by Alexa Aston
After their discussions, Tristan decided he would need to hire an artillator to make all of his men’s bows and arrows to these specifications instead of allowing his soldiers to create their own. Lady Nan convinced him an artillator’s consistency in the bows and arrows he produced would benefit Leventhorpe’s men in the long run and allow them to use their weapons interchangeably.
He ended his conversation tonight with David Devereux, who left him to check on the new foal born that morning. Looking around, Tristan saw Lady Nan had already left the great hall. Lord Michael and Lady Elysande strolled arm in arm around the room, speaking to others. As the evening meal wrapped up, those present shoved the trestle tables against the walls as each table was cleared. Many stayed after the meal, some talking in small circles as their children played at their feet. A few soldiers told stories or threw dice. Occasionally, someone might sing. Tristan had enjoyed the fellowship of others’ company in the great hall this past week but he decided to stretch his legs tonight. The sun was setting later and plenty of daylight was left so he thought he might walk in the nearby meadow and possibly visit the horses in their outdoor enclosure.
Tristan stepped outside the keep and walked through the baileys and out the gates of Sandbourne. He ventured across the meadow and decided instead of visiting the horses, he would first spend some time in the forest. He had not been in these woods since his second day at Sandbourne, when he’d accompanied Lord Michael about the estate. He entered and leisurely strolled along, grateful for some time alone.
He’d grown used to his own company the past few years. Once, he’d been gregarious and a young man who loved being around others. Nowadays, he mostly kept to himself. Being here at Sandbourne, he’d probably spoken to more people and held more conversations in a week than he had in the previous seven years. It surprised him how enjoyable the time had been but this felt right, walking in solitude.
Of course, it left him plenty of time with his own thoughts, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
Because those thoughts turned to Nan de Montfort.
They had actually struck up a friendship as they broke their fast together in the mornings and dined together in the evenings. Tristan had never claimed friendship with a woman and yet it seemed perfectly normal. But what he wanted was more than friendship.
He burned to kiss her again. To undo that jet black braid and run his fingers through her silky locks. His fingers itched to slide down her arms and link their fingers together. Then their bodies.
Tristan wanted her, plain and simple—but there was nothing simple about it.
Nan de Montfort was someone utterly comfortable in her own skin. He knew she was also free to wed—the man she chose—not one chosen for her. In a thousand years, he doubted he could ever become the kind of man Nan would want as a husband, for Nan had told him she believed in love. She would never consider speaking vows with a man and binding herself to him for life unless she loved him.
That meant Tristan could never be the man for her because not only would Nan wish to wed someone she loved, she would want to receive that man’s love in return.
He didn’t have that in him anymore—if he ever did.
Looking up, he’d lost track of where he was. The waning light told him he needed to find his way back to the castle soon before dark fell. Tristan turned and began walking in the direction he hoped was correct. As he continued, he heard a slight rustling. Then it became louder. He halted in his tracks and spun around, trying to locate where it came from.
A flash of yellow caught his eye. He focused on it and saw it was the color Nan had worn tonight. Mayhap she, too, had come to stroll the Sandbourne woods. But the noise became louder, now crashing through the brush. Tristan ran in her direction, a fierce need to protect her possessing him. From the corner of his eye, he spied a wild boar coming from his left.
Straight toward Nan.
Exploding with a speed he’d never known he possessed, he ran to place himself between Nan and the beast. Tristan hurdled through the air in the last seconds when he realized he wouldn’t get there in time with his legs alone. And then pain erupted while he was still in mid-air. A long squeal sounded. He fell with a thud to the ground, his left side throbbing and his right thigh burning. The boar had collided with him and then dashed off.
That explained the reason his entire side ached, but why did his thigh pulse in agony?
Tristan looked down and saw that an arrow protruded from it. He became aware that someone hovered over him. Raising his eyes, he saw Nan there, her bow and arrow in hand. She gazed down at him, her face white in distress.
“Not again,” she said.
Chapter 7
Nan dropped to her knees, a mixture of nausea and despair threatening to overwhelm her. Tristan Therolde lay on the ground—with her arrow protruding from his leg. She swallowed and took a cleansing breath, clearing her mind of everything except helping this man who had sacrificed himself by coming to her aid.
Taking his hand in hers, she calmly told him, “My lord, you have been struck by an arrow. You may not feel the pain yet, but you soon will.”
His eyes met hers. “Oh, I definitely feel it, my lady. My thigh is pulsating with a world of hurt. And while we are discussing my injury, we might want to note that the arrow in my leg belongs to you.”
Nan cringed. “I am sorry my arrow penetrated your leg, Lord Tristan. ’Twas meant for the boar that charged me. You came from nowhere. I had already released the bowstring when you appeared.”
“I caught sight of the yellow you wore tonight as I heard the animal crashing through the woods.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Little did I know you would walk these woods with protection in hand. I thought to shield you from the boar’s attack. It all happened so suddenly.”
“But you threw yourself in the beast’s path,” Nan said. “It might have killed you.”
He shrugged. “I acted on impulse. Who knew deep inside that I was such an honorable man?”
Though he made light of the situation, Nan knew two things. That Lord Tristan had behaved heroically and risked his own life to save hers. And that he must be in a great deal of pain.
Suddenly aware of her hand in his, Nan squeezed it to reassure him. His eyes searched hers for a long moment. In an instant, something passed between them. Something unexplainable, that could not be put into words, but she now found herself bound to this nobleman in a way she’d never been with any other.
Tearing her gaze from his, she withdrew her hand and moved it to his leg.
“I see very little blood. That is a good sign that no artery was struck.”
“So I won’t bleed to death anytime soon?”
She pursed her lips. “This is not funny, my lord.”
He looked at her guilelessly. “Nay, I didn’t think it was.”
Nan blew out a puff of air. “I am being serious.”
“So am I.”
But the look in his eyes said otherwise. She saw pain there, but beneath it, humor peeked out—and that surprised her. Tristan Therolde had been self-possessed to the point of arrogance. Distant at times. But the very vulnerable man before her revealed a totally different side to himself.
One that appealed to her immensely.
She leaned back on her heels, her hands resting in her lap. “I must return to the keep for help. It’s too far for you to walk without jarring your leg. I’ll bring men to—”
“Fetch my horse instead. He can carry me back at a slow pace and then you can seek help carrying me inside to my chamber.”
It was a good plan, better than what she had been thinking. Nan started to rise.
“Wait,” he said softly. “Stay with me just a bit longer.”
She sat on the ground beside him, wanting to protest and explain that the sooner he returned to the keep, the faster his injury could be attended to. Yet Nan understood that somehow he needed her with him a bit longer.
“You will be fine, Lord Tristan. I know how to ca
re for your wound.”
He took her hand, his thumb rubbing soft circles along her palm. “What did you mean—before?”
She frowned, pretending she didn’t understand when she did. When he remained silent, she decided to speak.
“I have never discussed this with anyone. It happened so long ago that sometimes I think I only imagined it. My arrow has pierced another before you,” Nan began. “I accidentally shot one into my brother’s thigh when I was first learning how to control my bow. Hal still bears a scar from that arrow wound.”
“I know this brother lived because Lady Elysande told me he wed recently. A falconer, she said. One of great repute.”
“Aye, he lived. And Elinor will be an excellent wife to him. I lived with the guilt for a long time, but Hal insisted from the beginning that it was an accident and no one was to blame.”
His thumb continued swirling, causing her stomach to fill with fluttering butterflies.
“Then I hope you realize tonight’s incident was also the same. No one is to blame. You were trying to kill a charging boar that threatened your life. I tried to keep you safe. ’Tis no one’s fault.”
“Says the man with my arrow stuck in his leg.” She shook her head. “You are being kind, Lord Tristan.”
His thumb stilled. “I don’t know the last time someone told me that. Mayhap never,” he said softly. Then he raised her hand and pressed a fervent kiss against the very palm his thumb had massaged.
A tremor ran through Nan. Part of her wanted to yank her hand from his and run away from him as fast as she could. The other half wanted to stay and explore his sensual lips with her own.
Neither half won. He needed help. Now. Nan broke away as she stood.
“I will return soon.” She went to where she’d dropped her bow and quiver and brought it to him, bending down to place it by his side. “In case anymore wild animals descend upon you. You will at least have some protection.”
Nan rose, her knees shaky and her stomach still aflutter from what she saw in his eyes. “Try not to move about, my lord,” she instructed.
“Tristan,” he said. “The least you can do for a man you’ve pierced with your arrow is to drop any formalities.”
“Tristan,” she echoed.
“Nan.”
They inspected one another in a new light. She had no idea what had shifted between them. Only that it had.
“I’ll hurry. You won’t have to wait alone for long,” she promised, forcing herself to step away from him. It took everything in her power not to glance over her shoulder at him as she left the forest and trotted toward the stables. Dusk had fallen.
“Tristan.”
She tried the name out on her lips as she reached the stables and slowed down, breathing heavily. Nan liked the way her mouth felt after saying it. She couldn’t help herself. She liked him. Tristan Therolde was nothing like what he presented to the world. She longed to peel away the layers he surrounded himself with and discover his true essence.
And it had only taken almost killing him to feel this way.
Suppressing a giggle that threatened to erupt, she found a stable hand and had Tristan’s horse saddled. The boy never questioned why she asked for him to do so and Nan didn’t volunteer why she needed the mount. Quickly, she rode to the gates which were about to be closed for the evening and told the gatekeeper she would return soon and to be watching for her.
Nan galloped across the meadow and slowed the horse as she entered the forest. Being familiar with Sandbourne lands helped her remember where she’d left him, especially as the dark night took over. She climbed from the horse and tethered it to a bush.
“I’m glad you came back for me,” Tristan teased and then grimaced.
She hurried to his side. “Push off on your good leg. I’m strong, thanks to my years of archery practice. I will help you rise and keep you steady.”
Getting him to his feet proved easier than she’d thought. Nan wrapped her arm around his waist as he draped an arm about her shoulders and limped to where his horse stood. She steadied him as he put his left foot in the stirrups and swung up into the saddle. Tristan sucked in a quick breath, followed by a soft curse. She turned away to retrieve her bow and quiver, slipping the strap onto her shoulder.
“I’ll guide your horse back to Sandbourne,” she told him, reaching for the reins.
“Nay. Come ride with me.”
The thought of this man’s arms around her caused her breath to catch.
“I’ll be fine, Tristan,” she said, surprised her voice sounded normal. “I enjoy walking.”
“I would feel guilty riding while you did so.” He paused. “Please, Nan.”
Her name coming from his mouth nearly did her in. She had to lock her knees to keep from swaying.
“If you insist.”
Nan started to place her foot in the stirrup but Tristan reached down and lifted her into the saddle in front of him as if she weighed no more than a blade of grass. He slipped both arms around her and drew her back into his chest.
Oh, my.
The feel of his arms holding her tightly against him caused her to stop breathing. Her heart raced wildly inside her chest. Once again, her mouth went dry. Nan rested her hands upon one of his forearms as he took up the reins and walked his horse from the woods. It took several minutes to reach the road and then the castle walls.
Nan wished they could have ridden together until dawn.
“Head for the keep,” she told him. “You don’t need to walk all the way from the stables.”
Tristan did as she said. When they arrived, she slid reluctantly from the horse’s back and motioned for the blacksmith to come from his shed where he stood watching them. Quickly, he brought back help so that Tristan could be taken to his chamber with a minimal effort on his part.
While four men made sure the noblemen arrived there safely, Nan flew up the stairs and knocked on the solar’s door. After waiting without acknowledgement, she rapped against the door even harder.
“Elysande! I need your help!”
Finally, the door opened. Michael stood in front of her, bare to the waist, his hair disheveled.
“This better be important, Nan,” he cautioned. “My wife and I were having a very interesting . . . discussion.”
“I shot an arrow through Tristan Therolde’s leg,” she blurted out as she felt her cheeks heat, fully knowing what kind of discussion she’d interrupted.
His eyebrows shot up. “I would say that qualifies as important. Come in.”
She entered and found Elysande exiting the solar’s bedchamber, her cheeks also full of color and her long hair unbraided, spilling down past her waist.
“You shot Lord Tristan?” she asked. “No, don’t tell me why. Guessing will be an intriguing game to play later.”
“I’ve dealt with this injury before several times. It occurs on the range every now and then. I need a few things if you don’t mind gathering them for me.”
Nan explained what she required and told Elysande to meet her in Lord Tristan’s chamber. She rushed to her own bedchamber to fetch something she always carried and hoped never to use. Locating the small satchel, she went to Tristan’s room and found the door open. He’d been placed on the bed. The men had left but a servant hovered nearby. She told the girl to bring boiled water, knowing Elysande would return with the rest of the needed supplies.
Approaching the bed, Nan saw the earl’s pain written across his face yet he mustered a smile as she came to stand next to him. She removed a pouch from her satchel and placed some of the crushed mandragora into a cup she found on a side table. Reaching for the wine sitting on the table, she poured a liberal amount and swished it around, mixing the wine with the plant.
Nan handed it to Tristan. “Drink this quickly. It will either dull the pain of what I must do or hopefully send you to sleep so that you won’t feel a thing.”
He dipped his nose down and inhaled suspiciously. “What is it?”
�
��Mandragora, a plant in the nightshade family. This has been crushed but it comes from a fleshy, forked root. Both my mother and older sister, Alys, are great healers. This is from Mother’s stock. I always keep it with me. Just in case . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“In case you puncture a man with one of your arrows?” he joked, causing her cheeks to heat further. Tristan brought the pewter cup to his lips and downed the contents. He grimaced.
“That’s why I told you to swallow quickly. I know it tastes unpleasant.” She looked about. “’Tis a very nice bedchamber. Elysande is a marvelous hostess.”
Nan began talking about insignificant things while she waited for the herb to take effect. At first, Tristan responded to her questions then slowly his words began to slur. Finally, his eyes closed. She only hoped they would stay that way.
By now, Elysande had arrived, along with the servant and the hot water. Michael also appeared, having dressed again. He shooed the servant from the room and looked from the sleeping earl to her.
“What would you have us do, Nan?”
She tore a piece of cloth Elysande had brought into strips and soaked them in the water. As she did, she said, “I’ve given him mandragora. He’s a large man so he may not be in a deep sleep now. When I begin, he’ll probably awaken. The herb will mask some, but not all, of the pain. I may need you to hold him still, Michael, if he begins to thrash about.”
Michael went and stood on the other side of the bed. “I’ll be ready,” he promised. “Even if I have to sit on him.”
Nan returned to the case and removed her probe, sometimes called the Spoon of Diocles, for the Greek physician who created it. The probe would help catch the arrowhead and remove it from Tristan with a minimum of damage since the best arrowheads were glued to their shaft with beeswax. Tristan’s body heat would have melted the wax, making it next to impossible to pull the shaft from him without stretching his skin and opening the wound further.
Elysande’s eyes went wide as she looked at the instrument.
