And finally, finally, Honoria would know what a real kiss was like.
Excitement swirled up inside her, even as her brother asked, “Will you be ready to depart soon, Guillaume?”
The older lord tucked stray hair behind Lady Whitford’s ear. “I am ready now.”
“Be careful, Radley,” her ladyship pleaded. “Boars are unpredictable creatures. Remember how your father was injured during a hunt? I do not want anyone hurt this year.”
“Mother, do not fret,” Radley said. “All will be well.”
***
Tristan crept through the forest shadows, his dagger poised to strike. The other hunters, many of them wielding boar spears, moved from tree to tree a short distance to Tristan’s left, drawing nearer to their prey that had already found them. Startled while foraging, the male boar had attacked and narrowly missed gouging Guillaume with its curved tusks.
Through the undergrowth ahead, Tristan sighted the beast near a fallen log, its sides heaving, an arrow buried in its left flank. Radley signaled a halt.
His body taut with anticipation, Tristan crouched behind a straggly bush. Soon, the woods would erupt in the chaos that ensued before the animal was cornered and killed.
“Now!” Radley yelled.
Crashing footfalls sounded. Shouts echoed.
Tristan raced out from behind the bush.
The squinty-eyed beast barreled toward them. Guillaume fired; another arrow pierced the boar’s hide. The animal recoiled and squealed again in pain and fury. Spying Tristan, it lowered its head to attack.
“Beware,” Radley yelled.
Tristan tightened his grip on his dagger. He counted heartbeats as he waited for just the right moment….
He lunged, bringing his knife down.
At the same instant, a spear plowed into the animal’s neck. It flailed its head, staggered to the right, spattering blood.
“Tristan!” Radley cried.
Mid-swing, Tristan turned and tried to adjust the fall of his knife. The musky stink of the animal assaulted his senses, right before the boar’s tusks ripped into his right thigh.
***
“Try to eat some of this bread and cheese.” Honoria handed Cornelia the wooden tray she’d brought, laden with fare and a mug of wine. The younger woman did look a bit wan sitting in bed against the whiteness of her mounded pillows; some food inside her might help—and encourage her to divulge what was really bothering her. She’d seemed perfectly hale earlier last night in the hall, so whatever ailed her must have happened after Honoria had left.
Had Cornelia been unsuccessful in winning a kiss from Tristan using the kissing bough? ’Twas the most likely reason for her sulking.
“Come on,” Honoria coaxed, for the younger woman had not yet tried the food. “The bread is soft and flavorful today.”
Willow licked her lips. She sat very obediently beside Honoria, obviously hoping perfect behavior would win her a treat from the tray.
“Fine, I will eat. Mayhap then, you will stop pestering me.”
As a scowling Cornelia picked up some cheese, a faint sound carried in through the open window: the peal of a hunting horn. Honoria had opened the shutters earlier to let in some fresh air.
Cornelia huddled deeper into her blankets. “For God’s sake, shut—”
“Hush.” Honoria hurried to the window and strained to hear. If Radley was blasting the horn, that meant—
“Hush? ’Tis my chamber. If I feel cold—”
“Please. Listen.”
Grumbling, Cornelia fell silent.
The blast of a horn carried once more, louder this time.
“Someone is hurt,” the younger woman whispered.
“Aye.”
Cornelia set aside the tray, rose, and crossed to stand with Honoria at the window. “Are the riders far from the castle? Can you tell who has been injured?”
A metallic creak sounded as the portcullis rose. Honoria leaned into the window embrasure. “I cannot see or hear from here. We will need to go to the bailey.”
“Help me dress. I must know Father is all right.”
Honoria fetched a clean chemise and helped Cornelia don the undergarment and a gown. With Willow leading the way, they went to the bailey to meet the arriving hunting party. A dead boar, its tongue lolling and arrows sticking out of its hide, was tied to a man-at-arms’ horse.
Honoria breathed a silent prayer of thanks that her brother was unharmed. Guillaume, riding a short distance behind with Sydney, also seemed all right. Who, then—?
“Get water on to boil,” Radley called to a servant as he reined in his destrier. “Summon the healer.”
“Milord, the healer left this morn,” one of the stable hands said. “She went to visit her sister.”
“Damnation, I remember now.”
“Tristan!” Cornelia shrieked.
Honoria choked down a shocked cry. His ashen face was beaded with sweat, and when he urged his mount toward a water trough, she saw blood on the right side of his cloak.
“Oh, Tristan.” Cornelia hurried to him.
“What happened?” Honoria asked.
“He was cut by the boar’s tusks before it fell,” Radley said grimly.
Her stomach lurched, as if she was braving across a wind-churned lake on a tiny raft. “How bad is the wound?”
“Not so deep.”
“Are you certain?”
“I saw the injury when he washed it by the stream. While it may not be life-threatening, I am sure ’tis painful.”
His arm slung over Sydney’s shoulders, Tristan limped toward them, Cornelia at his side. Tristan smiled, although the mirth was clearly forced. “Do not worry. I will live.”
“You look ready to collapse.” Concern rendered Honoria’s tone sharper than she’d intended.
A muscle ticked in Tristan’s cheek, and he straightened slightly. “I will not collapse, I promise you.”
Annoyance hummed in her veins. He didn’t want to admit to his discomfort in front of the other men. Was he afraid of appearing weak, or less of a knight, because he’d been hurt?
He might have rinsed his wound, but it had already gone a while without being properly cleaned; corruption could easily set in. She must get him inside so she could examine it.
“With our healer away,” Radley said, “we will need to get him to the surgeon in the next town.”
“I will treat him,” Honoria said.
Tristan’s brows rose, as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d heard correctly.
“Sis, you are a lady. Gently-bred noblewomen do not—”
“Do not be silly. I helped the healer care for Father. Remember?”
“So you did,” her brother conceded.
“If the healer’s ointments do not work quickly enough, there is also a remedy in the book I bought at the market.”
Cornelia rolled her eyes. “You and your books.”
The disquiet inside Honoria sharpened; she had to make the others understand. “The wound has already gone too long without care. ’Tis surely better than I treat it now, rather than make Tristan get back on his horse and travel to the town that is some distance from here.”
“That does make sense,” Tristan agreed.
Guillaume, who had joined them, frowned. “He needs stitches. That man-at-arms who has treated battle wounds might be better—”
Honoria shook her head. “I can do stitches.”
“I guess the final decision is really Tristan’s,” Radley said. “What do you say, Tris?”
The faintest doubt still lingered in Tristan’s expression, but he nodded to Honoria.
Relief washed through her. Summoning one of the maidservants, she said, “Bring the boiled water to the chamber where Lord de Champagne is staying, along with wine, cloths, and towels.”
The servant curtsied and hurried away.
Honoria met her brother’s gaze. “You and Sydney must carry Tristan to his bed.”
Tristan scowled. “I can w
alk.”
“You will be carried. Walking might aggravate your injury. Also, Mother will not want blood on the floors.”
Tristan’s mouth snapped shut.
“Once Tristan is in his room, help him remove his garments,” Honoria said. “’Twill be easier for me to treat him. Now, get him inside, before he falls to the dirt. Cornelia, you are with me.”
***
As the ladies and Willow walked toward the keep, Tristan exhaled a harsh breath and lowered his shoulders. Maintaining a proud façade in front of Honoria had taken effort with his thigh throbbing and his gut churning with the pain. He’d be glad to get away from the noisy bailey and to rest a while.
He winced as Radley instructed him to stand without help. Hell, he’d planned to drink, dance, and make merry all through Christmas. Mayhap if he was careful now, he’d have recovered enough to enjoy at least some of the celebrating.
“All right, Tris. Sit,” Radley said.
He and the steward had crossed their arms to form a makeshift seat. Tristan sat, and as if he were some ancient king who didn’t deign to get dirt on his boots, they carried him into the keep and up to his chamber.
When they entered his room, where a freshly stoked fire burned, disquiet trailed through him, for he realized he hadn’t really thought through Honoria tending to his wound. She wanted him undressed. That meant her bare hands would be moving on his bare flesh: a circumstance that could make him face a whole other kind of physical weakness. He did have feelings for her, as his yearning to kiss her last night proved.
Regardless of his desire, he must ignore even the slightest flicker of interest in her. Honoria had offered to treat him, not pleasure him. He would keep a firm hold on his thoughts and cravings. While she tended him, he’d mentally block out all awareness of her scent, her nearness, above all the touch of her slender hands gliding—
“Are you all right?” Radley asked, as they lowered him onto the chair by the bed.
“I will feel better after a few goblets of wine.”
“I will bring you some of my best.” Radley ordered Sydney to take away the bed’s silk coverlet so it wouldn’t get soiled with blood. Then, after dismissing the steward, he pushed the linen sheets and woolen blanket down to the end of the straw-stuffed mattress.
“Honoria wanted you to remove your clothes,” Radley said.
As if he needed a reminder. Tristan’s loins heated at the thought of her seeing him almost naked; he forced the ridiculous anticipation into submission.
“Can you manage by yourself, or do you want my help?”
Just thinking about stripping off his hose—the jostling of his lower body, the tugging on his hurting limb—made Tristan’s head reel. “You will need to assist me. I want to be abed when Honoria arrives.”
“All right.” Radley shut the chamber door and returned to the bedside. “I must ask a favor of you, though.”
“What is that?”
“When Honoria is with you, keep the door open. ’Tis wisest for both of you. I do not want her maidenly reputation to be in question.”
“Agreed.” Tristan stood and then sat on the edge of the mattress; the bed ropes creaked at his weight.
Radley crouched and carefully pulled off Tristan’s left boot. “Truth be told, if I thought there was even the slightest chance of anything scandalous happening, I would not let her treat you. I know you are an honorable man, Tris.”
Not according to his father, he wasn’t. If his sire was to be believed, Tristan had ruined his life and sullied the honor of his entire family—misdeeds that could never be forgiven.
Radley set aside the boot. When he reached for the right one, Tristan braced himself for an onslaught of pain.
***
Cornelia paced Honoria’s chamber, her headache clearly forgotten. Willow lay near the bed, keeping watch.
“Poor Tristan,” the younger woman said. “What a terrible thing to have happened to him.”
Only half-listening, Honoria changed into an older gown; it wouldn’t matter if it got stained with blood and herbs.
“Tristan has to be better for Christmas.”
“Radley said the wound is not deep.” Honoria smoothed her bodice. “If ’tis so, there is no reason why Tristan cannot enjoy most of the festivities.”
Cornelia sighed as though ’twas exactly what she’d hoped to hear. “Good, because Christmas is not going to come and go without him kissing me, and not just once under the kissing bough.”
Honoria stilled in the midst of rolling up her sleeves. The younger woman was peering into a mirror of polished steel and pinching her cheeks, as she would before meeting a suitor. “Tristan is hurt,” Honoria said, fighting for patience, “and all you can think about is kissing him?”
Cornelia banged down the mirror. “Tristan is going to be my betrothed, as I told you before.”
A surge of jealousy and anguish welled up inside Honoria. Uncertain how deal with such strong emotions, she went to the table where she’d set out her small wooden box containing bone needles and thread. Sucking in a calming breath, she tried to focus on gathering what she needed to tend to Tristan’s injury.
“While his wound is unfortunate, I have come to realize what I must do,” Cornelia said. “I will sit at his bedside to prove how much I care for him. I will help him sip broth, wipe sweat from his brow, wash his face, comb the tangles from his hair—”
Honoria fought the urge to scream.
“He will see that I am a lady with a tender nature, who will be the perfect mother for his children.” Cornelia twirled around, her gown floating at her ankles. “He will not be able to resist me.”
“I am sure he will appreciate your visits while he recuperates. In the meanwhile,” Honoria said, “I was hoping you could fetch some things for me?”
“Aye, I am happy to help.”
“I need the pot of yellow salve the healer keeps in her workshop.”
“I will get it for you. What else?”
Honoria had to clean the wound before she applied the salve, and that would go more quickly without Cornelia hovering over Tristan and possibly getting in the way. “I may also need to use a poultice.” She fetched her late sire’s herbal and jotted the list of ingredients on a spare piece of parchment. “Bring the items to Tristan’s room when you have gathered them.”
“I shall.” Clutching the list, the younger woman quit the chamber.
Honoria picked up her box. Jealousy and anguish still churned inside her, but she mustn’t dwell on those fickle emotions. While earlier she’d thought about kissing Tristan, that desire seemed silly and selfish now. He was hurt. She’d taken responsibility for his care, and now she must do all she could to ensure that he recovered.
His wellbeing took priority over a kiss.
The wolfhound nuzzled her leg and stared up at her with baleful eyes.
“Aye, Willow. I must get to work.”
Chapter Nine
Honoria approached Tristan’s room. Voices carried into the corridor from the open doorway: her brother’s and Tristan’s. The unmistakable timbre of Tristan’s voice sent a hot-cold shiver racing through her.
Radley, sitting in the chair by the bed, was telling of an amusing mistake he’d made while keeping the castle accounts. Tristan lay on his back on the mattress, his right arm folded across his stomach and his left one running alongside his body. A rolled towel lay against his blood-covered thigh. Another towel hid his male parts, while blankets covered him from the upper leg down.
Her brother noticed her first. “Honoria.”
Tristan met her gaze. The mattress rustled as he attempted to sit up; no doubt he meant to greet her properly, despite his injury, but the towel over his loins would fall away—
“Please, be still,” she said.
He fell back against the pillows.
Ignoring the wild fluttering of her pulse, she instructed Willow to stay in the passageway and entered the room.
While she walked to the t
able, she cast a quick glance over Tristan. Mother Mary, but he was a magnificent sight, all bronzed and muscled against the cream-colored bed linens. His broad chest, an impressive display of honed muscles and gleaming skin, led down to his flat stomach and the trail of dark hairs disappearing under the towel.
How unconscionable that part of her was curious about the bulge beneath the cloth. She’d seen naked men before, washing in the bailey after weapons practice, so she knew what masculine parts looked like, but still….
She forced her wayward mind to focus. Thankfully, the servants had already delivered the items she’d requested. Buckets of steaming water waited near the bed, and towels, rags, and bowls had been left on the table, along with a large jug of wine. She set down the box and washed her hands with water and wine, feeling Tristan’s gaze traveling over her back as she did so.
She faced the bed.
“Do you need my help, Sis?”
“Nay, I can manage.”
Tristan’s eyes were closed now. He must be in discomfort.
Radley stood. “I have some matters to attend, but will check in on Tristan later.”
“Would you mind taking Willow with you? I do not want her coming in here while I am working on the wound.”
“Of course.” Radley left, leaving the chamber door open. He called the wolfhound to him and strode away.
Honoria carried a bowl of water to the right side of the bed and set it down on the planks. When she knelt beside Tristan, she caught the masculine scent of him; earthy and enticing. Just as she remembered from last night.
Heat spread across her skin; he’d turned his head on the pillow and was watching her. Unable to deny the impulse, she met his piercing stare.
She couldn’t look away. As though she’d been entranced, she was suddenly, acutely, aware of the intense quietude, broken only by the crackling of the fire; his measured breathing; the softness of the linen bedding beneath her hand. Her fingers tightened on the rag she held.
“You do not have to tend me, if you really do not want to,” he said.
“Oh, cease.” She wasn’t going to retreat now. Like the legendary heroines she admired, she must do what needed to be done.
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