Nicholas turned his thoughts to a more important path. He needed to discover who had attacked Catrin, for he had no doubt she had been the target. She could be annoying, ’twas true, he acknowledged with a grin.
But he found it difficult to believe that someone wanted her dead.
Catrin’s hand slid across his stomach and settled in the juncture of his thighs. He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut.
Dear God! Don’t tempt me further. I cannot withstand much more.
With a sigh of regret, he lifted her hand from his lap. It appeared so dainty within his own battle-scarred fist. He looked closer. Reddish marks mottled her palm, and her skin felt even hotter than before.
He gently turned her around till he could see the flesh exposed by the drooping neckline of her gown. Her face and throat were bright pink, and though heat radiated from her skin, no sweat had risen to cool her.
Nicholas laid Catrin down on her stomach and drew her gown away from her back. Fingers trembling slightly, he unwrapped the bandages.
“Blessed Mary save her.”
A foul yellow fluid oozed from her wounds, and red streaks marred her ivory flesh.
What should he do now?
Chapter Nine
Shame washed over him. While he lay there, thinking with his cock, her wounds had festered. Nicholas shifted his gaze from Catrin’s back and stared, unseeing, at the light-filled doorway.
There must be some plant, some treatment…He refused to believe they had escaped certain death, only for Catrin to perish of her injuries in this godforsaken wilderness.
She crept closer to him, moaning softly. Perhaps she knew of something he could do. He wasn’t too proud to ask for her help, not when her life might hang in the balance.
“Wake up.” He placed his hand on her shoulder with a gentleness at odds with his harsh tone. “Catrin—you must help me.”
She turned her head toward him. “What?” she whispered. She stared his way, eyes unfocused.
He pushed her hair aside and cupped her face in his hands. “I need your help.”
She squinted, though he leaned so near she couldn’t help but see him. “What do you want?” A glimmer of awareness lit her eyes. “I feel so strange.”
Nicholas moved back. “Your wounds have festered, and I don’t know what else to do for you. I know nothing of herbs and such. Is there something I could use, some remedy I might make?”
“Did I kill him?” she asked urgently. “I cannot rest until he’s dead.”
Did her dreams still hold her captive? He would have sworn she was awake…
She closed her eyes, then opened them to stare at him intently. “Your pardon, milord. My mind is a bit muddled.”
“Do you recognize me?”
“How could I forget Lord Nicholas the Raisin Slayer?” Her lips curled into a weak semblance of a smile.
“I wish you might forget that.” Nothing could hinder her tongue, it seemed. He found a certain reassurance in that fact. “Your wounds are infected,” he told her, “and your fever has worsened. Is there anything else I can do?”
She stared at the wall in silence, then met his searching gaze. “There is a plant that grows near water, though it might be too early for it yet.”
“Describe it for me,” he urged, afraid her mind might drift away again.
Though he could see she scarcely had the strength to speak, she gave him the details he needed. After making her as comfortable as he could, he set off to search down-stream.
Catrin listened as Talbot left, then sighed with relief. It had taken her last reserves of strength to keep her eyes open, to think clearly enough to give him the information he sought. Once again the shadows closed in, and she feared she could hold them at bay no longer.
Phantoms awaited her there, ghosts she’d faced too many times before. “Go away!” She brushed away a tear. “Begone!”
If she shut her eyes, the demon from her past would come for her. How could she face him?
This time, she might not escape.
She knew he was there.
He stood just beyond her vision, his voice rich and smooth—and malevolent. “’Tis your choice, my beauty. Your decision.”
“Just let me go,” she pleaded, despising her cowardice. “I won’t tell anyone.”
His low chuckle sent a ripple of fear down her spine. “I’m not through with you yet, my dear.”
Her muscles tensed as his footsteps came closer to the bed. She was helpless to do more than squirm, and she refused to give him even that small victory. He enjoyed her struggles far too much for her to indulge his sickening appetite.
It galled her to lie there on her stomach, motionless. But she had already learned the futility of tugging at the coarse rope that bound her to the bed frame. All she’d done was chafe her wrists until they bled.
Doubtless that would please him, as well.
She forced her breathing to slow, and tried to relax. The slim rod hurt much worse when she tensed in anticipation of the blows.
As she lay there in the twilight gloom of the tower, she concluded that the expectation of what he might do was part of his torment. She never knew from one time till the next whether she’d be forced to endure pain or his peculiar ideas of pleasure. Both were repugnant, though she found a beating far preferable to his perverted sexual attentions.
How could she have guessed his true nature? Madog ap Gerallt was respected by the Welsh nobility, a friend of Prince Llywelyn himself. Though he ruled a small estate, men of power and influence valued his opinion.
Even she had been taken in by his charm—God save her from her folly.
No one would ever suspect that Madog had taken her, or the things he’d done.
Why had she assumed that evil wore an evil face?
Someone entered the room. “Put the tray near the bed,” Madog ordered.
Footsteps shuffled nearer, and she looked up at Madog’s servant, Mab. The poor boy—for despite his amazing size, the lad couldn’t have been more than thirteen—hung his head and stared down at the floor.
Madog laughed and sauntered into view. “Go ahead and look at her, Mab. Don’t be shy.” He reached up and grabbed Mab’s chin, forcing the boy’s gaze toward her naked form.
“Would you like her?” Madog used his free hand to flip her hair out of the way. “You’d enjoy her, I’m sure.”
Mab trembled, his gaze darting nervously away.
Madog shook the boy’s head and drew him closer to her. “Look at her, I said!” His eyes began to glitter. He released Mab and untied Catrin’s feet.
Her heart pounded wildly as she considered what Madog might have in mind. Not the boy, too, she pleaded with the same god who had turned a deaf ear to her earlier pleas. Mab looked to be a decent lad, but that would not prevent Madog from forcing him to do his bidding.
She suppressed a moan when he undid her wrists and turned her onto her back until she lay exposed to them. Madog had seen it all before; there wasn’t an inch of her he hadn’t subjected to his loathsome attentions.
He moved a branch of candles closer to the bed and stared at her as though she were a choice morsel for his delectation. Though she wanted nothing more than to shrink away and try to cover herself, she did not, for she knew he would enjoy that more.
“Think how I honor you, boy.” A flush stained Madog’s face, and the glimmer in his eyes intensified. “A noble lady—so delicate, so fine. She’s yours, to use as you wish.”
Mab leapt toward Madog, a knife clutched in his hand.
The dagger went flying in the struggle as Mab grabbed Madog by the throat. It landed on the bed. Catrin reached painfully for the knife, her fingers closing about the hilt.
Mab’s size made up for his lack of skill, and he now held his master pinned to the floor.
Every movement agonizing, Catrin pulled the sheet from the bed and wrapped herself from throat to ankles. She managed to take two steps before her knees gave out and she
landed in a heap on the floor, the dagger still clenched in her hand.
Madog lay motionless, his eyes closed.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
“I don’t know, milady.” Mab sat back on his heels. He still would not look at her. “Did he really mean for me--”
She took a deep breath. “Aye, he did. He’s an evil beast.” Catrin dragged herself closer and felt for a pulse.
Mab retreated farther. “My ma was so proud, me workin’ for the master.” He hung his head. “But I couldn’t do what he wanted.”
“You will before I’m through with you,” Madog roared as he sat up and spun to face them.
Catrin screamed and fell back. With a curse, he grabbed for her, but she wrenched free and raised the knife.
“Nay.” He reached for her again.
She eluded him. “Never again, you bastard,” she swore, and found the strength to plunge the knife up into his chest.
His fingers grabbed at the hilt. “No,” she sobbed. She slapped at his hands. Mab sprang into action then, seizing her by the shoulders and pulling her away, then jerking the blade free.
Eyes wide, Madog stared down at the rush of blood from his chest. He crumpled to the floor.
Mab gaped at him. “They’ll hang us for certain, milady.”
“No, they won’t.” Determination lent her the mettle to pick herself up off the floor. Her mind raced with possibilities. “Your master was a careless man.”
Mab stared at her, uncomprehending. “You’ve done well, Mab,” she reassured him. “You’ve a place in my household for as long as you wish.” She nudged at the body with her toe. “But first, we must dispose of this filth.”
The servant positioned Madog on the bed as if he were asleep. Meanwhile, Catrin gathered her tattered clothing from a chest against the wall and dressed. “Will we be able to leave here without being caught?” she asked, gathering the food Mab had brought into a bundle.
“Aye. There’s a passageway that leads to a postern gate. ’Tis how the master slipped in here when he had company.”
“Good.” She dragged the stand of candles close to the bed curtains. “Are you ready, Mab?” He nodded, then took up the bundle and unlatched the door.
Catrin touched a candle to the hangings. “May you burn in hell,” she vowed as she stared at Madog’s face through the flames.
“Come along, mistress.” Mab took her by the arm and drew her away. “We must leave.”
He tugged at her arm again, harder this time. But his voice grew deeper. “How the hell did you get over here?”
Madog’s deceptively charming visage still swam before her eyes. “You can let go of me, Mab. Come, we must flee.” She blinked to clear her vision.
Mab no longer stood beside her. Instead, Nicholas Talbot held her, his hands harsh on her shoulders. “Where is Mab? We must go now, else we’ll be trapped by the fire. Will you help us?”
Strong arms lifted her from the floor and carried her a short distance. “Not on my stomach,” she cried out as he lowered her to the pallet. A sigh of relief escaped her lips when he placed her on her side. “Are we safe now?”
A cool cloth smoothed across her aching brow. “Aye, you’re safe. Sleep now.”
The voice wasn’t Mab’s, but something about it heartened her. She could sleep with this man by her side; he’d chase the demons away. She grasped the hand that soothed her, content.
Nicholas slumped against the rough stone wall, his eyes closed. What he wouldn’t give for a horn of strong brown ale, or better yet, an entire jug of fiery Irish usquebaugh. It wouldn’t help their situation, but it might provide a brief respite.
No use wishing for the impossible. Besides, there were any number of things he’d rather have, things more useful than strong drink.
He wasn’t likely to get any of them, either.
Once he settled Catrin on the pallet and poulticed her back with the herbs he’d found, he could not rest. She hadn’t moved, even when he cleaned her wounds. At least the treatment had helped, for the swelling had gone down and the red streaks faded by the time he replaced the bandages.
He ached with weariness, body and soul. He’d never been responsible for anyone but himself, not in so intimate a fashion. He couldn’t remember a time past when so many thoughts whirled through his brain.
And now he wondered if Catrin had gone mad.
Christ’s bones, he’d heard her screams and curses halfway up the hill!
Resting his arm on his upraised knee, he dangled the dagger loosely from his fingers and stared out into the murky night. “What is it that I guard her from, the dangers of the forest or the anger within her?” he asked Idris. At the dog’s questioning whine, he reached over and scratched the beast behind the ears. “Your mistress is a puzzle. The more I learn, the less I understand.” Nicholas examined Idris’s wound. “At least you and I are nearly well.”
The dog licked his hand, then went to lie beside Catrin. Still asleep, she cuddled up to Idris with a sigh.
A much safer bedmate for her, Nicholas thought as he wrapped himself in a cloak.
Dawn tinted the sky a delicate peach when Idris nudged Nicholas awake. Every muscle screamed a protest when he rose from his rocky bed and stretched, then followed the dog outside.
Catrin was awake when he returned. “Did you find the herbs?” she asked as soon as he stepped into the cave.
He swept her a mocking bow. “And good morrow to you, as well, milady. I trust your sleep was restful.”
“Why are you so cheerful?” she snapped, dragging her fingers through her tangled hair.
Nicholas ignored her foul mood and dropped to his knees beside her. “What do you think you’re doing?” she shrieked when he tried to push aside the back of her gown.
He sat back and studied her face. “To judge from your vigor this morn, I believe you’re getting better.” He touched a finger to her cheek. “But your color is still terrible, and your flesh is hot. You are sick, milady, and I need to look at your back. Unless you don’t care if you recover.”
“Of course I want to get better.” She fairly flung the words at him. “How else can I get away from you?” Scowling, she turned onto her side and pushed her gown off her shoulders.
After examining her back, he replaced the poultice with a fresh mixture of herbs. “The poultice is working well.” He drew her gown up, and she huddled into the fabric. “It would serve well for battle wounds. What are the plants called?”
“Shall we exchange recipes? Or discuss the best way to remove wine stains from fine linen?” She folded her body more tightly into a ball and glared up at him. “Don’t waste your charm on me. Save it for someone who will appreciate it.”
He leaned over her. “I believe you would appreciate my ‘charm’ just fine, milady.” He moved closer, until his lips hovered over hers. “But I’ll save it until you’re in a better mood.” Drawing away, he added, “The only claw marks you’ll put on my hide will be from passion, not spite.”
Disregarding her curses, he stood. He dressed quickly, stuck the dagger in his belt and snapped his fingers. Idris came to his side at once, earning him another frown from Catrin. “Come along, boy. Perhaps a decent meal will put your mistress in a better mood.” The dog at his heels, he passed through the doorway, laughing when the cup flew past his head.
His step jaunty, he headed down the trail, Catrin’s shriek of outrage speeding him on his way.
Chapter Ten
Could she screech!
Likely she’d frightened off all the game, and he and Idris would need to range far afield to hunt.
Although the sun remained trapped behind a heavy bank of clouds, the air was dry, and the rain had already dripped from the budding leaves. Catrin had riled him so, he’d forgotten to take a cloak, but he wouldn’t need it. Between the hike through the forest and the way his temper rose every time he thought of Catrin’s odd behavior, his blood flowed hot enough.
“What is wrong with her?”
>
Idris stopped and looked up at him with those odd, knowing eyes, head cocked to the side as though considering the question.
Nicholas sat on a large flat stone alongside the trail and rubbed Idris’s ears. “I know women are prone to odd starts, all sweetness one moment, screaming shrews the next…and the things she said the other night—they made no sense.”
The dog lay down beside him and placed his head in Nicholas’s lap. “I don’t understand her at all.”
He’d had little experience with noblewomen, Norman or Welsh. In truth, he’d had little contact with the gentry at all. Mercenary troops were made up of the refuse of every level of society, but mostly the lower classes. His father had been a classic example of a higher-born mercenary, a second son at odds with his family who had hied off to the Holy Land to hire out his sword. The noblemen reduced to such straits were hardly among the better specimens of nobility—though he hadn’t found their more “honorable” counterparts much better, now that he’d inherited Ashby and returned to England to join their ranks.
Of highborn women he knew next to nothing. He did realize that those ladies he’d encountered at court could not be typical of the breed. He’d never seen a more brazen, amoral group of sluts outside a Parisian whorehouse.
However, living with Gillian de l’Eau Clair had shown him a different sort of lady, one who took the responsibilities of her station seriously, whose concern was for others before herself—or her passions.
Catrin must be that type of woman. She bore no resemblance to those whores at court—and she was Gillian’s kin, after all.
Perhaps he simply didn’t understand women, no matter their place in the scheme of things.
Perchance that would explain why she confused him so.
Something told him it wasn’t that simple. Even with his limited knowledge of the weaker sex…He shook his head. No man in his right mind could possibly believe women were weak.
And however he thought of other women, he knew that Catrin was nothing like any other woman, in any way.
Sharon Schulze Page 8
