Silverhawk

by Bettis, Barbara

  Emelin settled for a touch in passing. She dug in the pack for a fresh rag to dress the most recent wound. Another scar in the making. It could have used stitching, but the gouge would likely be healed before they reached a needle and thread.

  “At the bottom,” he said, “pieces of cloth.”

  She pulled out a rough square of old linen. Soft and clean. He traveled prepared. But how to keep the bandage in place? Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she grabbed two items and knotted them together to make one long piece of fabric, then shoved it toward him

  Giles dangled the long strip. “These are my other hose.”

  If he laughed, so help her, she’d do him a worse injury. “I’ll wrap it around and tie it over the bandage.” She laid the folded linen over the wound, then placed his other hand on it. “Hold please.”

  His chest shook, but he—wisely, Emelin judged—uttered not a sound.

  She wrapped the knotted hose around one side of his waist, then leaned in to catch the other end. And found her cheek against his chest. Why hadn’t she thought this binding thing through?

  His scent filled her. Mingled with blood were the faint odors of dried perspiration and the spicy, musky male essence that was his alone. Gently, a large hand cupped her head in place. Her own hand flew up to steady herself. Beneath her cheek, his skin was smooth, slightly cool in the autumn air. A dark curl tickled her nose. She moved her fingers to brush at it then used the leverage to push away.

  He allowed her to straighten, but his hand trailed down to rest at the small of her back. She noticed another scar, this one high on the left side under his bulging shoulder muscles. Her fingertips touched it.

  “Almost over your heart,” she murmured, caught in his gaze.

  “Yet I’m heart-whole.” Again his soft murmur carried humor—and a current of sadness.

  Before she realized what she intended, Emelin leaned forward and brushed her lips across the old wound. With a gasp, she jerked back but not before she saw his flat brown nipple crinkle.

  She tried to slip around him again, but his fingers caught her wrist, trapped her.

  “I have other scars.” The rich rumble tingled up her spine. “Make them well.”

  “I see no others.” Her voice choked, and she looked away as she edged around his back. He tugged her arm beneath his own. Her breasts brushed his shoulder.

  He urged her loosely curled fingers to the center of his chest. With gentle pressure he flattened her palm against his skin. Warm now. Her gaze flew up, locked with his. “Here,” came a whisper.

  Slowly he drew her hand to the rough rumple of his other nipple. “Here.” Across, down the hard muscles of his torso her fingers inched to a healed slash. “And here.”

  She felt the sparse hair thicken as he pulled her forward, his hand edging hers downward. He paused on the lacings at his waist. “Here.”

  His warm breath danced into her ear. She shivered, suddenly aware of her body pressed to his, her arm wrapped around him. Her fingers flexed to pull back. Instead they threaded through soft, coarse curls that peeped above his ties. She stiffened, leaned away. But she could not look away.

  Darkness cushioned his eyes. They contained a question, and something else she could not name. She longed to continue the exploration downward, to touch, to hold…

  “You’re wicked,” she whispered, a smile in her words.

  “It’s one of my best qualities.”

  With an insistent yet gentle pressure, he pulled her around to face him fully. She found herself standing between his legs; his hand moved upward to her elbow. Surely there was enormous power in that hand, for just its touch compelled her. His eyes glowed silver in the shadows.

  Emelin drifted forward, her chin tilted. She could not pretend she acted against her will. This kiss was one she wanted, sought. Lips met, breath sounded in a soft hiss. His? Hers? It didn’t matter. Desire spiraled from her shoulders to her toes. The moan was hers. She pressed closer, felt the hardness of his erection. The answering moistness at her core.

  His fingertips brushed her tender breasts, traced a line down to her mound. He rubbed gently, firmly. Her hips arched against his hand. More. He seemed to hear her unspoken cry. But the pressure of his strokes only increased the ache. She whimpered.

  Giles lifted his arms to encircle her—she felt him wince.

  The wound! How could she be so lost in the moment to forget he was injured? Waves of embarrassed heat flooded her. How mortifying. All remnants of desire evaporated.

  Oh, dear heaven. He must think her the worst wanton in existence. Never mind what she thought of herself.

  She pulled away—carefully, so not to cause him pain. “This is foolishness. We must get that bound.” The end of the fabric lay beside them on the rock.

  “Wait.” His eyes opened. She didn’t know if the brightness in them was pain or desire, but his gaze beckoned. It would be so easy to lose herself in desire once more. She must not. Determined, she exerted control over her fickle emotions and stepped back.

  He released his grip on her waist, but the disappointment on his face must match hers. “Very well. There’s ointment in my pack. Use that first.”

  Emelin grabbed the pack, riffled through it. “There’s nothing here. Just clothes.”

  “There must be. Look again.”

  She dumped the contents on the ground for him to see. Eye narrowed, he muttered a word she didn’t understand, then, “It’s lost.” Disgust and regret rang in his voice.

  Neither of them spoke as she tied off the bandage. The wound wasn’t long and didn’t seem deep. She prayed it would heal quickly. As she worked, she could feel him retreat into himself. She looked up.

  His eyes were blank, his voice cold. “Get some sleep. We’ve miles to cover tomorrow.”

  From his attitude, the kiss, the caress might never have happened. Just as well. She must be careful. I don’t need one more thing to confuse my life. It would be the depth of folly to develop any feelings for her abductor.

  But as she spread the blankets for their bed, she felt the dampness on her thighs, and a delicious ache that wanted easing.

  Caution may have come too late.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Emelin watched the eastern horizon lighten. A cool breeze nudged her cheeks, snaked down her neck. She shivered. The warmth at her back was gone. Odd that she’d grown used to that solid presence behind her in such a brief time. Giles must have awakened already. Likely caring for the horses. Who would have thought the mare could find her way back to the campsite yesterday?

  Yesterday. Resolutely she closed her mind to the emotions he had surprised in her. If a mere touch could evoke such sensation, what would a real embrace induce?

  She refused to think of that. She shoved aside the memories that had warmed her better than blankets. Later. To relive them again served no purpose. She was bound to Langley, but her dark knight had rescued her. Had cared enough to follow and fight for her, in spite of her foolishness in leaving him again. Giles had been here for her.

  And he’d been wounded. That, too, was her fault. What did she feel for him? She needed to unravel the knotted strands of emotion balled in her chest.

  Between two trees, she watched the sun’s fiery belly swell into the sky. She should rise, as well. She’d check on Giles’ wound when he returned, then pack so they could get on the road to Granville.

  She rolled over and bumped into a mound of blankets. So he was still asleep. Given what he’d been through yesterday, he deserved rest. Her body protested as she struggled to her feet. Blanket clutched around her shoulders, she sought privacy to relieve herself.

  Giles hadn’t moved by the time she returned. That certainly wasn’t like him. Her stumbles through the underbrush had made noise enough to wake the heaviest sleeper.

  She knelt and touched his shoulder.

  He didn’t budge.

  She shook him gently.

  He didn’t wake.

  Emelin gulped down w
orry and tried once more. At a hard nudge, he muttered and pulled away.

  Fearful now, she placed a hand on his forehead—and gasped. He was on fire. A touch to the cheek confirmed it. So much for the unimportant injury.

  She tried to roll him over, but he resisted. Carefully she pushed aside the blanket then pulled at his shirt. The movement brought him up with a roar.

  His fist arced out. She ducked, but it connected with her shoulder. “Oh.” She hit the ground.

  The impact woke him and he stilled, frowned as if trying to remember. “Emelin. Are you all right? What happened?” His eyes were bloodshot, but he seemed lucid.

  “Your wound.” She crawled to his side. “You’re feverish. Let me look at it.”

  “I’m fine.” His hand held the hem of his tunic in place. “Stop fussing.”

  “No, you’re burning up. Here.” She tugged his arm aside, untied the wrapping, lifted the bandage. And hissed. The edges of the wound were purplish and ugly. Blood oozed around them.

  “It’s bleeding. That swing you took opened it. I’ll get water. Where is the ointment you talked of? Let me apply some.”

  “Gone, remember? Must have lost it. Doesn’t matter.” He jerked away and managed to gain his feet. “This dagger prick is nothing to some injuries I’ve had. It will heal.”

  As he straightened, he grimaced. But when Emelin offered support, he waved her off. “I’ll get the horses ready,” he insisted.

  She watched him walk away. He would drop before he admitted weakness. True she had no experience with knife wounds, but a child could tell the gash in Giles’ side was turning bad. They had to find a healer before infection took hold.

  Their few belongings quickly stashed, Emelin raced to help with the horses. How he managed to toss the saddle on the mare, she didn’t know, but his movements were steady, methodical, as he cinched the girth.

  “You take the saddle,” she insisted. It would be hard enough for him to ride, but without the support it gave, he couldn’t make it. How she wished the other hadn’t been left behind.

  “Giles.” She sucked in her breath and adopted her best Mother Gertrude tone. “You must not ride without the saddle. Your injury would become worse.”

  He ignored the words, took the bag, and hooked it over the pommel. Then he motioned her closer.

  Surely he didn’t intend to lift her up. That might irritate the wound. He was stubborn, but so was she.

  “No.” Emelin lifted her hand to stop him. “I can manage.”

  At the rock, Emelin balanced with a foot on the rough surface and grasped the mare’s mane in one hand, reins in the other. It was all so reminiscent of the night she first tried to escape. With her foot in the stirrup, she shoved off and managed to land on the saddle—just.

  He’d already mounted, and they set out. Emelin watched him intently as they made their way north. Occasional travelers on the narrow road sometimes forced them to ride single file, and she made it a point to drop behind when that happened. Should he tumble from the gelding’s back at least she would see him fall. He rode like a statue. It had to be sheer will that kept him erect, but he wouldn’t hear of halting.

  The events of the day before circled in her mind. She wanted to discuss them with Giles, but there had been no time. The men she stumbled on were no ordinary outlaws. They talked of taking her to a Lord Paxton. That was the name of the king’s man who stopped at Langley shortly after she arrived.

  If they served the king’s man, why kill Giles? She remembered their conversation. When they saw it was him in pursuit, the three men chortled. What had currant-eyes said? “It’s him. Our little chick here’s been traveling with the Hawk. Satan’s backside, if this day don’t get better and better. Time to collect our reward, men.”

  Why would they get a reward for Silverhawk?

  She stared at Giles’ back, stiff as a rod. He must be suffering, but he’d die before he showed it.

  Should they stop or continue? She wanted to look at the wound; he wouldn’t allow it. Drawing closer, she noted his rigid face. It was as if he were removed from reality, had distanced himself from the discomfort.

  Heavenly Father, please bring us help. She whispered a groan. What a stupid prayer. Surely she could do better than that.

  The sun was well overhead when she at last called out, “I must stop.” That was no lie. Her water was nearly gone, but not once had she observed Giles drink. He must be parched.

  She wondered if he’d heard her, but after a moment he guided Nuit off the road. She slid to the ground and came to his side.

  “Take some water,” she ordered.

  His eyes slowly focused as he looked down at her. Emelin pointed to the container hung around his neck. “Drink.” Beneath its sun-browned surface, his face was flushed.

  “You need a drink?” He placed the reins in his left hand and removed the cord with his other. “Hurry if you need to be private. We must make Granville Castle today.”

  Fevered as he was, his mind still fixed on their destination. She shook her head in wonder. Again she tried to make him understand what she wanted.

  “While I’m gone, drink and bathe your face with the water. You look very warm.”

  She ran to her mount and unhooked the bag with their food. Returning to Giles, she handed up a chunk of hard bread and the last of the cheese. She wasn’t hungry anyway.

  “Try to eat a bit.” He had to maintain strength.

  Emelin headed toward the underbrush, hiking her skirts as she went. Praise Mary the road was deserted right now. When she returned, Giles was drinking.

  “The horses need water,” he announced. His voice was even and he seemed rational again.

  “That stand of trees there,” he nodded to the right, “may signal a stream.” Without waiting, he nudged the black forward.

  Emelin grabbed the mare’s reins and followed on foot. It wasn’t far enough to remount. Eyes on Giles, she tried to decipher his condition. Earlier she would have vowed fever consumed him. Yet his posture the entire morning was as erect and poised as if he approached enemy territory. And just now, although his eyes were bloodshot, they seemed focused and his conversation coherent.

  Perhaps his injury wasn’t as bad as she thought. He was a knight, after all, and his body bore the evidence of battles. More than once, Giles had suffered wounds worse than the dagger jab in his side. Perhaps she overreacted. Still, memory persisted of burning skin where she’d touched him.

  He reached the small copse of trees and slid from Nuit’s back. Both man and horse disappeared. Tugging on the reins, Emelin picked up her pace. The stream, when she reached it, was little more than a trickle over pebbles. The mare shouldered its way beside the gelding for a cool drink.

  Giles stood nearby. Emelin went to the water, dampened the hem of her gown and returned to him. Sliding the material up to her waist, she swiped the dampness across his forehead and cheeks. He didn’t pull away, although he wouldn’t face her.

  “Will you sit?” she asked. If possible, his skin was hotter than before. How could he continue?

  “I sat all morning,” he replied. His voice was rusty, and he cleared his throat. “I need to move around.” He stood still. “If your friend at the cottage gave the right direction, we should reach Granville before dark. You’ll be safe there.”

  He looked at her at last, and she swallowed hard. His eyes were glazed.

  “We must find help.” She touched his arm. “Your injury may be infected, and you need to rest. I see nothing here that I can use, and I have no herbs with me, as you know.”

  He shook off her hand. “We go on.”

  How either of them were to remount, Emelin didn’t know. But somehow she reached the stirrup with a foot, clutched the saddle, and driven by determination, pulled herself up. This time she didn’t bother to congratulate herself. But she wanted to kiss the mare for standing patiently through it all.

  As for Giles, he grasped Nuit’s mane, and the gelding did something Emelin could
n’t believe. The black folded its front legs and kneeled. With a muffled grunt, Giles slid on and the horse rose.

  “Ready?” he rasped. Before she could answer, he kneed his mount and set off.

  ****

  Giles concentrated on breathing. In. Out. Pain could be mastered. After a moment, he forced his mind back to the road. Scan left, then right. Watch for movement, flashes of sun off armor. No use to listen for unusual sounds; the ringing in his ears drowned anything. He clenched his jaw against the black spots at the edge of his vision.

  It was a struggle to stay upright, to remain alert for any other attackers. Would the three he dispatched yesterday be missed? Had anyone found the bodies? Was their employer awaiting their return with proof he was dead? He had to protect Emelin, get her to safety. Once they reached Granville Castle, he could leave her and proceed.

  His mouth was wooly from the fever that burned through him. The damned knife had done its work after all. If the monks’ ointment hadn’t been lost… Nothing to be done about that right now. Perhaps at Granville, he could find a healer before he continued.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Emelin ride closer, saw her head swing his way. She worried about him. He wasn’t used to a woman’s concern.

  He’d jeopardized her with his arrogant insistence that he knew best. Dragging her across the middle of England, through storm and cold, he’d exposed her to the worst kind of danger—the dogs who had taken her.

  Her own stubborn determination to escape hadn’t helped.

  No. He couldn’t blame her. She was a good lady who should have a fine home, an honorable lord to protect her. Not a bastard knight whose only claim to fame lay in killing.

  Still, she showed courage and resourcefulness. Not only had she slipped away from him, but she’d wielded that branch with audacity. He was proud of her.

  His stiff lips curved a mite. His Emelin was quite a lady, all right. Spirited and passionate. Had he mentioned stubborn?

  They’d traveled but a short distance when Giles caught sight of movement ahead to the left. Riders. Likely nothing to worry about. Nevertheless, the two of them should leave the road.