damn you,” she whispered through clenched teeth. She caught his wrist in a tight grip before he could touch her. “Get out of here.”
His outstretched fingers curled into a tight ball. Why had he been such a fool? He knew the constant throbbing, the burning, the pain that she was feeling. Gently he removed his wrist from her hand.
She opened her eyes in surprise.
A Knight of Honor Page 16
