Beloved Stranger

by Patricia Potter

  “Cedric.” Kimbra leaned down and checked Bear. There was a gash at the side of his neck, but it was not bad, and she didn’t believe it needed stitching. Still, it must have hurt. She would make a paste and spread it on the wound.

  “Ah, brave Bear,” she crooned.

  Bear preened as if he understood every word. Audra was looking at the blood on Bear with horror, then she gave the dog a huge hug, careful not to touch the wound. Tears filmed her eyes. “Why would he hurt Bear?”

  “Mayhap he was afraid of him.”

  “Bear would not hurt anyone.”

  “He would if he thought you in danger, love.”

  “But I wasn’t.”

  “Nay, but Bear did not know that.”

  Audra put her head against Bear’s fur. “I do not like Cedric.”

  She wanted to tell Audra that she shouldn’t say such a thing, nor even think it. But she couldn’t. Not when she felt the same way.

  “Go outside,” she said, “and I will see to the . . . Howard.”

  She’d almost slipped and said “the Scot.” That’s the way she thought of him.

  She watched as Audra and Bear went through the door. In seconds they were chasing each other around the yard. Though Bear was gentle with Audra, Kimbra knew the dog would protect Audra to the death if anyone tried to touch her.

  Pain twisted inside as she watched Audra. Cedric was a cruel man. He used sharpened spurs on his horse, and the wound on Bear was only a small indication of what he might do if he had mastery here.

  ROBERT Howard.

  He said it over and over again. It had been urgent to the woman, and he tried to make it real on his tongue.

  But it had no familiarity. Neither did any other name. The more he tried to remember, the denser the cloud in his mind became. The more he struggled for memories, the more elusive they became.

  Desolation filled him. The desperate loneliness of not knowing who he was, of feeling so thoroughly alone, rolled over him in waves. Pain pounded in his head, ached unbearably in his chest, and raged in his leg. But the greater torment was the recurring emptiness of anything before pain. Before the long night and day in the smoke-seared woods. Before the haunting cries.

  He’d been fighting in battle. For whom? For what reason?

  He did not understand any of it. He didn’t understand why the woman tended him. He did sense the fear under all that bravery in bringing him here.

  He struggled to sit. Blood rushed to his head, and the agony from his chest was nearly more than he could bear. Only too aware of his nakedness, he reached for the clothes the woman had left on the foot of the bed. His world instantly went dark as waves of new pain assaulted him. After a moment the intensity lessened, and he managed to pull the clothes toward him.

  He did not want to take what had belonged to the woman’s husband. She had kept them. They must have meant something to her.

  But he had no choice. Vaguely he remembered her cutting cloth from him. His own clothes must still be on the battlefield.

  He’d heard the knocking that took her from his room. Her urgency had told him to remain silent, and there had been apprehension, even fear, in her movements. He worried it had something to do with him. He could not allow someone to suffer on his behalf. If someone entered the room, she would be compromised. He knew that, even though he didn’t know how he knew it.

  If he were dressed, he could always say he forced her.

  Using every bit of strength he still had, he pulled on the rough, woolen shirt. Every movement was agony, but he did not like the sense of helplessness he felt. His nakedness made him feel even more vulnerable.

  He couldn’t hear voices. He did not know what was happening as he shook loose the poultice, letting it drop to the floor, and painfully drew on a damp pair of breeches. He stood, swayed slightly and used the wall to move to the door. It was solid, though, and he could hear nothing. He dared not open it. Instead, he looked around for a weapon and found a dagger. He lifted it, balanced it in his hand.

  He obviously knew how to use it.

  He sat in a chair. He was so bloody weak.

  Useless to her if there was danger.

  He tried again to remember. He had to remember!

  The door opened, and the woman returned.

  He questioned her with his eyes.

  “It was my husband’s cousin,” she said. From the tone of her voice, the visitor had not been a welcomed interruption.

  “You should be in the bed,” she said.

  “You . . . seemed concerned. I thought . . .” Then he realized he must truly be addled. What would he have done? He would be precious little protection.

  “He is gone. You should not have left the bed,” she scolded.

  He rose painfully from the chair. In truth, he didn’t know whether he could make it back to the bed or not. His leg wanted to buckle under him, and his ribs . . . he felt as if an anvil had landed on them.

  Almost instantly she was at his side, adding her strength to his. She was surprisingly strong for a woman.

  He sank back into the bed.

  “You do not obey well.”

  “I feared for . . . you.”

  “I can take care of myself,” she said sharply. “And you cause me more work when you do something foolish. Now I must make another poultice.”

  He wanted to say nay. That he would leave immediately. Yet it had taken all the strength he had to dress and take the few steps to the door. The best thing he could do now was heal enough to leave.

  “Mistress Charlton—”

  “Kimbra. Call me Kimbra.”

  He smiled slowly. “’Tis easy to do. Like Audra, it is a bonny name.”

  He saw a glimmer of tears in her eyes then, making them almost luminous. She turned away from him.

  He cursed himself. She was crying. This strong woman who seemed undaunted by anything. He didn’t know what he’d said to provoke tears, but it appeared he had done exactly that.

  “My pardon. I did not mean to—”

  She turned back to face him, and he saw a sheen of tears in her eyes. Her jaw moved slightly as if she were trying to control her emotions. “’Tis none of your doing,” she said.

  She obviously wasn’t going to explain further. And there was little he could do to console her.

  “Where am I?”

  “On the border in Northumberland.”

  Northumberland. It meant nothing to him. A chill invaded him. It should. It must.

  “What happened?”

  “A battle between your Scottish king and our King Henry. A great battle.”

  “Who won?”

  “The English. They say the Scottish king is dead, along with most of his army.”

  “The Scottish king? His name?”

  “James.”

  James.

  He had apparently fought for a king. King James. For a fleeting second, he thought it was coming to him. But then, it vanished like smoke. Mayhap he only wanted to recognize it. To recognize something. Anything.

  “You said a Scot killed your husband.”

  “Two years ago. On a raid across the border.”

  He looked at her. She was a handsome woman. Not beautiful, but pleasing.

  Her eyes were gray, and her hair raven black. It fell in unruly curls to frame a face more interesting than pretty. Her chin was determined, her mouth wide, her eyes taking on different hues of gray according to her emotions. Under a black, almost shapeless gown, her body was slim but strong, her back straight. She’d not smiled once, and her manner seemed deliberately distant. But he’d seen a kindness when she talked to her daughter, and her hands had gentleness in her care for him. It belied the curt speech and short answers.

  “Why then—”

  “I told you. You might bring a ransom. Or reward.”

  Someone might ransom him? Would he not remember someone close enough to do that?

  “Why do you think someone would pay a ransom?”

  “You were ne
ar the king. You wore a fine plaid and fine mail.”

  Think!

  A plaid. He remembered it, soaking in his own blood. Or was the blood someone else’s? Had he lost a brother? A friend?

  The questions pounded at him. From what she said, he was alive when many Scots died. The hunger to know more gnawed at his heart.

  “I must look after my daughter,” Kimbra said, her voice unsteady. “Please do not move again. I cannot spend the day making poultices.”

  “I am grateful for what you have done.”

  “Then stay still,” she said.

  And then she left the room, leaving a scent of roses behind her.

  ’I IS a bonny name.

  Will used to say that but a little differently. Pretty instead of bonny. She’d liked the way “bonny” rolled off the Scot’s tongue. A flicker of warmth flared inside her.

  And regret. The words had sparked too many memories.

  The Scot lying in their bed did not help.

  God help her, she had almost shed tears. It was the tension. Nothing else. Will had been dead two years now, and she’d grown used to the loneliness. Then why did something as simple as an innocent observation bring on this rush of emotion?

  Tired. It was because she was so tired.

  She had heard of people losing their memories, but she had never before encountered it. She had no idea what to do, how to bring back bits and pieces of a life.

  Still, despite his loss of who he was, there was a quality that attracted her, a gentleness she rarely saw in the borderers. There was also an attraction that stunned her, since there had been none before Will and none after. Why a stranger? A Scot. And particularly someone who apparently was of noble blood?

  Nonsense. She should not think of such things. He represented a way for her to be independent, to be free of an unwanted marriage. She had to find out who he was, without anyone else knowing. She could not reveal the crest without someone wondering why she had not surrendered it with the rest of the plunder they’d collected the night after the battle.

  He had to regain his memory. He had to tell her who he was. Then perhaps whoever cared about him would give her enough money to find a cottage someplace safe, someplace where no one would demand she marry.

  She did not have much time. Cedric had made that plain.

  She looked out the window. Audra was sitting next to Bear, singing one of her songs to him.

  Kimbra went outside and knelt beside her. “Would you pick some comfrey for Mr. Howard?”

  Audra nodded.

  “Do you want me to show you which it is?”

  “I know where it is.”

  “Show me.”

  Audra went to the herb garden and immediately went to the plant with the long narrow leaves, then looked up triumphantly.

  Pride surged through Kimbra. Audra had been helping her tend the gardens since she was three years of age. Still, she’d not realized how much Audra had learned. She’d always thought Audra extraordinary, but she’d also considered the fact that Audra was blood of her blood, and therefore she was wont to think Audra the most exceptional child. “That is very good,” she said.

  Audra bent down and started picking the herb. Kimbra would mash the leaves together with aloe for poultices. Both were said to have healing powers, especially in stopping infections.

  They had not stopped Will’s.

  She prayed it would stop the Scot’s.

  KIMBRA napped on and off during the afternoon. She sat in a chair next to the Scot’s bed. His face and body had warmed, and she feared infection.

  He slept on and off as well, though she recognized it was a dark sleep. He mumbled words, not clear enough to understand. He thrashed about, and at times she laid her body across his to keep him from falling from the bed. She thought she heard a woman’s name—or was it a child’s?—but she wasn’t sure.

  At one time when he moved restlessly, she brushed her fingers across the stubble of his beard and let them linger there, a gesture of comfort. He seemed to still, and she held her hand there for a moment, willing her strength into him. In that moment, he became more than a Scot who represented her only chance for an easier life for herself and her daughter. He became a person whose life was intertwined with hers. Warmth radiated between them, a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire in the other room.

  She jerked her fingers away. He meant nothing to her but the funds he could bring. He could not mean more. ’Twas quite obvious he was noble. He spoke well. His manners, even without knowing who he was, were finer than she’d ever seen.

  Do not even think about it!

  The Scot’s station was obviously so far above hers that she knew she could not have even the slightest feelings for him. If he ever regained his memory, she would be less than nothing to him. She knew how nobles treated their servants, those they regarded as less than themselves. It was unlikely that he would be any less treacherous.

  He moved violently again. Then began shivering, even though his skin was still hot. She lay next to him, warming him with her own body.

  Will had suffered the same way. Fever. Tremors. Violent shaking. Thank Mary in Heaven she didn’t see the same red streaks running from the wound.

  When the shivers subsided, she left him and went into the other room. She mixed more willow bark with water, and put water over the fire for a new poultice. The room had darkened, and she lit an oil lamp. Audra was sound asleep on a sheepskin before the fire, one arm around Bear. Kimbra put a warm hide over her. Since Will’s death, Audra had slept in Kimbra’s bed, each of them a comfort to the other.

  She went outside and stretched. The air was cool this late summer evening and finally clear of the smoke that had hovered over the land for days. But she knew she would never again think of the wet, boggy valley bottom without smelling death.

  She went back in. The water was hot enough, and she made the new poultice. She changed them often, wanting to draw out the infection in his body. Holding both the poultice and cup of the foul smelling willow bark mixture, she reentered the room. The coverings were gone, and he lay there half naked, his eyes open.

  She leaned over. “Lift your head,” she commanded. She put a hand behind his head and supported his back slightly. He tried to help her. His body was hot with fever, and she heard—and felt—the intake of breath. With his help, she finally got his head high enough to enable him to drink.

  He was weaker than he was yesterday, the fever sapping what strength he had. When he finished drinking, she inspected his leg. The wound was ugly, and much of his leg was red.

  The leg should come off. She knew that. But she had no skill in cutting. She only knew herbs. She felt his gaze on her. He knew the danger as well as she, even though he may not know how he knew.

  “No,” he said.

  “You could die,” she said.

  “But I will go to God—or the devil—with two legs.” His words were raspy.

  “Are you wed? Do you have a wife?” She knew she had to keep trying to kindle a memory.

  He simply stared at her, the familiar frustration filling his eyes.

  “I know I would want Will alive, with one leg or two. Someone must be waiting for you.”

  She could see the strain in his face as he struggled to find answers that he could not.

  She closed her eyes. What would God want her to do?

  She would wait another day. If he did not improve . . . if his leg grew redder, she would have to go to the Charlton. She would have no choice.

  She had tonight.

  “Can you eat anything?”

  He shook his head.

  But he must. He must have enough strength to fight the demons in his body.

  He thrashed suddenly, then his breath caught from what must be terrible pain in his bruised ribs.

  She leaned down and put her hands on his shoulders. “Try not to move,” she said. “The poultice must stay in place, and the ribs will heal only if you are still.”

  He nodde
d, his eyes thanking her.

  She sat down until the willow drink and his own exhaustion lulled him back into sleep. She closed her eyes, wanting to join him. Then she opened them again.

  She needed to tell the Charlton that she had found an Englishman and had nursed him back to health, but how could she explain that she’d waited so long to tell anyone?

  First of all she would have to coach the Scot in the ways and speech of the English.

  If he got well.

  He would get well. She would not allow anything else.

  Chapter 5

  FOR three days, the Scot hovered between life and death.

  His eyes were sometimes open, but unseeing. He moved restlessly, and his breath came in small labored gasps.

  He said things in a language she did not understand. It might have been Gaelic, but then it might well have been French. She had no knowledge of language other than her own.

  “You will be well,” she insisted over and over again, as if the words would work their own cure.

  Audra brought water to her, even mixed the willow bark into a cup, and then the child sat quietly in the corner. Watching. Clutching her straw doll. Once, she went to sleep in Kimbra’s lap, and they both jerked awake when the Scot stirred and uttered a cry.

  Kimbra continued to bathe him with cool water, trying to bring down the fever. Sometimes she had to rest her body against his to quiet the violent shivering and thrashing. He muttered words she didn’t understand.

  She often touched his face to judge the course of the fever. Once she ran her fingers through his hair, the thick, damp wayward strands wrapped around her finger. He was so warm.

  Though his leg appeared to be getting better, the fever remained, and she feared an infection in his lungs. She continued to urge him to drink her mixture of herbs, even as she washed his body repeatedly. She came to know it intimately, the new wounds and an earlier one—a jagged scar across his left arm. His chest remained different shades of purple from the blow struck there.

  On the fourth day, she knew she had won. She had defeated a fever for the Scot that she’d been unable to defeat for her husband.