Must Love Chainmail

by Angela Quarles

  But what cost this delay? Anything he could do to distinguish himself in this fight against the Welsh would increase the chances of his suit to regain his family’s demesne. Better to fight here than in cursed France, and he’d not waste this opportunity. What better proof of his loyalty to the crown than to fight the Welsh, his mother’s people? Never again would anyone call his family traitors.

  His shivers subsided, but hers had not.

  “Christ on the cross,” he muttered. “Forgive me.” He shifted closer and pulled her back against him, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, cradling her head, and the other wrapped around her stomach, her flesh cold and clammy. The knowledge that he held her form so firmly against his naked one was a thick, tempting coil wrapping around him, spreading betraying heat through his groin. He clenched his teeth, stared at the popping and flickering fire, and recited every saint’s feast day he could remember. He resisted the call of her flesh. He willed it. However, her chilled skin and loss of consciousness worried him greatly, coupled with her wound.

  He also willed himself to remain awake, mindful of the danger of the open fire near so much straw, and his need to leave as soon as the rain stopped and she ceased shivering.

  Robert awoke with a start. A warm female body was delectably draped over his. He smiled and tightened his arms around the lush, sleeping form, the intoxicating feminine scent of her filling his senses. But memory assailed him, and he stiffened and looked about.

  Jesus wept. How could he have fallen asleep? Granted his chances for slumber had been few these last days, but he could ill afford the luxury. And by the hairs on God’s big toes, how had she become turned around and snuggled up so deliciously against him?

  Heart pounding, he held himself still, tension stiffening his muscles. He should…he should carefully place his hands on her delicately rounded shoulders and ease her off—gulp—off his now-aroused, naked body so she would not take fright upon awakening, and so, oh by all the saints’ wrinkly knuckles, so he would not be tempted.

  He screwed his eyes shut, willed himself to relax, and gently turned his head to check the fire. Now down to glowing embers, it barely put off heat, but their body heat kept them warm enough under the blankets. Judging by the early evening light filtering in, he’d lost another hour from his ill-advised and ill-timed slumber.

  No sound of rain either. His heart sped up, sluicing energy through him. Surely the lass was warm and dry enough to continue their journey. For continue they must. They’d not reach the others before they stopped for the night, but the situation was still salvageable. If they left now. The short cut should still benefit him.

  But as he shifted to wake her, she shivered, and worry cut through him, for her skin had become moist.

  No, not a fever. She could not come down with a fever.

  He eased her from his body and rose onto his elbow. In the dying light of the early evening, he sought her face. Her coloring had turned ashen, and sweat glistened across her brow.

  Fingers tentative, he pushed her dampened hair back from her forehead. Christ, she was burning up.

  He scrambled from the sheltering blankets and yanked them off her. He placed two hides side by side so it was long enough, draped one of his wool blankets over them, shifted her on top, and crossed her arms across her chest, sternly ignoring her pleasing form. He rolled her up, like a swaddled babe, and moved her as close as he dared to the dying fire. He built it back up and laid the rest of the blankets atop her, minus one, which he wrapped around himself.

  They would not be leaving any time soon. Any hopes he’d entertained of reaching Staundon by nightfall vanished.

  And then he caught himself. Who the devil was she to him? Why was his first impulse to include her in his plans?

  He straightened and contemplated the darkened shadows in the space above. He could leave now, be with the men and, saints willing, not have been missed. She was warm, he could leave what food and water he had, and when she awoke, if she recovered, she could fend for herself. Mayhap he could contrive to lash his trunk to Perceval and leave her his rouncey. A costly proposition, but it eased his guilt.

  That would be the prudent course. The wise course. Otherwise, de Buche would make the most of Robert’s absence, spin it for his own ends. For de Buche was as determined to deny Robert his rights as Robert was to win them back. After all, the honors and property had been granted to de Buche’s father after they’d been stripped from Robert’s, and that knowledge rankled.

  Yes. Leave her. That would be the smart course. His muscles tightened in preparation for waking Perceval, to move, to act.

  But as he looked upon her wan face and felt that tug he couldn’t explain, he found there was one course he couldn’t take in the name of recovering his family’s honor. He could not abandon her.

  And he should be pissed. Pissed at this wisp of a woman upsetting his careful plans. But…he wasn’t.

  Perceval softly nickered, and the lass mumbled, rocking to and fro, but his tight bundling kept her from thrashing.

  He hastened to her side. “Shhh. Shhh…” He knelt by her side, his blanket pulled tight around him, and watched her with a growing sense of helplessness. If her wound festered or her fever persisted, he knew no healing lore. He had enough food for only a day, but that did not worry him, for he had knife and wits to remedy that. However, his knife and sword, his skill at killing, counted for naught when it came to healing.

  He reckoned it was shortly after sunset when her delirium set in.

  Chapter Eleven

  And Kai was brought to Arthur’s tent, and Arthur caused skilful physicians to come to him. And Arthur was grieved that Kai had met with this reverse, for he loved him greatly.

  The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance

  She was a rabbit--smelling rabbit things, eating rabbit things and feeling good. But something was wrong. So cold. So hot.

  No. If only she could get to that stand of green shoots.

  Her fur itched. Why couldn’t she scratch it?

  Ego externus.

  Yes. She had to get outside. Not the grass shoots.

  A hand on her forehead? A soothing voice murmuring in French?

  But she was a rabbit…

  She needed to get outside for the grass shoots. It was important. Very important.

  So heavy. So drowsy. Katy blinked open crusty eyelids, and her heart seized up like an intern on his first high-stakes live translation job. Where was she? It was stiflingly black, save for a faint, unsteady glow to the right. She forced her head to move, rough fur brushing her cheek. A banked fire. What the—

  C’mon, what was my last memory? Visiting Castell y Bere with her bridesmaids, climbing its rugged slope.

  No. Wait. She squeezed her eyes shut. Surely she’d dreamed…she hadn’t gone back in time. No way, she told herself, even as a thread of certainty grew and tugged.

  The memories too detailed, too graphic. The siege. The flaming arrows and constant fires. Robert. Her arm.

  Holy-holy-holy crap. She’d been shot with a frickety-frick arrow.

  The tidal wave of memory slammed into her, and she bowed up on a gasp, but scratchy blankets weighed her, wrapped her up tight, pinned her arms to her sides.

  “Should’ve done more crunches,” she muttered as she heaved upward an inch and plopped back, over and over, until dizziness fuzzed her brain and short-circuited her muscles. She slumped against whatever the heck kind of bed she was on.

  Where the hell was she, and what had happened? And why was she as weak as a minute-old kitten?

  A rustling near her feet had her looking down her nose. A dark figure ducked through an opening that parted as if made of some thick fabric. Adrenaline spiked, sending her heart beating fast, her spine locking in fear.

  The man-sized shape stooped, and an armful of kindling tumbled to the ground. He methodically placed one stick after another into the fire. As the glow increased, its circle of light gradually grew to illuminate the figure’s face
. Robert!

  In her relief, she must have made a sound, for his attention snapped to her.

  “Kaytee.” His voice was rough, laced with concern, and just hearing that small smattering of emotion--from a voice normally flat--pierced her with a strange longing.

  She struggled against the constricting covers, not because he scared her, but because she’d never felt so confined, and it was un-friggin-nerving.

  His large body loomed above, and she stilled, breath held, the shelter’s interior suddenly smaller. He loosened whatever the hell she was wrapped in, and darted back to the fire. Why did—?

  Oh. She was nearly buck naked. She narrowed her eyes at him, but he didn’t look away. Shit. Would he take sexual advantage? Had he already? She mentally checked her body—no soreness, but her arm hurt like a mofo.

  All other worries fled. Shit, please don’t be infected.

  She tucked a hide around her and shifted closer to the fire, her arms and legs weak, as if delayed by a half second. She angled her arm into the firelight and inhaled sharply. A dark cloth was knotted around, caked in blood. She tugged at the knot, but failed with only one hand available.

  She checked the blanket—important bits covered? Yes—and held out her arm. “Robert, m’aiderez-vous?” His French was strange, and she knew he couldn’t understand her, but she asked anyway.

  He moved near, clad in only a loose-flowing robe, the space between them growing thicker with awareness, the sparks in the fire snapping and popping. His blunt, shapely fingers touched the cloth, and his gaze locked with hers. Ready?

  Her heart fell over itself—for his once flat, emotionless eyes now stirred with unspoken thoughts and, dare she say, softness? This was her fierce, unsmiling knight? Memories surfaced of gentle, caring hands and soft tones cradling her as she slept off her fever. That…that had been Robert?

  Stop. Speculation was useless. Useless and distracting. She nodded at his unspoken question. He tugged the knot free, but the bandage remained stuck.

  A growing, roiling queasiness churned in her stomach, but she must remove the bandage. Earlier on horseback, they’d practiced each other’s French. Had they made headway?

  “Water?” she said in French, pointing to a nearby earthenware bowl. He nodded, left, and returned five minutes later with water in the bowl. She nestled it against the fire and examined their…what was it? Hut? Glorified teepee?

  In the far corner, clothes hung on a propped up stick. “Clothes?” She motioned for him to bring them.

  Where was Alfred? Despite the difficulty, they understood enough to get by, and at least the language had been her own. Sure, she spoke fluent French, and regularly dealt in dialects at her job, an NGO specializing in promoting peace, but she was--dammit--tired.

  He brought her linen shirt, and she tore off a strip, waited for the water to boil, and struggled with the inability to pepper him with questions.

  Robert settled nearby but made no attempt at conversation, because, yeah, that’d be kind of hard. Maybe if he could talk some, she could listen, learn more, remember more, and hear how his dialect differed. Besides, she always understood a new foreign language better than she could speak it. Bonus points—talking might puncture the awareness she had of his every move.

  “Can you talk to me?” she asked in French.

  Confusion showed in his scrunched brows, the firelight casting shadows on his starkly handsome face. She indicated her mouth, opened and closed her hand like a talking mouth, and pointed to him. She cupped her ear and looked expectant. Talk so I can listen.

  Understanding lit his face, and he nodded. He searched their small space, as if for inspiration, and hesitantly began speaking his strange version of French.

  Yes, that was the voice which had spoken during her fever. The voice which now shrank the surrounding space, the voice which worked into her soul and joined with the gentle, caring voice of her fevered memories. She understood maybe one word out of seven, but then he got rolling and spoke at his normal speed. She held up a hand and said in French, “Slow.”

  His mouth closed with a snap. Frustration and determination marked his features—clearly he wanted to communicate just as badly as she. He spoke slower, his words flowing over her, and she tried not to grasp at everything and so catch nothing. Hopefully, listening to the whole, the words would seep in and eventually become meaning.

  The water began to bubble, and she dunked the strips of cloth in it. Robert’s rich, melodic cadence danced across her nerve endings, twining inside her. No. Listen to the meaning. Don’t allow him to tie you here. He’s not for you.

  She nudged the bowl away from the fire, let it cool slightly, and washed her hands as best she could in the hot water. She gently laid a strip against her wound, soaking the clotted bandage with the warm wet cloth. Eventually, she’d loosened it enough to pull away the bandage without ripping off her arm.

  Was it her imagination that he was describing her actions?

  Fresh blood trickled out, and she leaned closer to the firelight. Angry red skin bordered the wound, glistening with some kind of paste, but the skin wasn’t hot. She cleaned the gash. Thank God, it wasn’t deep, only a smallish hole in her upper arm. Must make sure nothing hinky was in there. She squeezed the water from another bandage, the drops tinkling back into the bowl, and settled onto her back, her arm along her side.

  “Robert,” she said, interrupting his monologue. She pointed to the bowl and her arm. Pour this over my wound, she pleaded with her eyes.

  He frowned, settled close, his body heat welcome, and carefully poured.

  Damn, that hurt. She hissed and pressed her cheek against the furs, teeth clamped tight. When he finished, she lifted her arm and wrapped the bandage around, but knotting it closed proved impossible.

  Robert’s warm hand gripped her arm, and her belly did a slow, heavy flip-flop. He took her bandage, and she caught what sounded like the French words for “help” and “this.”

  She nodded, and he wrapped it tightly around her arm, his concerned gaze occasionally darting to hers as he tied it closed. She plopped her head back to the floor. Okay. She’d be okay.

  She just had to figure out what the heck was going on, where she was, and how to find that villager with the case so she could return home and end this nightmare.

  And so she could be far from this knight who threatened her carefully planned life with his mere presence.

  Pretty please with sprinkles on top?

  Below, mist clung to the river cutting through the valley to the east. Already the bright morning sun promised to burn it away, along with much of the dampness from the intermittent rain. Two and a half days of it.

  Last night, Kaytee’s fever had finally broken, thank Christ, and she’d redressed her wound. He’d already used up the healer’s elder oil during her illness and was relieved to see it had worked wonders. He bit into a hunk of dried coney meat and washed it down with a swig of river water. He set aside the rest for Kaytee. He’d laid traps, for he’d quickly consumed his rations, but his haul had been meager—only enough to keep him fed while he waited out her illness. He must hunt for larger game. Tonight.

  Though her French was passing strange, he found glimmers of recognition in her speech and had hopes they’d understand each other soon enough to communicate with more than gestures.

  But that mattered for naught compared with the need to break camp and head for the royal castle of Harlech, roughly twenty-five miles north through rugged Welsh terrain. Enemy terrain. How he would explain his absence, he knew not, but had hopes the answer would surface ere they arrived.

  He checked the buckles and straps on his saddle, the lead attaching his rouncey to Perceval, impatient to set out. He glanced toward the hafod to check for the twentieth time whether the lass had bestirred.

  Sleeping beside her last night had not been easy. During her illness, he had naught but worry for her, with no room for lustful thoughts. But once her fever had broken, and she’d looked upon him wi
th clear eyes, trusting eyes, his thoughts… Well, he was a man after all, one too long from the comfort of a woman’s thighs.

  He smiled as he cleaned his nails with a pair of tweezers—she’d had no qualms ordering him about as she’d dressed her wound. Further evidence that a low-born lass she was not.

  Well, high-born or no, she needed to arise.

  He took two steps toward the hafod and stopped as she ducked outside. He caught his breath. Fuzzy from sleep, the morning light falling against her creamy, unblemished skin, she appeared vulnerable.

  Only too aware of how exposed they were alone in Welsh country, and he her sole protector, he gritted his teeth.

  She approached and uttered a garbled phrase. He caught the word “bathe” and, accompanied by her hand motions, understood her intentions.

  “I shall accompany you to the river.” He swept his arm downslope.

  Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened, but he forestalled her. “It’s not safe for you to be alone.” He crossed his arms, widened his stance, and tried to impart with his glare, In this, I will not be swayed.

  She closed her mouth, her serious, hazel-colored eyes taking in his stance. An irrational part of him wished that intent gaze studied his body for other reasons. He forebore from shifting his feet. Finally, she sighed, nodded, and headed down the slope.

  Hand on his sword hilt, he grimly followed her lithe form, alert to any sight or sound that bespoke danger.

  At the bank, he nodded and, cognizant of her sensibilities, turned his back, keeping close watch up and down the river. When he heard her slip into the water, he turned back so as to keep watch all around her.

  He grinned: he’d turned in time to witness her delicate white shoulders dip below the water’s surface.

  Thankfully, she quickly completed her morning’s ablutions and made a shooing motion with her hands. Back turned again, he waited for her to dress, all the while telling his privy counselor to cease its repeated suggestions.