Winning the Mail-order Bride & Pursued for the Viscount's Vengeance & Redeeming the Rogue Knight (9781488021725)

by Robinson, Lauri; Mallory, Sarah; Hobbes, Elisabeth

  She sat on the edge of the bed and eased her hands beneath his armpits, pulling him forward until he sat upright with his face close to hers. He eased his left arm about her waist, holding tightly to support himself and tried to do the same with his right arm, but there was no strength in it. Lucy slipped her hands inside the front of the jerkin, acutely aware that her hands were running across the contours of his chest. He drew a breath as her fingers slipped across the bare flesh at his neck. He looked at her with an expression of hunger, tilting his head to one side and parting his lips as if he was preparing to kiss her once more. She hastily bent her head to better look at what she was doing, conscious of the heat rising to her face.

  ‘You haven’t asked my name, Lucy Carew,’ he breathed as she pushed the jerkin over his shoulder.

  ‘I don’t care to know it,’ she answered.

  Together they contrived to remove the jerkin, easing one arm out, then twisting the fabric until it slid over the arrow. Once or twice it caught, jerking the shaft slightly. Each time it happened the man gave a guttural growl deep in his throat, the fingers of his left hand tightening on Lucy’s waist. Now he was left with only a wool tunic.

  ‘Cut it off,’ he whispered, closing his eyes. ‘I have others and I fear I cannot sit any longer.’

  His grip on Lucy’s waist slackened and she eased him back on the bed. Lucy made a long cut from the neck past the arrow and down to the hem of the tunic. She did the same along both sleeves and hacked away at the fabric until he lay naked to the waist. Lucy concentrated her gaze on his blood-encrusted wound. She didn’t want to think what would happen when Thomas tried to remove the arrow. The idea of her own involvement made her stomach heave.

  The man was sweating yet shivering violently, his chest rising with each uneven breath he drew. Removing the jerkin must have caused him agony, but beyond the growling he had made no complaint throughout. Gently Lucy pulled the blanket up to his neck, easing it over the arrow. His eyelids flickered, but did not open. He smiled and for the first time it was neither leering nor mocking and Lucy’s lips curved in response. She reached for the second bottle—the one containing the spirits he had demanded—and lifted it to his lips.

  His eyes opened and he frowned, blinking to focus on her.

  ‘When Thomas returns…’ He sighed and fell silent. He appeared to have lapsed once more into unconsciousness, or perhaps the amount of wine he had consumed had sent him into a stupor.

  Lucy stood anxiously by the bed, waiting for the footfall on the stairs. Where would Thomas have concealed two horses? The barn where she brewed her ale would be too small, but she hoped he had not tried to force the door.

  The room was silent so when Robbie stirred in his cot and gave a whimper it sounded as loud as a cockcrow at dawn. She glanced at the man in the bed to see if he had heard, but he showed no signs that he was aware of anything.

  She crept to the cradle and patted her son’s head, smoothing down the dark curls and pressing a cool finger against the red spot on his cheek where his latest tooth was growing through. He opened one eye, yawned and closed it again, rolling on to his front with his mouth drooping open. Lucy knelt by his side and watched as he settled back into sleep, overwhelmed by the love that consumed her. Robbie would never know the crisis that had played out while he slept.

  An intense annoyance at Thomas filled Lucy’s entire being. He had left four years before with no plans beyond intending to seek his fortune as a soldier. There had been no word and no way of contacting him. Now he had returned with no explanation, bringing chaos with him. With luck he would leave again as soon as possible.

  Thomas burst into the room, slamming the door back against the wall.

  ‘Sir Roger, I am back.’

  Slowly Lucy turned and stared at the man on the bed, recalling the fine clothing she had cut from him and the imperious manner in which he had commanded her, as if he was used to giving orders. Her stomach tightened with dread as she remembered the assault she had made on him. Cold sweat crept down her spine at the thought of what his retribution might be against the commoner who had dared oppose his attentions.

  She had no time to dwell further on the revelation because the door slamming and Thomas’s voice had woken Robbie, who gave a high-pitched, wordless wail. He pushed himself up, his tiny hands gripping the edge of the cradle as he attempted his recently discovered trick of climbing out and making his way to Lucy’s bed half-asleep.

  ‘A child?’ Sir Roger roused himself, craning his head to follow the sound.

  ‘My son.’

  ‘You have a son? Where is his father?’ Thomas looked at Lucy, his eyes wide with astonishment and outrage. ‘You said you were alone here.’

  Lucy lifted her chin and glared at the men. She had done enough explaining and apologising since Robbie’s birth almost two years previously and the shame that had once weighed heavy on her shoulders had dulled into a low throb in her belly. Nobleman or not, she had no intention of justifying her son’s existence to a stranger. Come to that, Thomas could wait for his explanation, too.

  ‘He doesn’t have a father,’ she replied curtly. ‘I am alone.’

  ‘Good, I want no disturbance,’ Sir Roger grunted from the bed. Thomas merely glared at her, scandalised.

  Lucy picked up Robbie from the cradle and hugged him tightly to her breast, making soothing noises.

  ‘Put the brat down and come over here,’ Sir Roger instructed loudly. ‘You’re going to help Thomas before I become fully sober.’

  Lucy kissed Robbie’s forehead. He beat his fists against her shoulder and screamed louder, making his displeasure at being awoken known.

  ‘Let me soothe him first,’ Lucy said, jiggling up and down rhythmically.

  ‘This is more important than his temper,’ Sir Roger growled. ‘I’m stuck through with an arrow and every moment wasted puts me one step closer to the grave!’

  Arguably he was right, but Lucy bridled at his tone when the child was distressed.

  ‘He isn’t in a temper. He’s been woken from sleep and his room is full of strangers who are shouting. He’s confused and probably scared. On top of that he’s cutting teeth.’ She hugged him tighter and realised her hands were trembling. Robbie might be scared, but he was not alone in that. Now that something familiar from her life had intruded on the evening’s dreamlike events, she was most definitely frightened.

  ‘The quicker you put him back, the quieter he’ll be,’ Sir Roger insisted.

  Lucy walked to the bed, still rocking Robbie against her chest, and stared down at him.

  ‘You clearly know nothing about children.’

  ‘Nor do I want to,’ he retorted with distaste, eyeing Robbie’s red face.

  ‘It will be easier to lay him down if he’s sleepy and calm,’ Lucy insisted. ‘Otherwise he’ll scream for hours and be clambering half-asleep into your bed a dozen times during the night.’

  Sir Roger looked horrified at the prospect. Lucy glared back until he grimaced.

  ‘The dove has become a crow! Or perhaps an eagle defending her young. Do what you need to, but be speedy. And give me that bottle back. I need to dull the pain. Thomas, are you ready?’

  Lucy gave Sir Roger the bottle, but instead of drinking it he splashed it on to his shoulder. He paled and swore, his chest lurching upward as the sharp liquor bathed the wound. Lucy winced in sympathy. The man was rude and crude, and whatever circumstance had led to him being shot was probably well deserved, but Lucy could not help but feel sorry at seeing him in such pain.

  Thomas had been searching inside a large leather bag that he had brought inside with him. He crossed to Sir Roger and pushed a small bottle into his hand. Sir Roger took a swig. Thomas picked up the dagger Lucy had used and bent over the bed. He rolled Sir Roger on to his left side, straddled him and began to carve away at the shaft sti
cking through Sir Roger’s back to pare the feathers away.

  ‘Isn’t that child asleep yet?’ Sir Roger grumbled.

  Lucy moved into the darkness to better settle Robbie. In a low voice she sang the song that usually settled him when she put him to bed and he yawned. She was surprised to hear the same tune whistled from across the room and stopped. Sir Roger was waving his left arm over the edge of the bed, his lips pursed.

  ‘You can sing me to sleep, if you wish, dove.’ He slapped his naked chest. ‘Right here against my heart. Or anywhere else you wish to lay your lips.’

  Lucy ignored him, but blushed. Half insensible and wounded, the man was still fixated on lovemaking. In full health she dreaded to think what he would be like. She hoped he would be gone before she had to discover it. She lowered Robbie into his cot with trembling arms.

  Thomas dropped the fletch of the arrow to the floor.

  ‘We will remove the arrow now,’ Thomas muttered. He mimed pulling the head towards him. ‘There will be blood that needs stemming. Fetch your poker from the fire.’

  Sir Roger groaned and his left hand curled into a fist. For the first time he looked genuinely fearful rather than in pain or intent on seduction. ‘Do what he says. And bring more wine while you’re about it.’

  Lucy glanced towards Robbie’s cot. He was sleeping and would be no bother to the men. She ran down the stairs, heart in her mouth, hoping the poker would be heated enough for the purpose that turned her stomach to think of it.

  * * *

  Roger closed his eyes and listened to the rapid footsteps. The girl would be quick. She had already proven to be biddable when it came to doing what needed to be done. He clenched his fists. His left was strong, but his right curled limply and seemed reluctant to obey his commands. He lifted his hand to the wound and probed gingerly with his fingers. The blood had congealed and a crust had formed across his breast where it had trickled. He had lost less than he feared, but that would change when Thomas pulled the arrow free. He explored further, relieved to discover the arrow had missed bones, passing through the muscle between his arm and collarbone.

  Roger’s head swam with weariness and cold. He reached for the blanket, pulling it up to his neck once more. There was something important he needed to do. He could not lie here waiting for the girl to come back to his bed, however appealing she was with her hungry lips and wide blue-grey eyes, so like another pair and with an equally familiar expression.

  ‘She looks on me with fear,’ he murmured.

  ‘Did you speak, Sir Roger?’

  Roger opened one eye. Thomas was peering down at him, Thomas who had started the day with his ill-considered swiving. Curse him for bringing Lord Harpur’s men upon them.

  ‘This is your fault.’ Was he speaking? His voice was deep and bold, not a husky whisper. ‘It was you they wanted.’

  Thomas fell to his knees. ‘Forgive me. It was weakness. Madness! But I will make amends. I’ll pay their due. Tell me what to do to right the wrong I have done.’

  What had the lad done? Roger was finding it hard to think. He licked his lips. They tasted strangely bitter. He’d drunk something to ease his pain, but it had dulled his thoughts. Ah, yes. A woman was the cause of it all. They always were. Was it the wide-eyed girl in grey; the dove whose fingers had been cool against his aching muscles? No, she was someone else. Someone here.

  ‘She’s taking too long.’

  He’d seen on the fields of France what lay ahead for him once she returned with the heated iron and the longer she delayed the less his nerves would bear it.

  ‘I’ll go see,’ Thomas replied.

  ‘Can we trust her?’ Roger reached for his arm.

  ‘I think so. She won’t betray her brother. My only family now!’ Thomas sighed. ‘Poor Lucy, she looked half out of her mind with terror.’

  Clarity broke through the clouds surrounding Roger’s mind. He clutched Thomas’s arm. ‘Is the message from King Edward safe?’

  ‘In your saddlebag, still on your horse,’ Thomas answered.

  ‘Good. Hugh Calveley must receive the summons from His Majesty and send troops to France,’ Roger cautioned Thomas.

  If he did—and if he lived to claim his fee—Roger would be rich. He could return to Wharram and pour coins into his father’s hands. Finally he would have the means to show he was a success.

  He listened to the hammering of the blood in his veins. Through the fog of the wine and Thomas’s drugs he understood the noise was not within his head. Someone was beating at the door of the inn and there was nothing to stop the girl admitting whoever was knocking.

  ‘Go,’ he instructed Thomas. He let go his grip, his mind struggling to remain clear. ‘Take your sword. Leave without me if you must. King Edward’s message must be delivered, without me if necessary.’

  He tried to keep his eyes open as Thomas left the room, but he found it impossible. Unable to fight the demands of his body, he slipped into unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The embers of the fire glowed a dull red and gave off little heat. It did not seem possible it would be fierce enough to heat the poker to the required temperature to seal the wound. Though she really could not spare the wood, Lucy added a little kindling along with a handful of old rush stalks from the floor to wake the flames a little. She buried the poker deep, causing sparks to fly on to the floor. She stamped them out urgently before they caused the rushes to catch, letting the floor bear the brunt of her anxiety.

  Lucy put two knives on the countertop, thinking they might be useful. She slid on to the stool beside the hearth and closed her eyes, her legs feeling hollow as straw as she imagined the additional pain the poker would cause when the iron tip seared Sir Roger’s flesh. The sooner she returned with the poker, the sooner the deed would be done and the men would be on their way.

  She knew it was a comforting lie. Even assuming Thomas was not home to stay, the injured man would not be going anywhere until morning. He must be close to reaching the limits of endurance now and a wave of sympathy rippled through Lucy. Leaving aside his continual innuendo, she decided on balance she would rather he lived than leave her with his corpse and an agitated brother.

  She pushed herself from the stool and began to hunt in the cupboard beneath the counter for the bottle of eye-wateringly strong spirit her father had kept for when the canker in his gut ached him beyond endurance. She also found a clay pot of powdered pain-killing draught that she had bought from the surgeon in Mattonfield.

  Bought! Her nose wrinkled at the description of the transaction. No money had exchanged hands, but she had paid for it dearly, indeed. Mixed together, the brew always sent her father into a deep sleep in which he would experience much less pain and from which Lucy could gain an afternoon of peace from his continual censure of her for producing a baseborn child. Sir Roger would no doubt benefit from the same remedy and Lucy would appreciate the silence.

  She had her head beneath the counter, feeling her way in the near blackness when three loud thumps on the door made her jump in alarm and she banged her temple sharply on the edge of the counter. Dazed, she sat on the floor and was hidden from view when Thomas appeared from the floor above.

  ‘Where are you, Lucy?’ he muttered, his voice low and urgent, and laden with anxiety. He raised his sword before him. ‘Show yourself quickly.’

  His voice was unexpectedly vicious. Whatever he had done in four years had given him a tough attitude, but Lucy could see the desperation in his eyes. She raised a hand to her forehead, which felt tender from the bump. She stood and placed the bottle on top of the counter alongside her two knives.

  ‘I was finding…’ she began, but Thomas silenced her with a hiss and a wave of his hand. He held his finger to his lips. Lucy gestured at the bottle and he relaxed his stance. The beating on the door started again. Lucy st
arted towards it, but Thomas stepped in front of her, seizing her upper arm.

  ‘They must not come in,’ Thomas muttered. ‘Keep silent. Perhaps they’ll go of their own accord.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Lucy whispered, her blood chilling at his words. ‘Why are they looking for you?’

  Thomas looked shiftily from side to side.

  ‘I have done everything you asked,’ Lucy reminded him. She folded her arms and gave him the look she used on Robbie when she caught him pulling the kitchen cat’s tail. ‘You appear here with no explanation or warning and throw me into something I don’t understand. Why has my home been invaded?’

  ‘It’s my home, too,’ Thomas muttered.

  Lucy placed her hands on her hips and glared. ‘A home I’ve been keeping while you were off doing goodness knows what!’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Is this to do with your Northern Company?’

  ‘No!’ Thomas protested. He bowed his head. ‘We were staying with a nobleman not far from here. It was Sir Roger’s fault. He offended our host.’

  ‘What did he do? Tell me or I will call out right now.’

  ‘He seduced Lord Harpur’s daughter,’ Thomas admitted with an odd expression on his face.

  Lucy folded her arms tighter as surprise coursed through her. To hear that hated name from Thomas’s lips! He couldn’t know her connection to the nobleman.

  At the same time, her worries eased a little. They were not thieves evading capture. They had not murdered or committed treason, or any of the other crimes she had been imagining. From the little she had seen of Sir Roger’s behaviour towards a woman, a seduction did not seem unsurprising and the tale had the ring of truth to it. Sir Roger was guilty of doing what any nobleman assumed was his right, but to trespass against John Harpur, then take refuge in Lucy’s house was a cruel twist of fate. It struck her as far too funny and made her want to laugh: a deep eruption bubbling beneath her brittle surface that would most likely never cease if she allowed it to the surface.