But how could she ignore his subtle, repeated attempts to gain dominion over Tuck’s Tower, a niggling voice in her head reminded her.
She had no proof ’twas his aim, however, only suspicions and random hints of information that made no sense to her. For all she knew, his unknown master could have ordered him to expand Birkland’s demesne in any way he could. ’Twould be no different than the way many holdings increased in size, she thought wryly, especially in these unsettled times.
A knock on the door brought her reflections to an end. “Come,” she called, setting aside her brush and beginning to plait her now-smooth hair. Her respite over, when she’d finished she rose and went to pull on her boots.
Dora, the elderly woman who’d been her mother’s maid and now served Julianna, hurried into the room, Rolf hard on her heels. The diminutive woman, arms overflowing with a bundle of clothing, halted just inside the chamber and turned on the soldier. They collided, clothing flying up and over them both.
Rolf caught Dora about the waist and held her steady against him before she could fall over. She began to berate him at once, her words muffled by the fabric draped over her face.
“Here now, mistress, what are you about?” he demanded. He set her on her feet, tugged the shirt off her head and bent to gather up the garments from where they’d landed on the floor.
“Can’t you leave milady alone for an instant?” she replied. Once he straightened she cuffed him on the arm, to no effect, and pointed for him to place the clothes on the bed. He rolled his eyes, but obeyed her silent command. “She’s barely had a moment’s rest in days, not since she carried home that handsome young rascal,” she added with a nod toward the next chamber. “Not that he could help getting injured, I suppose.”
Julianna bit back a laugh. Dora’s tone left little doubt she felt Will could have avoided injury if he’d really tried.
Dora scarcely paused to take a breath before turning her attention back to Rolf. “As for you—barging in here without a by-your-leave…’tis a lucky thing indeed that you didn’t catch Lady Julianna bathing, you mannerless lout!”
“Perhaps he’d have considered himself luckier if he had,” Julianna said. She chuckled at the way Rolf’s face reddened, but he grinned as well.
“Lady Julianna!” Dora scolded, rounding on her even as she began to tidy the mess from Julianna’s bath. “What would your lady mother have said to hear such bawdy foolery from you, may Mary bless her soul?” She crossed herself and went right along with her work. “Have you no shame?”
“You should know by now that I have none,” she pointed out dryly. “Or very little, at any rate.” She picked up her dagger and Will’s and tucked one into each boot. “’Twas naught but a harmless jape, nothing more. I’d not have said to come in were I actually bathing. I didn’t know who was outside the door, after all.”
Dora sent her a reproving look and crossed to the bed to fold the disheveled mound of clothing. Julianna took this as her opportunity to avoid further lectures and motioned for Rolf to accompany her as she returned to Will’s sickroom.
She was not so fortunate as to escape so easily, however.
“I’ll go sit with him, milady.” Dora abandoned the laundry and headed for the door connecting the two chambers. Pausing with her hand on the latch, she added, “I know you’ve many other things to attend to. If yon warrior has need of you, I’ll send for you at once, but I’m certain I can deal with him.”
Dora was right; Will had been sound asleep when she’d last looked in on him. Lord knew, she could find plenty of other tasks to occupy her, body and mind.
Besides, perhaps if she left his side for a bit, the image of his face would fade from her memory and leave her poor obsessed mind in peace.
Or not, the little voice inside her head taunted.
Consigning her traitorous wits to the cesspit where they clearly belonged, Julianna nodded to Dora and Rolf and left in search of some task to distract her from the temptation of Sir William Bowman.
Chapter Eight
Will awoke to the sound of a woman singing, and the awareness that a long time had passed since he’d last been able to think clearly. Holding his breath, he risked stretching out on the straw pallet. He didn’t hurt as much as before; while his body ached, and he noted several more painful places where he could feel the sting of healing wounds, at least his head and stomach seemed vastly better than before.
Whether that would remain the case when he ventured to stand would be the true test, but he’d wait to try that till he felt a bit livelier.
Though he’d not wait too long. He didn’t know how many days had passed; he knew where he was, at least, and how he’d come to be there.
Tuck’s Tower, near Sherwood Forest.
The keep’s name and location had been the cause, no doubt, of the many strange dreams of Robin of the Hood, Maid Marian and Robin’s band of outlaws that had haunted his restless sleep.
As had Lady Julianna d’Arcy.
He remembered his lovely savior—or captor, he really wasn’t certain precisely which she was—as well. She had haunted his dreams, too; she’d unquestionably inspired the tempting enchantress he’d encountered in some of his other imaginings.
Dreams, and feelings, he wished he could remember more completely.
He closed his eyes and concentrated. Bits of them were etched upon his memory so deeply that he’d likely remember them until his dying day, mental sensations so vivid they might have been recollections of reality, so vibrant the passage of decades could not erase their intensity.
They’d seemed quite real at the time, but he knew they were not.
His lips twisted into a grin, making him aware that his mouth felt bone dry and tasted hideous. ’Twas a good thing he’d not really be kissing Lady Julianna—or doing any of the other delightful things they’d done in his imagination. If knowledge of his wicked desires didn’t send her reeling from shock, the stench of his breath would have been apt to do so.
He doubted the rest of him smelled much better, either—though he could have sworn that somewhere in his disjointed thoughts was the memory of someone bathing him. Cool, soothing hands—had they been hers?
Of course, if Lady Julianna ever suspected the captivating role his fevered imagination had cast her in, she’d likely whip his dagger from her boot and gut him—or worse!—with his own blade.
He’d deserve it, too, for thinking of a noble lady in such a way.
Ah, but noble ladies did feel desire…and act upon it, as well. He’d learned that soon enough once he’d left l’Eau Clair and come into the milieu of ladies who hadn’t known him since he was an obnoxious freeman’s son playing alongside them in the dirt. Will’s first sojourn at Court with Lord Rannulf had amazed him, opening his eyes to the veritable feast of women willing to play any erotic game he chose.
As well as some he hadn’t, he recalled with a shudder. He’d learned to be more discerning, after several narrow escapes from those women who were naught but insatiable harpies looking to snare a new, naive victim for their depraved entertainment.
Now there was a thought to avoid! He’d no desire to taint the memory of the sweet taste of Lady Julianna’s lips—a real memory, that, brief but unforgettable. Nor did he wish to travel, even in memory, down that twisted road again.
Though he’d paid her small heed, he had been hazily aware of the small woman sitting by the small window, her quavery voice providing a faint background to his thoughts. He’d no sooner realized she’d stopped singing than she popped up from her seat and bustled to his side. Her wide smile revealed a surprisingly complete set of teeth for one so old. As she reached him, her faded-blue eyes seemed to disappear into her wrinkled face as she bent and, squinting, peered down at him.
“So you’ve decided to rejoin the land of the living, have you?” she asked, her hands busy smoothing the tangled coverlet and adjusting it over him as she spoke. Her smile undimmed, she gave the soft wool a final pat and drew a low s
tool close to his pallet. “You gave my mistress a scare indeed, my young sir. ’Tis happy she’ll be to see how you’ve recovered.”
She filled a cup from a pottery jug on a nearby table and offered it to him before she settled herself on the stool. “Here. This special draught will speed your healing.”
Will shifted onto his side and brought the drink to his mouth, only to stop short when he caught a whiff of the foul brew. The old woman shook her head and pushed the cup the rest of the way. “I know it smells as though it comes straight from the cess pit, but ’tis truly a very helpful tonic.” Before he had a chance to oppose her, she reached over and tipped the medicine into his mouth. “There now, ’tis not so bad, is it?”
It tasted worse than it smelled! Sputtering and doing his best not to gag, Will valiantly dumped the remainder of the potion down his throat and glared at the old woman still smiling so sweetly at him.
“What is that?” he gasped, scarcely loud enough to be heard. He had to swallow several times and clear his throat before he could make his voice work properly. He dropped back onto the pallet. “By the Saints, woman, are you in league with the devil? What have I done that you seek to poison me?”
“Now why would I want to do that?” she asked, her tone and expression innocent—and her eyes sharp. “Is there some reason I should?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” He gave her the empty cup, which still reeked of the noxious brew. Surprisingly, in spite of its effect on his throat, it hadn’t bothered his stomach.
She handed him a wet cloth for his face and a small branch of mint, the leaves of which he popped into his mouth at once. “My name is Dora, not ‘woman.’ You’d do well to be courteous to the person who tends you, milord.” Her expression as challenging as her voice was sweet, once he’d wiped his face and hands, she took away the cloth and handed him another drink. “There’s no telling what sort of treatment you might receive otherwise.”
“I beg your forgiveness, Dora.” Feeling more refreshed, he eased himself up and gingerly propped his back against the wall. “I’m not usually so bad-mannered. ’Twas the shock. I’ve tasted some truly appalling brews in my life, but nothing to touch that—” hog swill? devil’s piss? “—that healing potion.” Raising an eyebrow in question, he accepted the goblet she held out, but made no attempt to bring it to his lips. “Dare I?” he asked. Despite the fresh taste of mint in his mouth, his throat clenched in anticipation of another assault.
Appearing to accept his apology, Dora smiled. “Go on, ’tis safe. It’s water from our spring, nothing more. You’ll not taste a fresher water anywhere, I vow,” she told him. “’Tis nothing like the foul stuff you get from most castle wells.”
Will took a tentative sip, then drank deeply, eager to quench his thirst and to wash the last of the rank taste from his tongue. She’d been right—twas as delicious as she’d claimed, especially brightened by the freshness of the mint.
Of course, compared to the noisome slop she’d given him earlier…
“Is there anything else I can do for you, milord? I told Lady Julianna I’d watch over you for a bit so she could get out and about.” Dora refilled the goblet, not pausing for a moment in her discourse. “I had hoped she might rest, but not my lady. She’s not one to lie about when there’s work to be done, no matter how weary she might be. She tended you herself. She’d scarce allow anyone else to help her at all.” Dora set down the pitcher and handed him the water. “Aye, she never left your side the whole time you were sick, not till your fever broke late this morn.”
He drank again, more slowly now, savoring the cool liquid as it soothed his dry throat and lips.
And taking pleasure in the fact that Lady Julianna had stayed with him. “How long has it been?”
“Two days and nights you burned with fever. Your wounds began to fester, but she brought a stop to that before they got too bad!” she said with a decisive nod. “My lady shouldn’t have waited so long to stitch them. If she’d but asked my counsel, I’d have told her what needed to be done—and helped her, too. Indeed, I remember the time my dear Lady Marian—”
“She sewed me up? When did she do that?” He had no recollection of it whatsoever, for which he thanked God. ’Twas a most unpleasant sensation to have a needle poked into flesh that already hurt like the devil, one he’d rather not experience again.
It seemed he’d been fortunate this time, if he could count himself fortunate to have been too out of his head to notice her stitching him up like a piece of embroidery.
“She told me you didn’t realize how bad you were hurt, and that when you tried to stand the first morn you were here, you fell and broke open the wounds.” Dora’s expression turned questioning, her gaze sharp as she met his eyes.
Clearly the woman didn’t believe that had been the truth. Did she think he’d tried to harm her mistress? He bit back a laugh. He doubted he could have hurt a defenseless babe at that point, never mind a woman as well equipped to protect herself as Lady Julianna.
He met Dora’s expectant look with an innocent shrug. If Lady Julianna hadn’t admitted she’d been rolling about on the floor with him—or that she’d knocked him against the wall a few times as well—’twas not for him to share that information.
“’Tis true,” he assured her. “My recollection of that morning is hazy, but I know I tried to get up, and I did move around a bit.”
He bit back a smile. Aye, that he had—as had Dora’s mistress.
He hadn’t noticed he was bleeding then, or that his injuries hurt any more than they had to begin with. Considering he’d been sorely distracted on several fronts during their exchanges, it would likely have taken a sword waved in his face to distract his attention away from Lady Julianna.
Lord knew, thoughts of her had diverted him from his purpose. Even now, when he should have paused after waking only long enough to inventory his aches and determine how best to get himself free of this place, what had he done? He’d lain upon his pallet as though he were at his leisure, daydreaming about a woman. He had gone soft! He had information to gather, he needed to find a mount so he could go on with his journey. He had to deliver the letters as soon as he could—
The letters!
Damn him for a mindless dolt! What had she done with them after he’d swooned? He didn’t know which one she’d been reading when he’d caught her with them before, but none of them were intended for her. In the case of several of the missives, Will himself wasn’t sure precisely what they were about. Nor did he wish to know, if truth be told.
By the rood, he carried messages from Lord Rannulf for the earl of Pembroke, information that could be vital to the defense of England and the protection of her king. He had to get them back and be on his way.
Heart racing, cursing himself for his foolishness, Will closed his eyes and pulled himself to his feet. One hand propped on the wall, he gathered himself and straightened, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass before he dared move.
“Here now, milord!” Dora cried. “I doubt this is wise.” The stool thumped against the floor. “Sit down before you fall again. Do you wish to undo all my mistress’s care with your foolishness?”
Will opened his eyes. Dora stood on the other side of the pallet from him—eyes wide, hands on her hips, the stool on its side behind her—but she made no move toward him.
For which he was immensely grateful. ’Twould be embarrassing indeed if he was so weak an old woman could stop him, and if she couldn’t, he’d no desire to harm her, either.
But leave this chamber he would, and under his own power.
The sensation that the room was swirling around him had stopped, and his legs had steadied enough to try them out. Keeping his palm flat against the wall, he started walking.
Though the chamber was small, the distance from his bed to the doorway loomed large before him. He moved with great care, all his attention focused on the solid oak planks that were his goal.
Dora screeched something at him, but h
e paid her words no heed. Sweat trickled down his brow and dripped onto his chest; Will placed one foot in front of the other until he could rest his forehead on the cool plaster wall beside the door.
The portal swung open, narrowly missing his shoulder. He simply glanced up, more intent upon marshalling his strength than on who was there.
Lady Julianna took one look at him, hastened into the room and slammed the door shut. The thud it made echoed through his head and threatened to send him reeling to the floor. He opened his mouth to protest—
“What in God’s name are you doing?” she demanded of him, looking him square in the eyes. ’Twas clear her temper was in full bloom; her face had reddened and her voice sounded strange, higher than usual and a bit uneven. Will leaned weakly against the wall and made the mistake of shaking his head, though she scarce appeared to notice. He thought to answer her, then changed his mind.
Might as well save his breath for more important things, such as remaining on his feet and keeping his composure.
She scarcely looked at him anyway, instead turning her attention to the maid. “Dora, I leave you to watch over him and the next thing I know, he’s out of bed and walking around!” she chided. “You assured me you’d take good care of him. By the Virgin, he was feverish and rambling in his sleep but a short time ago.”
Rambling? Had he been delirious? He’d had strange dreams, ’twas true, especially ones involving Lady Julianna…
Jesu save him, he hoped hadn’t said or tried to do any of the things he’d dreamed of!
If he had, he doubted he’d be standing here, he reassured himself. Most likely Lady Julianna would have crippled him.
Arms folded, she made a sound of disgust. “I thought I could trust you to keep him quiet and let him rest.” She unfolded her arms and gestured toward him. “Have you gone as mad as he? Has he bewitched you, that you would stand there and permit him to wander out of here in such a state?” She took a step closer to the maid. “You know better than to—”
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