‘But you thought I looked familiar,’ he repeated, drawing his brindled brows together.
Why did he not leave it alone? He was like a dog with a bone, nipping and worrying at the few words that she had uttered. Why had she even offered him an explanation for her fear? She should have kept her mouth firmly shut. ‘And I told you, I was mistaken,’ Eva replied coldly.
Ripping the candle from its bed of cool wax, she hobbled towards the archway leading to the dank shadows of the stairs. Bruin caught her elbow, holding her back. His mouth dropped to her ear, brushing the lobe with a gust of air. ‘And I’m telling you, Eva, that I don’t believe you,’ he said. ‘I think you have seen my brother before.’
‘No.’ In the wavering candlelight, her features were white, stricken.
He let her go and she staggered up the steps back to Katherine’s chamber, his words skittering about her brain like a flock of startled crows. She climbed too quickly; the wound on her shin throbbed and pounded. Bruin was behind her, pursuing her, a wolf at her heels, hefting the bucket against his chest. He could not find out her real identity. He would haul her straight back to his dying brother and there was no way in the world she wanted to face him again. Lord Steffen. The Devil incarnate. That man would take his revenge on her even as he was drawing his last breath on earth. God in Heaven, it didn’t bear thinking about.
If only she could manage not to give herself away for a couple more days, then Bruin would leave this castle and travel on further into Wales, and she would accompany Katherine and the children to Lord Gilbert’s castle. And then Lord Steffen would die and she would be able to live a normal life once more.
CHAPTER SIX
Alice’s fever was worse. The small child thrashed beneath the linen sheet, moaning incoherently. Her delicate face was bright red, sheened with sweat. When her eyes opened for a moment, they were wild, unfocused. Concerned, Eva dropped to her knees beside the low pallet bed, ripping the sheet up and away from the child’s body. The material was soaked with sweat. Thinking only of the child, she let go of the blanket around her shoulders and it fell down to the floor, pleating about her slim hips.
‘I need to cool her down, quickly,’ Eva muttered, almost to herself. All worries about Bruin discovering her identity flew away as she observed the plight of the child. She plunged the flannel into the bucket of water that Bruin had placed on the floor beside her. Wringing it out, she bent forward and placed it across Alice’s forehead, then her cheeks. The generous, square-cut sleeves of her nightgown hung down, the light from the charcoal brazier shining through the flimsy fabric. The shadowy outline of her slim arms was revealed. She pushed back her sleeves, annoyed, as they continually fell forward about her wrists, hampering her movements, small white teeth worrying at her bottom lip.
‘That’s not going to help,’ Bruin said. His low voice shocked her, piercing through the mantle of her anxiety. Standing behind her, sentinel-like, he crossed his arms over his chest.
‘You should go,’ Eva said, without looking at him. She pressed the flannel to Alice’s neck, to the pulse beating frantically in the vulnerable hollow of the child’s throat. ‘You shouldn’t be in this chamber. It’s not seemly: Lady Katherine sleeps just over there.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the four-poster bed, the quilted curtains drawn tightly around.
Bruin ignored her. ‘A wet flannel will not bring down the girl’s fever,’ he said bluntly. ‘It’s raging too high.’
Eva pushed the linen square back into the bucket, her mouth tightening to a stubborn line. ‘I’ve treated fevers this way before,’ she replied testily, flicking an irritable glance in his direction. ‘What would you know, anyway?’
‘Quite a lot, as it happens,’ Bruin replied evenly. ‘Soldiers fall ill in battle all the time and not only from their wounds. We don’t have the luxury of a physician; we rely on each other’s skills to treat each other.’
‘What would you do, then?’ she asked grudgingly, sitting back on her heels with the air of defeat, the flannel hooked between her slender fingers, dampening her nightgown.
‘The night air will help,’ he said. ‘I would carry her outside.’
‘But that’s madness; it’s freezing out there!’
‘Precisely. The very thing to bring down her temperature. If you don’t do something soon, she will start losing consciousness and then—’
‘I do know that!’ Eva blasted back at him, worry tearing her voice. Frustrated, she threw the flannel into the bucket, watching the cloth swirl and sink. Her eyes burned with exhaustion; she was struggling to think logically. She hated the fact that this man, this foreigner with his silver-grey eyes, seemed to be dealing far more competently with this situation than she. She hated to ask for his help. But with the child’s life at stake? ‘Very well, then.’ Eva sighed in defeat. ‘Do it.’
Bruin moved down beside her, ladling his hands gently beneath the child, lifting her high in his brawny arms. Eva caught the heady scent of him as his arm brushed hers: the woodsmoke imbued in the weft of his surcoat; the fresh, invigorating smell of his skin. Alice moaned, her head lolling against the big man’s shoulder. Sweeping up the fallen blanket, her makeshift cloak, Eva moved ahead of him, lifting the iron latch on the door, opening it with a sharp click. Her bare toes peeked out from the swinging hem of her nightgown.
He noticed. ‘Eva, put something on your feet. You’ll freeze out there.’
He spoke her Christian name with a sensual ease, implying a familiarity that did not exist. Was it the first time he had spoken her name? As she turned back into the chamber, her cheeks burned, and she placed her palms to her face, trying to cool her skin. Her calf-length leather boots lay discarded by her pallet bed and she shoved her feet into them. The coarse leather scraped her heels. Bruin spoke to the guard outside Katherine’s door and the man moved aside to allow Eva into the corridor. Skirting the soldier, Eva forced her injured leg to stride at a normal pace and followed Bruin and the child down through the great hall. The soldier at the main door removed a lit torch from an iron bracket and handed it to her. Bruin was already outside.
Snow filled the inner bailey, whirling, spinning down in chaotic spirals. A dense, oppressive cloud had obscured the silvery light of the moon, weighing down like a sturdy lid on the courtyard, the shadowy outlines of the gatehouse, the crenellated ramparts. Fat, feathery snowflakes landed on the cobbles, settling fast, veiling the ground in downy white. They touched Eva’s face, glancing against her swinging braids, leather laces securing the curling ends, tumbling down the threadbare fabric of her nightgown. The wisps tickled her skin like the flick of a moth’s wing as she moved beneath the arch of the main door, holding the torch high.
Bruin stopped at the top of the steps and turned towards her; the torch flame flickered across his jaw, highlighting its tough sleekness, the taut pull of flesh across his cheekbone. ‘There’s no need to go any further,’ he announced. Caught in his brawny arms, Alice appeared so fragile, so vulnerable, her thin legs poking out like pale sticks from her nightgown, narrow feet dangling. Bruin glanced down at the child’s face, lifting one large hand to brush the snow away from the child’s hair, her closed eyes.
‘Oh!’ Eva blurted out, then clapped a hand across her mouth, trying to stifle the sound. An arc of inexplicable longing pulsed through her, her eyes widening in surprise at Bruin’s gentleness towards Alice, that brief, careful touch against her forehead, the considerate way he cradled her in his arms. The gesture seemed incongruous, contradictory somehow, when contrasted against his stern, battle-ready appearance: the shining chainmail, the embroidered coat of arms glinting on his surcoat, the jewelled sword swinging at his hip.
He tilted his head to one side, his gaze questioning. ‘What is it?’
‘No, no it’s nothing,’ she responded awkwardly. How could she tell him that the way he held the child made her crave his
touch, stirring a rickety newborn need within her belly, a yearning for those strong tanned fingers to brush against her own skin, to drift against her hair? How could she explain such an odd notion? There was a time before her captivity, a time when her life was different, when she might have welcomed such feelings, but now? Now she shunned male attention to the point of rudeness. She shook her head quickly, quelling her scandalous thoughts. Her mind played tricks on her; she was exhausted and worried, that was all.
‘It’s obviously something,’ he said. ‘Tell me. I can take it, good or bad.’
‘The way you’re holding Alice,’ she replied hesitantly, making up the words that would deflect him from her true feelings, from asking any more questions. ‘You obviously have children of your own.’
His chin jolted upwards as if she had hit him, eyes deepening with a sudden, powerful emotion, blank holes of utter anguish. He gripped the child, jaw flexing taut and rigid. Despair, raw, undiluted, crossed his features, swiftly masked.
What had she said?
‘I do not.’ He bit the words out, his tone harsh and stinging. The torch flickered, spat, a shoal of fine sparks raining down to the snow-covered planks.
‘I’m sorry,’ Eva whispered, focusing on the gold whip stitches forming one of the lions on his tunic. ‘I had no intention of prying.’ The fine embroidery wobbled before her eyes. His reaction had been unnerving, frightening even, the change in his behaviour so swift and devastating. What had happened to him to cause such a response? Had he lost a child, was that it? She placed her hand against Alice’s silky forehead, eager for distraction. Already the child seemed quieter, more settled; her skin was a better colour now; the bluish tinge was gradually disappearing from around her mouth.
Bruin’s chest sagged, a long slow breath leaving his lungs. As Eva’s neat head bowed over the child, he shut his eyes momentarily, trying to gain some control over his rattled thoughts. They spilled through his mind like a thick, coruscating liquid, whipping up the fires of guilt, dragging him down. Why could he not forget? The image of his fiancée, still slim in those first few weeks of pregnancy, her beautiful face screwed up in anger at their last terrible argument, another man’s child in her belly. Why could he not have forgiven her? Why was he unable to suppress his anger and accept her baby as his own? If he had, then Sophie might still be alive.
He sighed, shifting Alice’s slight weight in his arms. All this domestic idleness was making him think too much. He needed to take off again, to throw himself back into the civil war between the King and his rebel barons. To ride with the Devil at his heels, to wield a sword and hurl his mace, to fight until exhaustion dragged him under to a heavy dreamless sleep; that was the life he had known since Sophie’s death. Fight, eat, sleep—it was what he needed now. His brother’s illness and unexpected request had pulled him away from that life; the sooner he returned to it, the better.
‘She is cooler,’ Eva said, tipping her face up to his, her expression bright and hopeful, eager for him to say something, to break this interminable silence. Her previous question lingered between them, colouring the air. She hitched one shoulder awkwardly beneath his penetrating stare, unwilling to say anything further, or provoke him.
His grey eyes sought hers and held them, drawing unexpected strength from the midnight-blue depths. He saw the concern cross her eyes, the worry that she had, once again, overstepped the mark with her earlier words. But it was not the maid’s fault; she had spoken in innocence, unaware of the impact her words would have. He had reacted badly.
‘It’s me who should be sorry,’ Bruin found himself saying. ‘Your words took me by surprise, that’s all.’
She nodded briskly with relief, thankful for his reply, even if he had failed to explain his reaction. It was enough. Even though she barely knew him, even though his brother was the man she feared most in the world, somehow it mattered to her that she had not offended him. The circle of the torchlight gathered the night around them. Her heart thumped fractiously, the beat unsteady. Instinctively she stepped back, her heel bumping against the stone step across the doorway. ‘Shall we go in?’
‘Yes.’ Bruin inclined his head, the snowflakes melting rapidly in his brindled hair, darkening the locks to a deep bronze colour. The delicate flakes landed on the sculptured curve of his cheek, the generous outline of his mouth. A heady fluidity, intoxicating, snared her body, holding her in thrall, a puppet beneath his silvery perusal. She frowned, a small crease appearing between the sable arches of her eyebrows, pleating her fine skin.
Pivoting slowly on her heel, she took a couple of halting steps to reach the main door, lifting the torch high. Sparks showered over the glossy ebony of her braids, tumbling across her blanket-covered shoulders. Carrying his light burden, Bruin followed her, his long, decisive stride bumping into Eva’s back as she suddenly stopped, fumbling to turn the unwieldy door handle.
‘Oh, Lord! This stupid door!’ she cursed, rattling the circular handle irritably, the wrought iron chill against her fingers. Bracing the child with one arm, Bruin reached around Eva and turned the handle with a swift, easy click.
‘There,’ he said, as the door swung inwards, squeaking on rusty hinges. Eva marched quickly inside and he smiled suddenly, amused by her stubborn, obtuse reaction to the fact that he had helped her, once again. She obviously couldn’t stand the sight of him. Watching her, being with her, his guilt drained away, easing the vice-like grip around his heart. He made to follow her, then realised his boot was planted heavily on her trailing hem. Eva had no idea, continuing to move forward. The neck of her nightgown pulled downwards, dragged by his boot.
‘Oh!’ Eva gasped, feeling the fabric pull away from her shoulder. The neckline was loosely gathered, threaded through with a ribbon, which, as usual, she had neglected to tie. Clutching frantically at the front of her gown, she prayed the thin material wouldn’t rip. The blanket slipped to the floor. ‘Bruin, move your boot, now!’ she cried out. ‘Set me free!’
The skin on her shoulder was like silk, a luminous marble, polished, glimmering. Bruin swallowed, his mouth dry, scratchy. What would happen if the material dipped even lower, fell to her waist even? In his mind’s eye, he traced the ridged delicacy of her spine, the curved indent of her waist, her softly flaring hips—then his eyes sharpened, iridescent points of light. Across the flat blade of her shoulder was a blotchy mark. He wondered if it were a bruise—had she hurt herself more than he had thought in the forest? Leaning closer, he realised it was a birthmark, a raised red blotch staining her satiny skin. It looked like a butterfly.
A butterfly.
His mind scrabbled for meaning; Steffen’s words staggered through his memory. The mark of a butterfly. He touched the reddened skin, tracing an outline. Eva sucked in her breath, outraged by his impropriety. ‘What is this?’ he demanded. His calloused pad burned her flesh. A curtness entered his voice, like the edge of a scythe biting into her.
What was he talking about? Eva was hunched forward, bending at the waist, trying to pull the flimsy gown up to cover her naked shoulder. She almost threw the torch at the lone knight standing respectfully in the hallway. He took the light, returning it to the iron holder, then stepped back into the shadows.
‘Bruin—!’ she called out, exasperated, ignoring his question. ‘Take your foot off, please!’ Snowflakes blew in through the open door, pinpricks of ice against her skin. She wriggled beneath his heated touch, trying to dislodge him. Blood pumped erratically through her veins, flustering her. Embarrassment hazing her mind, she twisted around, intending to wrench the gown from beneath his foot. But he was too heavy, immovable, and the fabric was too flimsy to risk such a manoeuvre. Exasperated, she felt her elbow bump against poor Alice, a sleeping barrier between them. Chagrin flooded through her as she crossed her arms over her bosom, defensive beneath his sparkling gaze. ‘Bruin, we must take Alice—’
‘What is it?’
he demanded. The etched curve of his mouth was inches from her own, his breath sifting across her skin.
Her head knocked back; she forced herself to concentrate on his words. His glossy eyelashes were long and black, a surprising contrast to his bronze-coloured hair. Silver streaks striated the grey of his eyes, radiating out from peat-black irises. He must be asking about her birthmark, although she couldn’t think why.
‘It’s only a birthmark,’ she replied grumpily, deliberating keeping her tone neutral, uninterested. ‘Now, will you let me cover myself?’
‘Who are you?’
The brutal swiftness of his question shocked her, as if he had brought his fist against her ear. ‘Why, the same person as I was a moment ago,’ she replied carefully. What had happened? His eyes, orbs of lustrous glass, were pinned on her face, scrutinising every nuance of her expression, watching her reactions closely. He was waiting for her to slip up, to say the wrong thing.
And in that moment, she knew it was over.
Her carefully constructed life, with all its safeguards and secrecy, the hiding and disguise, all had come to naught. The silent prayers that she sent heavenwards daily, to guard and protect her from the vengeful wrath of this man’s brother, lifted away from her like scorched leaves dancing above a fire, curling rapidly, shrivelling away to a black cinderless nothing.
‘You know,’ Eva said. Her voice was dull, resigned. ‘You know who I am.’ There was no query in her tone; she was simply stating a fact. There was no point in pretending any more.
Bruin nodded, his mouth set in a fixed grim line. He should have been triumphant. How quickly he had managed to find the woman his brother was desperate to see again. He could deliver her back to Deorham, where his brother lay on his deathbed in a borrowed castle, and be on his way, back to Edward and his battles. But, as he watched the brightness leach from her eyes, like a veil descending to shadow her whole demeanour, he wanted with every fibre of his being for it not to be true. ‘Aye,’ he said, eventually. ‘You are the Lady of Striguil.’
Marriage Deal With the Outlaw & the Warrior's Damsel in Distress & the Knight's Scarred Maiden : Harlequin Historical August 2017 (9781488021640) Page 29
