He inhaled and held his breath, knowing due to the extensive damage, this would be one of the most draining, difficult healing processes in his entire existence. He clamped his eyes shut and imagined each injured piece of tissue, the nicked lung, the torn flesh and grazed ribs. John channeled his energy through his hands and focused its cold-hot powers deep into the woman’s chest. As the minutes passed, he could feel the flow of blood righting itself, the gurgle of air through the punctured lung fading as the woman’s breathing passage became cleansed of all blood.
Already, his energy waned. This lifesaving task was just too draining, sapping what strength he had left within him. He had already used much of his powers by releasing the arrows in rapid speed, and by healing the entrance wound at her back. He felt the familiar dizziness wash through him, that of depleted stores and a need for power-replenishing sex. But the job was not yet done, for he could sense the remaining torn tissue within the depths of the right breast. While she now lay unconscious but breathing normally, he could mentally perceive that the hole beneath the garments remained as an ugly, gaping wound.
“Concentrate, man. Finish healing her.”
John kept his blood-soaked hands in place and struggled to complete the task. His body trembled as he fought to feed the curing strength into her. But he had depleted a large portion of his stores. Perspiration trickled down his spine, foreshadowing further dangerous diminishment of his soul. His hands no longer tingled with energy, and for the first time in days, he experienced the biting chill of winter as it permeated his fingers to the very bone. Exhaustion overtook him and finally, he gave into it, slumping over the young maid’s body.
* * * * *
Catriona Graham regained consciousness at precisely the moment her lungs filled with the woodsy aroma of man. Soft, long hair the very color and depth of a midnight sky tickled her nose. If it were not for the warmth the man cocooned her with, she would have screamed to bloody hell by now and thrown him away. Her backside felt in need of a good spring thaw. Oh, but her front side where her heart nestled inside her chest, it pumped with hot blood!
She glanced down and tried to recall how she had gotten in this precarious predicament. But her thoughts detoured while her gaze beheld the rugged face of a god. He was not unconscious, for his eyes were open, though they appeared somewhat glazed with fatigue as if he fought the clutches of oblivion. Lord God, but they were like twin gems of iced sapphires with a faint twinkle of something altogether baser! If it were not for the look of weariness in them, she would have been certain her body had responded with swift desire.
But that was impossible. She had mourned the death of her beloved husband Duncan for the past nine months. Not once since King James had ordered him burned at the stake in North Berwick for suspicion of witchcraft, had she felt even an inkling of want for any man. No. Never. She trusted no one, for it seemed everyone who had befriended her since Duncan’s death had been a spy of the king who had set out to destroy her as well.
And why not? She could hardly blame them. The Scots king offered a fortune to all who assisted him in eradicating those suspected of witchery. Therein lay the problem. Suspected. No trial, no explanations allowed, no exceptions. Which was why she had fled North Berwick weeks—or had it been months?—ago in disguise and made her way south to the English border. That fateful night of her flight, she had been caught by the townsfolk while performing her séance ceremony in order to reach Duncan. It had not taken her long to gather her meager belongings—which she had since lost or been forced to abandon—from the cottage and escape into the frosty night.
“Ah, she lives.” His voice came out in a backwoods English lilt, jarring her from her thoughts. It strummed her ears and made her shiver.
“Who are ye?” Catriona’s tone sounded a bit more alarmed than she cared to reveal. After all, it appeared she lay pinned beneath a stranger—perhaps one of the king’s tribunal seminarians in pursuit of her? She struggled to remember how she had gotten here on the ground beneath this man, but all she could recall was running for her life, searing pain and then…jumbled nothing. She had no idea who this man was and why he sprawled across her. But she would not be taking any chances. She had been fooled too many times in the last months to let her guard down yet again.
No, Catriona had learned her bloody lesson for the last time.
“The name is John. John Lawton, at your service,” he murmured, but he made no indication he intended to move.
Ignoring the warning thud of her pulse in her ears, she wiggled in an attempt to shift his massive bulk off her. “Ow!” A vague soreness arced through her chest. “Sir—Mister Lawton—I demand that ye remove yerself from me person. Begone with ye—now.”
His mouth curved into a rakish yet bitter grin. She caught a glimpse of straight rows of white teeth, as white as the snow that blanketed the countryside. “Oh, if only ‘twere possible.”
Feeling cornered and extremely alarmed, she took a quick glancing sweep of her surroundings. The snow had been disturbed extensively over near yonder copse, most likely by a large group of horses’ hooves. That was when she remembered…
She had been discovered by the king’s search party while hiding out in a shallow rabbit burrow just five score of yards away opposite this leg of the forest. Apparently, her disguise had not fooled the old sheep farmer she had sought refuge from a mile back. He had tipped off the sentries and it had only been sheer luck that a young lad had happened upon her shortly before she had been detected and warned her of what hovered on the horizon. She had made haste and run for the dense woods in hopes of being concealed. But, determined as they were, they had found her anyway.
And they had pierced her clean through the lung with a sharpened arrow. Catriona remembered well the agony and terror of it. She gasped and glanced down at her chest. Somehow, the arrow was gone, but a slight tenderness remained on the surface. She could distinctly recall the unbelievable pain of its entry, the hot, wet gush of blood within her garments, drowning in her own blood and fighting for air, a voice shouting at her…
“You! Get behind me at once!” Yes, she recalled now the shouting had sounded much like this man’s voice. In her rush, she had assumed him to be one of the king’s murderers. She had veered off in the other direction, and that was when the arrow had struck its intended mark. Catriona had begged God for her last breath, could vividly recall the bright red snow pooled beneath her while she faded in and out of consciousness, fighting for every breath of air.
So how, then, could it be? She gaped down at where she was certain the arrow had protruded from her breast before she had fainted. A ragged, bloodied hole in her cloak appeared to be the only evidence she had not dreamed the agony of the arrow’s penetration and the trauma of near-death. Alarm rang through her, making her quiver like the huge bell being struck within the kirk near her home in North Berwick.
“God almighty, have I died?” Her breath came out on a bubble of panic. Squirming, she tried to push him away, tried to peer around his head to view the angels she could swear she heard strumming harps. “Please,” she groaned, tears stinging her eyes. “I am too young to die.”
Confusion at her miraculous healing and the distant music she heard, prompted her to call upon spirits of the dead. If anyone could verify her life status, they could. She clamped her eyelids tight and focused, chanting, calling to the other side.
“Oh spirits, hear me call. Please, please…hear me call.” But not one soul channeled to her. The usual eerie voices rang back deafeningly silent in her head, and the typical tingly sensations and cool bursts of air up her spine did not occur.
“Spirits?”
She gasped out loud, ignoring the man’s puzzlement. Lord above, maybe the inability to reach them meant she was dead? She still did not know for sure if this man had truly been wily foe or gallant defender. And if she had passed on, did she really need to fret over it one way or the other? Perhaps he was an angel causing the ghostly tunes to reverberate in her h
ead? He certainly could pass for one, though with his dark and sometimes brooding looks, he more resembled a fallen angel. As she perused his fine bone structure framed by all that dark hair, she suddenly realized the music was nothing more than the wind whistling through the trees. And she now lay vulnerable beneath him in the wilderness with naught but the small dagger in her boot for protection.
He chuckled a deep song of amusement. The pleasant timbre of it yanked her from her alarm. It made her relax a small measure. “I have not a bloody clue in hell what spirits you mumble in regard to, but nay, you most certainly are not dead.” His gaze swept her from lips to breasts, now threatening to spill from within her man’s shirt due to the oaf’s weight pressed upon her. The constriction increased when her heart thundered at that smoldering look. She glanced away, reminding herself to elevate the importance of escape above all else.
“I will be dead if ye do not get yer bloody bulk off me.” She punctuated that with a wiggle and a grunt.
Now, Catriona. Ye must escape now!
“We are not done here, my—”
“Verra well, I will not say it again.” Catriona drew up one knee and shoved away the many thicknesses of robes and cloaks. Fallen angel entity or living man? she mused. We shall see, Catriona, just which one you have become entangled with.
Her fingers fumbled at the sagging edges of her man’s braies where the long leggings had been stuffed into her leather boots near her calf. With the swift speed of a murderess, she wrapped her hand around the dagger’s ivory handle and snapped it upward. His chin remained resting on her chest, but she was still able to maneuver and twist her wrist so that the cold blade’s edge pressed against the man’s throat.
“Remove yerself from me person now.”
He did not so much as flinch. “I cannot, lest you…”
The longer he delayed, the more the fear clutched at her gut and seemed to intensify the slight pain that throbbed in her chest. She had never sliced a man’s throat before now, and did not relish the idea of engaging in such a gory task even when her life depended upon it. But she would do it if worst came to worst.
“Lest I?”
“Lest you…kiss me.”
She blinked. Her gaze narrowed on his, shadowed there beneath his feathered woodsman’s hat. Yet she saw nothing but seriousness in his liquid-blue eyes. “Pray tell, what did ye say, mon?”
“You see, milady, it seems my energies have been sapped by healing your mortal wound. If you but kiss me, I should have enough power to rise and whisk you off to safety and a warm shelter.”
She started to laugh but the discomfort proved too much to bear. “Ye’re utterly daft.”
“Nay. ‘Tis true.” He actually shrugged. “But ‘tis your choice if you wish to lie here and freeze to death.”
“I am goin’ to inquire just one more time, sir.” She increased the pressure of the knife at his neck. “Just who—I mean truly who—in God’s holy name, are ye?”
He did not seem the least bit daunted by her weapon, though she watched as a tiny drop of blood pearled against the blade. Watched and struggled to suppress the nausea it stirred within her abdomen.
“Ah, did I not already inform you? Aye, I believe I did. ‘Twas at the beginning of this awkward conversation. Well, I suppose I shall repeat myself. I am John Lawton, referred to by some as Little John.”
Catriona tried to focus, while his arrogant tone did not go unnoticed. The man’s name echoed in her head as his image wavered before her. Her heart palpitated, thumping behind her breastbone and making her gasp for air. “Little John, as in…the Englishmon of the thief and murderer Robin Hood’s band?”
“Aye, one and the same.”
“Nae, it cannot be…”
“Oh, but it can and ‘tis. Our delightful, merry tales have moved through the centuries…as have we.”
“Lord God, save me from this bloody murderer!” Catriona squealed and managed to wriggle her body out from under John’s torso, despite the vague pain it caused her. She rolled, dislodging the knife from her grip, and came up on her knees clawing her way through the snow and out of his reach.
But his iron-hard hand clamped around her ankle before she could leap to her feet and run. “Lady, do not make me further expend what energy remains. I repeat, you will kiss me…lest you wish to possibly see an immortal man truly die.”
Her panicked gaze located the dirk, but it was too far out of reach. She tried to extend her free leg behind her to kick him, but he spun her around so that she plopped onto her rear. It afforded Catriona her first glimpse of the enormous red splotch soaking the snow. Since awakening, she had not taken note of the exact spot where she had been lying. Nae, ye fool. It seemed ye allowed this mon to bewitch ye into oblivious idiocy. Oh, but Lord forbid, she had now regained her senses. The atrocious, sickening sight of blood rent a moaning gasp from her making her forget she had been in the process of escape. Her stomach churned with queasiness.
Catriona’s hand came up and she clamped her teeth over her knuckle. “Nae…nae…”
“Oh, aye, your own blood it be, lass.”
“B-but how? Where is the arrow? I recall the attack, the arrow lancin’ me back.” She looked down again at her red-drenched cape, felt sharp cold air nip at her flesh through Duncan’s ripped doublet beneath. And again, Catriona saw all the evidence of her inevitable death except the arrow she was now certain had spent her blood. “The arrow, ‘tis…’tis gone. And other than a wee bit of tenderness here at me breast, I feel well. H-how can that be?”
She studied the stranger, watched intently as he pondered his next words. Varied, imperceptible emotions flickered in his striking eyes. Her gaze swept the length of his body, now spread across the snow in a half-sprawl, half-side-lying position as he continued to hold her ankle. He was fit and bonny with muscles bulging beneath his sleeves, and there was no doubt his physique would be considered exceptionally pleasing to any woman’s eager touch. The glimpse of wide shoulders and tight, jerkin-clad chest she saw through the gaping opening of his cloak made her hands fist involuntarily. She accepted in one indiscriminate glance his dark handsomeness and virile, enormous presence could prove enough to bring any maid to her knees in a swoon. But stunning looks aside, his fitness became the more prominent trait, evidenced by the strong grip he had around her ankle and the stubbornness he bullied her with. It served to remind her even a godlike man such as this one should be discounted as a woman’s possible suitor. Therefore, if he insisted on using his barbaric talents on her, she would insist on resisting his innate charms.
It seemed he chose to wield his manly powers after all. Determined, despite his temporary weakness, he dragged her closer…closer to the pool of bloody snow.
“What, milady? Are you telling me you do not recall being disencumbered of the arrow, being rescued by a gallant knight?” His slash of eyebrows arched mockingly. “A gallant knight—” he nodded his head in lieu of a gentleman’s bow, “who remains at your service as we speak?”
His words brought it all back in its entirety—the terror of being hunted to the brink of death, the unbearable pain of the arrow hitting its mark. Next had come the panic and the inability to draw air into her lungs, and the subsequent suffocating and drowning in her own blood. His image warbled before her as truth warred with disbelief in her head. Gods alive, the man had truly healed her?
“Eh?” he demanded when she could only gape at him.
“Nae, I tell ye it cannot be…” She collapsed onto her back, ignoring the snow’s coldness blanketing her backside. Catriona stared up at the crisp blue of the winter’s sky and watched as a single crow flew across her vision and cawed almost derisively. Her breath came out in clouds of white from her mouth, clouds of life, she thought disbelievingly. Having performed miracles herself by bringing the dead back to engage with the living, she knew such prodigals did exist. And yet it seemed difficult to accept when on the receiving end.
Now that she allowed her mind to replay wha
t he claimed, Catriona could remember in fuzzy bits how he had, indeed, removed the deadly arrow from her chest. She could recall it as if it had been a nightmare, the agonizing rip of the foreign object from her body, the insufferable torment followed by the cold-hot feel of his touch, the gradual lessening of pain and the relief of drawing air into her lungs. And finally the blessed blackness.
A tremor went up her spine. “Are…are ye a sorcerer then?”
He tilted his head and grinned boyishly, an innocent smile far from that of an ogre who might dabble in black magic. “And are you—the accused and practically sentenced witch—denouncing me a wielder of witchcraft?”
Nae, she said calmly to herself. Far be it for Catriona Graham, gifted seer into the world of the dead, to doubt the talents of others also gifted. Now that she had had the time and this man’s jogging of her foggy brain to recall just what powers he held—and how he had even used them on her—she possessed no further skepticism as a “normal” person might. Aye, it still boggled her mind and made her tremble in awe to be in the presence of a true warlock. But there was no need to appear to give in so gullibly to him, to lose what upper hand she may possibly gain.
She lifted her chin. “Och! What ye have done—yer magical healin’ with those large hands of yers—’tis far from the realm of reality as most ken it.”
“Most? But not you, milady?”
She hated that he seemed to see right through her. And she hated that her lad’s disguise had not fooled him, that he saw her definitively as a female.
“What does it matter, I ask ye? Nae, never yer mind,” she amended with a blink. “Come to think on it, I kindly request that ye release me leg. I must be on me way before they return.”
He cocked his head as if a thought had just occurred to him. “What is your name, lass?”
“That, sir, is none of yer bloody affair.”
“Nay, I relish knowing the names of those I intend to kiss. Call it rubbish if you will, but ‘tis a very bad obsession of mine.”
A Gypsy's Thief Page 2
