“When you fell on the ice, you broke your leg.”
Geoffrey opened his mouth, but clamped it shut again at Simon’s lifted brow.
“The break loosened the metal piece wedged against the bone.” Simon waved Geoffrey’s burgeoning protest aside. “Here is the best part. Our cirurgian, captured several years ago in the Holy Land whilst on Crusade, has returned. Not only has he honed his skills on a very fertile battlefield, but learned some interesting procedures from an Arab physician whilst a prisoner.”
Geoffrey stilled, listening intently, almost afraid to ask what had been done. His head still felt as though it was packed with lint, but a sharp note of warning chased it away, bringing clarity and the recognition Simon could be right. He may soon regret turning the healer’s potion away.
Simon stood and flipped back the light wool covering from Geoffrey’s leg. To his relief, Geoffrey saw both legs, though one was encased between two stout planks of wood and bound with strips of linen.
“He felt the crossbow tip beneath his fingers as he assessed the break,” Simon continued. “After some discussion, he took the liberty of divesting you of that pesky reminder of Godfrey’s poor marksmanship.” He pulled the blanket back into place and reached for a small bowl on the table next to the bed. Plucking a twisted piece of metal from the container, he held it up for Geoffrey’s inspection.
“I don’t suppose you want to keep this, but I wished to show it to you.”
“He cut open my leg?” Geoffrey asked, his voice surprisingly hoarse. It was largely unheard of, though he’d known of battlefield cirurgians taking immense gambles with treatment of horrific injuries. Most did little to prolong the life of the victim.
Simon nodded. “Aye. A bit of surgery he seemed quite adept with. ’Tis a small hole, really. Not much larger than this.” He turned the tip back and forth in the sun’s glow, but the dull black surface simply absorbed the light.
“Such a small thing to have caused you such an inconvenience. Had the cirurgian been here when you were first injured, he could have saved you a year’s suffering.”
A thought fisted in Geoffrey’s stomach. “And possibly saved my brothers’ lives as well had I been here to protect them.”
Simon shook his head as he tossed the metal back to the bowl. “Your brothers lived by their own codes. ’Twas rare they heeded your advice before Robert became lord. There is no guarantee your presence would have changed how they lived their lives after your father’s control over them passed.” He captured Geoffrey’s gaze. “And ’tis a sin to assume you could change God’s plan for them.”
Geoffrey closed his eyes. “You are right, Simon. I must see the cirurgian is thanked properly.”
“He says as soon as your wound heals, you may begin taking a few steps about your bedroom, gaining a bit more strength each day.”
Geoffrey winced and glared at Simon. “How long does he think I’m to wear this infernal contraption?”
With a laugh, Simon patted Geoffrey’s shoulder and turned to the door. “I will let him explain. Is there anything you wish me to get for you?”
“Crutches.”
The shrill sound of a woman’s voice intruded on his thoughts. Mayhap ’twas best he set aside his consideration to have either Simon or the cirurgian killed—or at least banished from his sight for the foreseeable future. The cirurgian denied his request to get out of bed, and Simon—blast his eyes—backed the man up. Most emphatically.
The woman’s voice grew louder and, to Geoffrey’s dismay, the portal opened, admitting Marsaili and an entourage he would have sworn was loyal to him.
Until today.
Simon held the door open while Marsaili swept into the room. Walter stepped around her and pulled the chair back to the bedside from the hearth where Geoffrey had banished it only a few hours earlier. The cirurgian followed on her heels. A dark red blur dashed across the room, barking wildly as it hurled itself upon the bed.
“Ouch!” Geoffrey complained, trying to capture the small beast as she leapt about, sneaking wet doggy kisses between his futile attempts to stop her.
“Beatrice!” Marsaili scolded mildly. “Ladies dinnae leap into men’s beds and proceed to lick them to death.” She snapped her fingers and pointed to the floor, but Beatrice ignored the command, compromising with a seat to Geoffrey’s right, out of Marsaili’s reach.
Geoffrey immediately tensed as his body stiffened in response to Marsaili’s unintentional innuendo. At least he hoped it was unintentional. He’d been convalescing just fine, managing to make it through the day with few thoughts of her and the kisses they’d shared. That those few thoughts generally lasted an hour or so at a time was entirely irrelevant. Now she’d added further fodder for his torment, and he was beginning to wish he’d given Simon the job of arranging escort for her to return home.
But he couldn’t escape a nagging feeling she still needed protection beyond what an armed chaperone could provide. And now he needed a distraction from the image of her tumbling into his bed and licking him into pleasurable release. He groaned.
“How are ye feeling, milord?” Marsaili’s smile was bright as she stood by his bed, ignoring the chair. She placed a palm on his arm and his skin burst into flames, scorching its way to a portion of his anatomy he’d only just gotten under control. “The cirurgian tells me ye dinnae wish to stay abed.”
Geoffrey thought he detected a playful note to her voice, but he chose to not answer her accusation. No sense arguing over something he would do in the next day or two with or without her blessing. He caressed the dog’s head, causing her to wiggle excitedly. “I see you and Beatrice have become friends.”
His words had the desired distracting effect as Marsaili’s gaze swept from him to the dog whose bristly face stared adoringly at him.
“Yer steward gave me Lady de Wylde’s rooms. I hope ’tis not a problem. I dinnae imagine ye were in yer right mind when ye first arrived. If I need to move, I can.”
“No. I told him to put you in my mother’s rooms. I believe I had a lucid moment or two. I’m glad Beatrice likes you.”
“Margery told me she’s pined for yer ma something terrible and hasnae left her rooms since . . . .” Marsaili’s voice trailed off uncertainly. Her clear eyes clouded.
Geoffrey gave her a gentle smile. “Don’t worry. She was an incredible woman, but her years at last caught up with her. Her children came to her long after she thought she’d be blessed with them. ’Twas sorrowful to hear she’d passed, but not entirely unexpected.”
The cirurgian stepped forward and moved the blanket aside to expose Geoffrey’s leg. Marsaili’s face paled and she took a quick step back. Geoffrey clamped a hand over his groin to keep the covering in place, hiding his waning erection from view. No one seemed to pay him the slightest attention, however, their gazes glued to the cirurgian’s work as he unwound the bandage.
As his body eased, Geoffrey turned his interest to seeing the wound for the first time. To his surprise, it was little more than a small nick in his leg, closed by several neatly placed black stitches. The cirurgian prodded the area lightly with his fingertips.
“Any pain, milord?” he asked.
Geoffrey denied the ache, loathe to admit to an illness when there was so much he needed to be doing. And damned if he’d admit to a little pain in front of his knights. Or Marsaili.
“You poke a wound and ask if there’s pain?” He gave the man a wry grin and shooed him away. “I am forever in your debt. Be assured of your place here always. Is there anything you desire?”
“It is my desire to teach my skills to others, milord. If you would allow a few apprentices, I would be grateful.”
“With my heartfelt appreciation and my funding. It is yours. Anything else?”
The man beamed. “If you could be persuaded to drink this potion, milord . . . .”
Chapter Fifteen
Marsaili hid a grin at the rebellious glare Lord de Wylde leveled at the cirurgian.
Milord’s saintly attitude extends to granting a seat of learning to the man, but not so far as to abiding by his potions and advice. She gave in to the merriment and laughed. Lorde de Wylde shot her a quelling look.
“Come along, Beatrice,” she called in a sing-song voice as she scooped the dog into her arms. The little terrier, quite used to Marsaili after three days of petting and blatant use of bribery, nestled in Marsaili’s arms, giving her chin a quick lick to demonstrate her approval.
Marsaili wiped the damp spot away. “We should leave his lordship to discuss his progress with the cirurgian without our ogling his nether limbs.”
“Wait,” Lord de Wylde commanded. He encompassed the remainder of the group in one sweeping glance. “Leave us.”
The room cleared with remarkable speed. Marsaili primly took the seat Walter had acquired for her. “I would like to say I’m glad ye are doing so well. I thought my heart had stopped when ye fell on the ice.”
“Simon tells me you’ve become rather attached to that chair,” Lord de Wylde noted with a nod to where she sat.
Her cheeks heated. “Sir Simon talks too much,” she murmured. Stroking the dog’s furry head, she stalled for time to gather her thoughts. The merest idea she could care for the stern man who surprised and warmed her with the passion of his kisses pushed all reasonable thinking from her mind.
“Ye have been verra kind to me,” she finally allowed.
His voice dropped low, seductive. “Even though I—”
Marsaili interrupted him with a jerk of her chin, determined to keep from addressing the attraction between them. “Aye, even though ye disregarded my wishes and slowed me down with yer need to protect me.” She leaned forward and Beatrice leapt the small space to the bed where she curled up at Lord de Wylde’s side.
“Which brings up the next point—I would appreciate verra much if ye would appoint a guard for me so I can continue to the border. I willnae require yer men to cross into Scotland. Once there, they may turn back, for I will then be quite safe.”
Lord de Wylde’s gaze narrowed. “You are safe here,” he stated. “I believe Lord de Ville will continue his attempts to seize you until he is certain you are out of his reach. ’Tis a three day ride to Lockardebi from here in good weather, and that offers too much opportunity for his henchmen.”
“Which is why ye offered to send a guard with me,” Marsaili rapped out, her temper to the snapping point. “A few knights should deter even the most fool-hardy scoundrels.”
“But not those with the promise of excellent payment once you’re turned over to your Edmund,” Geoffrey countered.
“He’s not my Edmund!” she exploded, slamming her palms on the chair’s armrests. “I dinnae wish to remain here.”
“It will be easier to protect you—temporarily,” he amended as she bristled. “—from here. On the road, in this weather, you are too exposed.”
“Ye promised!” Marsaili’s voice rose and she choked back tears of frustration.
“I promised to protect you. And I will. ’Twill only be for a short time.”
“How long?” she asked, dragging the words out grudgingly.
Something flashed in Lord de Wylde’s eyes, but she could not put a name to it. Her heart doubled its beat and she sent fervent thanks to God for putting Geoffrey in bed with a broken leg. ’Twould be easier to avoid the man whilst she cooled her heels in his castle.
“Mayhap a few weeks,” he replied. “Until the weather breaks.”
Marsaili sank back into the chair with a deep sigh. “I wish . . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“What do you wish, milady?”
She sent him a crushing glare. “I wish ye’d taken the damn potion.”
Marsaili stared at the falling snow in exasperation, impatiently tapping her toe on the wooden floor. “Of course the bad weather would begin again.”
The comment brought no response from the little dog who lay contentedly by the hearth, chewing enthusiastically on a bone.
Wincing at the blast of icy air blowing through the open window, Marsaili slammed the heavy shutters closed, flipping the latch to keep the panels in place.
Beatrice stopped her gnawing, snapping her head up to stare at Marsaili as she flounced over to the bed. With a reluctant look at her bone, the dog abandoned it for the prospect of a good cuddle, landing beside Marsaili on the mattress in a single, effortless bound.
Marsaili ruffled the animal’s ears. “I could have gone on my own, Beatrice. It has been two weeks and his lordship is bed-ridden and cannae stop me.” She waved her hands in the air dramatically. “But this . . . this . . . .” She sighed.
“Why should I be forced to stay here with him? And dinnae tell me he is bed-ridden and therefore of no threat to me,” she warned the dog. “Every day I am compelled to visit, to laugh at something Sir Simon says as they joke about.”
She turned on her side, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I love his smile, Beatrice. I would turn myself inside out to make him laugh. To see his eyes light up. Did ye know he has wee dimples on his cheeks when he smiles? I suppose ’tis not manly for it to be mentioned, but I have noticed.”
Marsaili rolled to her back, staring at the draperies overhead. “I must leave, Beatrice. He has bewitched me. I am no starry-eyed lass dreaming of things that cannae be. He willnae take a Scottish woman to wife, and I wouldnae want a warrior English husband if he offered. His leg will now heal and he will be whole once again.”
She sighed. “Being a border lord means he will be forced to go to war from time-to-time. ’Tis simply the way of things. Though I dinnae love my scholarly husband, I suppose we got along well enough. Except for Edmund’s interference, things werenae so bad. We saw little of each other and dinnae live in fear for our lives.”
Beatrice cocked her funny face, ears barely poking above the bristly fur.
“I suppose ye think me foolish for thinking I can make it home on my own,” Marsaili huffed. “I am quite an accomplished rider, and my skills with a dagger were drilled into me by my elder brother from the time I could heft the blade. Ma would have skinned us alive had she known, but I managed to hide the little nicks and cuts fairly well. It dinnae take me long to learn, and I’ve not done myself damage since.”
She sighed again. “I will simply have to think of another plan. I dinnae believe my self-respect would survive if his lordship kissed me again.”
And the possibility she would succumb to the temptation to kiss Lord de Wylde if she lingered much longer in his presence was something she was unwilling to admit, even to Beatrice.
Geoffrey mulled over Walter’s report. He sat before the hearth, right leg stretched to the warmth of the blaze. After two weeks flat on his back, this past fortnight had seen grudging improvement as the cirurgian had allowed an infuriatingly slow return to normalcy. Heat reduced the soreness in his muscles that had seen too little exercise of late.
“You gave orders her horse was not to be released except upon your direct approval?” Geoffrey leveled his gaze at the knight.
Walter nodded. “Aye. The stable master said she’d visited her horse often these past few days, asking him where the tack was kept, wanting to check for possible damage done to the girths by the cold, wet weather.”
“A plausible request. But I doubt milady had only the condition of her tack in mind.”
“’Tis what I thought, as well. I reiterated your order, and he readily agreed.”
Geoffrey remained silent for a moment. Reaching a decision, he tossed aside the blanket across his lap. “Hand me those crutches. I need exercise.”
Walter held the wooden props as Geoffrey waved aside his offer of assistance rising from the chair. With a nod of satisfaction, Geoffrey noted the twinge in his leg had become negligible, and his muscles reacted firmly, smoothing the limp from his gait. He took a few slow steps, testing the strength of his leg.
“Just one of them,” he said, reaching for the crutch. By using it in tandem with his injured leg,
he found he could maneuver rather well, provided he did not rush. Triumph surged over him. “Have a new cane made. I will not use this crutch beyond today.”
Grinning, Walter loped toward the door. “Aye, milord. You will have a cane tonight if I have to make it myself.”
The door closed behind Walter. Geoffrey stood in the center of the room, feet braced shoulder-width apart, his body responding to the muscle-memory of exercises long put aside. Though the splint restricted much of the movements of his legs, he hefted his sword, working his upper body from a stationary position. A fine sheen of sweat formed on his brow and between his shoulder blades, but he relished the return to action.
I’ve remained inactive too long. Between the cirurgian’s dire warnings should I over-stress the leg and Marsaili’s clucking like a mother hen, I have had little opportunity to move about. Slow and easy. Push only to the point of pain—a step beyond—relax.
He rested, breathing deeply but not too hard. Pleased, he flexed his hand on the grip of his sword. It felt good. Damn good.
I am Lord de Wylde. ’Tis time I reclaimed my place.
At the evening meal, the chatter in the hall fell to silence as Lord de Wylde clattered slowly down the stone staircase, Walter’s burly frame a step or two ahead. Geoffrey’s gaze swept the room, noting Simon’s nod of approval as well as Marsaili’s pallor. Walter crossed to the head table, pulling out the heavy chair. Geoffrey approached with measured tread, the crutch bearing most of his weight on his right side. He’d badgered the cirurgian to reduce the splint to something he could manage, but it still mandated a careful gait.
He lowered himself to the seat, extending his right leg beneath the table. It ached, but the sense of accomplishment overrode the discomfort.
“Please continue,” he said, facial muscles straining with the effort to suppress his grin, amazed at how good it felt to be among the people again.
A shout went up about the room as the castle inhabitants cheered. The din quickly deafened as they pounded the tables, their booted feet stomping the stone floor. Geoffrey inclined his head in acknowledgement, signaling a serving wench for his trencher. When it became clear he expected no further notice to be taken of his return, the meal was quickly resumed.
The Saint Page 10
