“Leave the besotted man to his suffering,” Eric said, joining in the good-natured teasing.
“Huh, he is not the only one besotted,” Colin said with a poke of his elbow to Borg’s arm.
Borg joined in the fun. “He is right about that.”
Eric refused to be intimidated. “You think me in love?”
“You think not?” Colin laughed. “You sniff after your wife like a stallion ready to mount.”
“That is not love,” Eric corrected him.
Colin draped his arm over Eric’s shoulder. “No, my friend, it is not. If it is a lusty bedding you but wish for, you could have quenched that fleeting passion with any willing wench. I think you look for more. I think your pride stands in the way of love.”
Borg grunted in agreement.
“Pride?” Eric repeated.
“Pride,” Colin and Borg said in unison.
Colin reached for the flask of ale and handed it to Eric. “Your wife has won the hearts of many. They speak of her with love and respect and condemn you when you raise your temper against her. And have you yourself not come to better understand her?”
“The whole castle speaks of the lord and lady and how they sleep in separate chambers. They fear that Lady Faith will be sent away, that the Irish devil does not desire her,” Borg said.
“Who speaks such nonsense?” Eric demanded.
“Gossip.” Borg shrugged.
“Utter nonsense. Faith is going nowhere. Her home is here,” Eric said. “Tell that to the gossips.”
Colin shook his head slowly. “They have heard the news that Lord Donnegan is on his way to Shanekill keep and they think he comes to take his daughter home.”
“His journey has been delayed, his wife is ill,” Eric confirmed. “Though I trust him not. It is but a ruse to delay meeting with me. But it gives me time.”
“Time for what?” Colin asked.
Eric grinned. It was the grin of the devil. “To win my skirmish.”
Colin raised his hands to the heavens. “A rich man I will be.”
“Another wager?” Eric asked.
“A certain win,” Colin grinned.
Borg grunted. “A fool he is and a poor one at that he will be.”
A serious fight broke out on the practice field, catching their attentions.
“See to it,” Eric ordered Colin. “And make certain both are punished. I will not have my soldiers fighting each other.”
Colin advanced on the squabbling pair with a roar.
Eric kept his attention on Colin, while he spoke with Borg. “Bridget talks with you often?”
Borg laughed and this time he did not need to hold his side. “She forever chatters, but I enjoy the sound of her lilting voice.”
“Does she speak of the attack on Faith?” Eric asked and turned to face his half brother.
Borg shook his head. “Nay, of that she had never spoken.”
“Faith tells me that Bridget tended her right after the attack.”
“That I would believe. She worries about Faith and sometimes I catch a glimpse of sadness in her eyes when she speaks of her even though she is singing her praises.”
“I think Faith hides something about the attack, something that she does not wish to admit.”
“That is understandable,” Borg said. “The scar she carries proves the viciousness of the attack and perhaps the insanity of the attacker.”
“Do you think Bridget would speak of it to me?” Eric asked.
“I am not certain. While she may fear the devil, she loves Lady Faith and would want to do her no harm. You could command her to.”
Eric shook his head. “No, I do not want her to think she speaks with the Irish devil; I want her to know it is a concerned husband who requests the information.”
“A wise choice,” Borg said and pointed his finger toward the keep. “You have your chance; ask wisely.”
Bridget was walking toward them.
“You will stay,” Eric all but ordered. “She will feel safe with you around.”
“I will be relieved when she finally feels safe around the devil,” Borg said with a grunt and smiled as Bridget drew near.
“My lord,” Bridget said and lowered her head. “My lady requested that I see if there was anything else you required.”
Eric realized that Bridget did indeed fear him. She rarely looked him directly in the eyes, her glance always being slightly averted. He edged the sternness from his deep voice and while his timbre sounded far from gentle, it did not sound threatening. “I require a few moments of your time.”
Borg extended a hand to her. “Sit beside me.”
She gladly obliged him since Borg provided protection from the devil.
Eric purposely kept his eyes from hers and spoke as he watched Colin in the distance deal with the two angry men. “I speak as a concerned husband and not as the lord of this keep.” He did not wait for a response or expect one. “Faith has told me that you tended her the night of her attack. While I do not wish you to betray her trust, I do ask you to tell me something of that night.”
He kept his focus on the practice field and waited.
Borg encouraged and assured her with a gentle squeeze of her hand.
Bridget spoke softly, her voice more of a whisper, and both men listened with interest. “I was summoned by Lady Terra to see to Lady Faith. She laid deathly pale in her bed, the bedcovering soaked through with her blood. Lady Terra ordered me to do what I could since none expected her to survive the night. I was to clean her up and sit with her and . . .”
Her voice faltered and Eric knew she fought back tears. He said nothing and waited patiently.
Her voice was more stable when she continued, “Wait for death to claim her.”
Eric’s chest tightened, as did his fist at his side. To think that Faith had lain helpless, bleeding while her family waited for her to die filled him with such rage that he wanted to lash out at someone, that someone being her father.
“If it were not for Lady Faith herself, she surely would have died.”
That brought a turn of his head. “Why?”
She looked at him then and though her voice quivered she held her head up with pride. “It was she who instructed me as to what to do for her care. She lay in pain and near to death and told me what must be done and how I possessed the skill to do the task.”
Eric remained silent and listened, his fist tight and his heart aching.
Bridget took a deep breath before proceeding. “It was late and all had left the room, Lady Terra instructing me to wait with Lady Faith until death took her. Finally, when only I remained did Lady Faith speak of what must be done. She lay so very quiet while I cleansed her wounds as she directed and then she instructed me how to prepare the needles for stitching.”
Eric interrupted. “Did she not direct you to give her what she gave to Borg so she would not feel the needle’s pain so greatly?”
Bridget held back her tears. “She could not. She had to remain alert so she could instruct me as I worked.”
Eric raised his face to the heavens, shutting his eyes and emitting a low, ominous growl that brought the shivers to Bridget and even to Borg. He then turned to Bridget and waited.
She continued without delay. “The wound was long and I worried that I would not work fast enough. Lady Faith told me not to concern myself with the time it took me, that the bleeding had subsided and the wound now needed stitches to keep it closed and to help it heal. She instructed me to make my stitches small and tight.” Bridget paused and wiped at a traitorous tear. “It took me an hour and over a hundred stitches to close the wound.”
She stopped then, unable to continue.
“You did well,” Borg said and slipped his arm around her shoulders to draw her near.
“Nay,” she cried through her falling tears. “ ‘Tis Lady Faith who did well. She did not scream, did not shed a tear, she simply continued to tell me what a gentle hand I possessed and how grateful she
was to me for my help.”
Eric stood, knowing Bridget was best left to the care of Borg and he himself needed time alone. “Thank you, Bridget, for sharing that with me.” He turned to leave.
“My lord,” Bridget called and he turned. “There is one thing that has troubled me about that night.”
“Tell me,” he encouraged.
“Lady Terra ordered the priest to bless Lady Faith, vanquishing her sins. I was ordered from the room but not before I saw the priest approach the bed and heard Lady Faith scream out for God to help save her from the devil.”
“Why did that trouble you?”
She appeared almost reluctant to speak and with an encouraging nudge from Borg she continued. “Lady Terra told everyone that Lady Faith’s own words condemned her. That she spoke of the devil within her and finally begged for God’s mercy.”
“You did not see it that way?” Eric asked.
Bridget shook her head. “Nay, I saw the fear in Lady Faith’s eyes and knew she spoke of actually seeing the devil. She believed he was in her room.”
Eric reached out and patted the girl’s hand that Borg held. “Again, thank you. You have been most helpful.”
Eric left the couple then, sending Borg a knowing nod that told him they would speak of this later. He walked past the practice field toward the keep, but veered off toward the cottage where he thought to find Faith. He felt the need to hold her, simply hold her safely in his arms.
She was not there, though he paused to give the place a glance. She had fashioned a warm and welcoming home for herself and he felt an empty ache inside. Her intentions were suddenly obvious. A large wooden chest sat against one wall with a row of pegs above it for hanging garments. A table and two chairs were centered in the room and a single chair with a soft tapestry cushion sat cornered by the hearth. A single bed was dressed with fresh linens and a blue wool blanket lay folded at the foot. A sweet scented wreath made of colorful flowers and herbs lay on the pillow and another scented wreath hung over the door. A rack with drying herbs stood between hearth and bed and the table was neatly arranged with the tools of her trade. There was even a thick rush mat near the bed for Rook.
This was to be her home if he refused to commit to their marriage vows. She did not wish to return to her family. Why should she? They cared naught for her, but here the people loved her and she them.
He growled again, a low agitated snarl, and stormed out of the cottage.
The dark lord was a sight to behold. He stormed into the great hall, his scowling face, blazing blue eyes, long dark hair and black garments that possessed but a trace of red making it appear as if the devil himself had just risen from the recesses of hell. Servants scurried for cover; workmen hurried out of his way, keeping their eyes from him; and the flames in the hearth even cowered as he rushed past them toward the kitchen.
Chatter ceased and faces paled when he entered.
“My wife?” he asked of a trembling Mary.
“I have not seen her, my lord.”
He turned and left, heading back through the hall toward the steps when Faith called out to him.
“You have frightened the servants.”
He turned and descended the two steps he had taken up the stairway and ignored her remark to say, “Where were you?” He took one look at Rook who was licking his mouth most joyously and said, “Wait, do not tell me. You were berry picking.”
Faith patted the dog’s head and smiled. “Rook was picking berries. I was foraging for herbs.”
He approached her slowly, sending scathing looks to any servant who remained in the hall. They all fled in haste. “You left the castle without my permission?”
“Nay, my lord, you were busy on the exercise field and I did not wish to disturb you so I told Colin I wished to forage in the nearby woods.”
Colin had not spoken a word of this to him and knowing Colin would never permit her to leave the castle grounds unattended, he asked, “Who did Colin instruct to go with you?”
“Stuart volunteered to accompany me.”
Stuart was one of his largest and fiercest warriors. He had charged into the worst melees and had always managed to emerge with nothing more than a scratch. The men thought him indomitable and since Faith had healed him and returned his prowess to him there was naught he would not do for her, even if it meant foraging in the woods for herbs.
Knowing her plan to remain here as healer, he suddenly resented the time she spent away from the keep and from him. She was putting a distance between them and he did not like it.
“Do you neglect your duties in the keep while you tarry in the woods?”
She was not at all affronted by his remark; she simply smiled. “Nay, my lord, I see to all my duties before I tarry in the woods.”
She teased him and he grew annoyed, stopping before he drew too close to her. “There is a duty you have failed to see to.”
“And what duty is that, my lord?”
She addressed him formally in order to irritate, and she was succeeding, though he was about to outmaneuver her. “You have not seen to my wound.”
“You are wounded?” she asked with concern.
His grin was pure carnal. “I speak of the one you tended to at Donnegan keep.”
She realized his game now and pursued her own course of attack. He would be the one who surrendered, not her. She would not touch him out of want. He must be the one to want, touch, submit.
“It is not healed?” she asked.
“I am not certain. You told me you would see to its care and failed to do so.”
“You ordered me from your sight,” she reminded.
His heated blue eyes remained steady on her. “Now I order you to finish what you started.”
Faith hesitated. Her healing basket was in her cottage, to which she was reluctant to return, remembering what had occurred there between them. He, however, had a different idea.
“Let us go to your healing cottage, where you can properly attend me.”
She could not deny his request; he was her husband—yet she wondered how safe it was for her to be alone with him. Not only because of what he might do, but because of her own reckless desire for him. Who would finally win this skirmish?
“As you wish, my lord,” she said and turned and walked toward the door. He did not directly follow her. He waited several heart-pounding moments, and then he caught up with her.
She remained silent on the short walk to the cottage, his presence looming so largely over her that she felt a chill from the shadow he cast. She was not surprised when he ordered Rook to remain outside the cottage. The big dog obeyed dutifully, finding a comfortable spot nearby to rest.
Faith lit several candles, many along the mantel and two on the table as soon as she entered the lone room. She was glad she did, for the room darkened considerably when Eric shut the door after himself.
“Sit,” she ordered, pulling out a chair from the table and fighting to calm her trembling hands.
“Do you not want me to remove my clothes?”
His deep voice was pure seduction, from the emphasis on “want” to the softness of “clothes.” He was tempting her in ways she found hard to ignore. She realized then that he had no intention of laying a hand on her. His words would do the suggesting . . . and she? She would do the damage.
“I only need the wound area exposed,” she said as calmly as her racing heart would allow.
She fussed with the items on the table, attempting to keep herself busy and her eyes off him while he removed part of his clothing. She did not expect to find his wound in need of care and it would take but a second to examine the area and be done with it.
She heard him sit in the chair and without hesitation she turned, wanting this to be over and done as quickly as possible. His legs were bare and the bottom of his tunic kept him from being fully exposed to her.
She breathed a sigh of relief and knelt before him, her fingers grazing the area that was so nicely healed one could b
arely determine the origin of the wound. She did not trust herself to press or probe his warm skin. Her fingers were already heated from the faint touch of him. And knowing what the tunic concealed only made the task more difficult. She had discovered she liked her husband’s body and while she was not completely familiar with it, what she had seen and touched impressed and enticed her and she wished to explore him further.
“This reminds me of the first time I laid eyes on you.”
His words startled her and she wanted this finished before she regretted her actions. “I tended you well then; the wound has healed nicely.”
His curious remark kept her kneeling between his legs. “I wondered how your touch would be.”
“I was gentle—”
He did not allow her to finish. “Not your healing touch; your intimate touch.”
She could avoid his eyes no longer. She raised her dark eyes to his.
His words suggested and his sensual blue eyes promised. “While your hands tended my wound, I wondered how those same delicate hands would feel if they stole up beneath the towel and cupped me intimately.”
Words escaped her and her senses betrayed her and soaring her passion to a fever pitch. His remark was purposeful, placing a vivid and suggestive thought in her mind—a thought that was hard to ignore and control. Her hands simply itched to do his bidding.
“What were your thoughts of me when first we met?”
Her reply came easily. “I thought you arrogant.”
“You thought me handsome.”
“I thought you foolish.”
He grinned wickedly. “You wanted me.”
“Nay.”
“Liar,” he accused with a laugh.
“I did not wa—”
“Do not deny the truth,” he said. “I am familiar enough with the ways of women to know when a woman wants me. You wanted me then as you want me now.”
She hastily looked down, away from his accusing eyes.
A mistake. A big mistake.
His arousal was obvious from the rise of his tunic.
“Did you grow wet then . . .” He paused abruptly as if allowing her time to recall and she did.
Memories of that night flooded her mind and she remembered the odd reaction she had at the first sight of him. She had thought him handsome, his body in fine shape and she had—good lord, she had grown moist thinking about him.
The Irish Devil Page 20
