by Lisa Shea
She paused, and then looked up at him. “And, when it comes time, I want you to do it.”
His eyes shadowed, but he nodded.
In a few moments Johann was tying the ropes in place while Jeffrey went to fetch the mead. A thin, elegant man with an aquiline nose stepped into the tent with a strip of leather.
Philip gave a wave of introduction. “Isabel, this is Luigi, one of my companions.”
Luigi gave a formal bow. “I am honored to make your acquaintance.”
Jeffrey eased past him with a worn leather ale-skin and Isabel took it with relief. She popped the cork and downed the warm liquid in one smooth gulp.
Tendrils of liquid heat wriggled their way down her arms and legs, and she eased at the sensation. She handed the skin back to Jeffrey, nodding her thanks. Philip motioned with his head and the men all retreated from the tent, leaving them alone.
He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, holding her hand. “I will do this as quickly as I can,” he promised.
She gave her head a shake, twining her fingers into his. “No,” she corrected him.
His eyebrows raised in confusion.
“I want you to go as slowly and carefully as you can,” she insisted. “I can take the pain. I want you to keep the wound free of debris. Take whatever time you need to get that done. I need this leg.”
He gave her hand a squeeze, leant forward, and pressed his lips tenderly to her forehead. Then he called over his shoulder, “Johann, bring up the hot water and rags.”
Isabel settled the leather between her teeth, wrapped her hands into the ropes at either post, and let out a long, deep breath.
The German pushed aside the tent flap with his shoulder, then placed a pail and several clean rags on the floor beside Philip. He gave Isabel a gruff, steadying look of respect before nodding his head and leaving the enclosure.
Philip carefully unwound the bandage from the bolt, then with his dagger he made quick work of the dress on either side of the bolt, cutting the fabric free. Isabel held as still as she could against the pain as he carefully dabbed the wet rags around the wound, cleaning it on entry and exit side.
He held her with a long, fortifying glance, and then turned to look over his shoulder. His voice was hoarse but steady. “All right, Luigi.”
Cold fear nearly undid Isabel; the nightmares of her youth were coming to life fresh in front of her. Her mouth was half open to ask Philip to stop, that somehow, surely, she could live with the bolt through her thigh as a memento of this trip.
Then his hand was entwined with hers, his eyes were on hers, and strength eased in through her terror. She could do this, as long as he was there by her side.
Luigi shouldered the flap open, carefully holding the glowing, red-hot blade clear of the fabric. He rotated the blade in his grip, offering it hilt-first to Philip.
Philip looked down at Isabel. “Here it comes,” he warned her. “You should look away.”
She gave her head a shake, not trusting her voice, and after a moment he nodded.
Luigi’s voice was a low murmur. “You are a courageous woman.”
She watched, almost hypnotized, as Philip’s hands moved to either side of the bolt. He gave her one last look, and then he gave the length of wood a sharp twist to free it of any congealing blood and skin within the wound. She arched in agony, holding tightly to the leather straps. He worked slowly, carefully, and she could feel every tug, every motion as he eased the wood through the channel it had created in her body.
The moment the tail end of the bolt had been drawn fully into the wound, he took the hilt of the sword Luigi held steadily at his side. He swept the glowing tip around and pressed it with careful precision against the open entry wound.
Isabel was beyond thought. The pain coursed through every pore of her body; burst through her brain with the flaming power of an inferno. It seemed like an eternity before the sizzling noise stopped; before the pressure and burning eased.
A wet cloth was dragged across her forehead, and she clung to the soothing sensation with every last ounce of her will. She turned her eyes to raggedly focus on the steady gaze before her.
“Trust me,” he urged. “Let yourself go. I will take care of you.” His eyes glanced down to the remaining wound still to be cauterized, then back to her.
Her breath was coming in long, shaky draws, and the thought of another application of the sword sent tears coursing down her cheeks. Every instinct within her told her to stay conscious, to maintain control. But looking into those gray eyes, that steady gaze, she nodded. Somehow, inconceivably, she relaxed back against the pillow.
He was moving; the bolt was being drawn fully out. A heat was again drawing closer to her leg. And then finally, mercifully, a blessed blackness enveloped her.
Chapter 3
Isabel blinked her eyes open in confusion. She was lying on a bed. A golden sunset’s glow was flooding in through the open flaps of a canvas tent. Her thigh throbbed with pain, but it was a clean ache, not the angry fierceness of before. She looked down to see neat, well done bandages wrapped around her leg.
Philip’s body eased through the flap, his arms laden with a tankard of mead and a trencher of chicken. He stopped in surprise. “Awake already?”
She pushed herself up to a sitting position, shakily running a hand through her hair. “How long have I been out?”
“Not long at all,” he advised her, coming to sit beside her and lay down the meal. “I had just finished wrapping the wound and thought I’d find some provisions.”
Isabel’s eyes lit up with delight. “I am starving,” she admitted, her stomach growling. How long had it been since she had eaten a good meal? Was it really twelve long months?
Philip smiled in approval, first raising the tankard to her lips. The mead was warm and thick, and it eased a gentle blanket over the aches in her body. In a moment she was working her way through the chicken, each bite more delicious than the last.
“Easy there,” he advised with a grin, taking a sip of the mead. “We have plenty more. One of the merchants was bringing this over for a noble’s feast.”
She shook her head. “What a mix of tragedy and bounty. And to think it was sheer fate which had me on that boat in the first place. I’d been trying to find cheap passage for over a week and had been refused at every turn. Then, at the last minute, I was contacted about a spot on this boat. I thought my fortunes had finally lifted. Little did I know the boat was doomed to go down.”
His gaze was serious. “It was fortunate for all aboard that you were on the ship. If you hadn’t been, all could easily have drowned, and Marianne and her crew could have gotten away free as birds.”
“So, was Marianne seeking to plunder the ship?” Isabel asked between bites as her stomach found the long-lost sensation of becoming full. “Was she working with pirates?”
He shook his head, reaching over to snag a drumstick. “Luigi has stripped the attackers’ bodies, looking for any clues to their identities. The captain and his four sailors seem exactly what they had purported to be – men of the boat. Marianne’s garb was exquisite, but she could be any noble woman. She didn’t seem a pirate simply out for treasure.”
“And the two victims?”
He shook his head again. “Well armed. Perhaps noble soldiers? It is odd they carried no jewelry or mark of their crest on them.”
Isabel pursed her lips, putting down the last thigh. She drew her eyes up to meet Philip’s. “Who searched Marianne?”
His brows creased in confusion. “Luigi did.”
She turned her head and raised her voice. “Johann, could you come here?”
It was only a moment before the burly German had stepped into the tent, looking between the two. His worn face was creased with years of campaigning, and a thin scar snaked down along his left ear.
He asked in relaxed readiness, “How can I assist?”
“Johann, please search Marianne again. Search everywhere.”
A sp
arkle came to his eyes. He glanced back over his shoulder to where Luigi sat by the campfire, and he nodded. Without a word he turned and headed down the hill.
Philip’s gaze lit with curiosity. “What are you thinking?”
The corner of her mouth lifted in a grin. “I am thinking that different cultures sometimes have different attitudes about women,” she offered. “It won’t hurt to double check.”
He took a long draw with his mead, shaking his head in amused appreciation. A few long minutes passed as they finished up their meal. Then there were footsteps approaching the tent. Johann stepped in, holding a slender cylinder in his hand, about the size of an index finger. His eyes held the same sparkle, but he said not a word as he placed it in Philips’s hand, turned, and left.
Philip rotated the metal case around in his fingers. “The mark is of the Orsini family – one of the most powerful in all of Rome,” he mused. “I would warrant this case is pure silver.”
“Marianne probably took it off the two men,” added Isabel, staring at it. “It seems she was sent to intercept the message and to lose all evidence of her actions. If our boat went down in that storm, none would question it. None would think that message had been compromised in any way.”
Philip nodded, staring at the seal. “It makes sense. But who was this intended for? King John? Or perhaps the rebel nobles who stand against him and forced him to sign the Magna Carta last month?”
“Maybe we can find that out at Dover,” pondered Isabel. “Someone must be waiting there for the messengers to arrive, to help them to their final destination.”
He nodded, tucking the cylinder into the small leather bag at his hip. “I am sure in a few days they will send out some ships to find us, to see if we survived the storm.”
Her eyes drew up to his. His gray eyes … deep … compassionate …
Her breath left her.
Deep longing poured into her soul, sending tendrils around her toes, her fingers, her heart.
She murmured, “Two days. What shall we do for two long days?”
His eyes flared with heat. He leant down, his lips brushing hers, before he caught himself and glanced down at her thigh.
“You are barely bandaged from being impaled by a crossbow bolt,” he hoarsely reminded her. “You should heal.”
She gave a low growl, one hand moving to twine into the hair behind his neck. “Are you, or are you not, a soldier returning from the Crusades?”
His eyes flashed in surprise, but he nodded. “I am.”
“And are you well versed in battlefield repairs, to ensure a wound will not re-open if the fray starts up in minutes?”
A bright sparkle of amusement came to his gaze. “I am.”
“Do you think that a mere passionate kiss will undo what you so carefully have wrought?”
She brought her lips to trace along his neck.
“I think that –”
Her lips were on his, a growl of desire shook through him, and then there was no more discussion.
* * *
Isabel stared up at Philip in amazement, her eyes shining in the depths of the moonlight. Her breath was still coming in long draws, and she struggled to bring her thoughts into a semblance of order.
“God’s teeth, Philip, is kissing always that spectacular with you?”
A bright sparkle lit his eyes, and the white of his teeth shone as he smiled. His traced one hand lazily along the curve of her throat. “So you enjoyed that, did you?”
“Enjoyed that?” she breathed in disbelief. And then she was meeting his mouth again, and the world fell away.
* * *
The night was pitch black, a dazzling web of stars sparkled against the ebony velvet, and her breath slowly eased its way back to normal. She was sprawled across his sturdy chest, tracing her fingers down the weave of his shirt, drinking in the strength of his arm as it lay curled around her waist.
She reached up to gently press a kiss against his cheek, then fell back against him, exhausted.
Her voice was a mere whisper of a murmur. “God, I want to kiss you all night,” she pleaded, her eyes falling closed.
The soft touch of lips rested against her forehead for a long moment. “I will be here in the morning,” he promised her. His fingers gave a tender pat against her hip. “You need to sleep now.”
She nuzzled against him, sighing in complete pleasure, and drifted away.
* * *
Isabel’s mind drifted into fuzzy awareness. The gentle light of dawn was against her eyelids. Her leg throbbed with a steady ache, a breeze blew across her cheek, and the unmistakable length of a man’s body was alongside her.
She gave a soft groan. What hell-hole of a stables or alley had Diggory dragged her into this time? And what had he done to her leg? She swore - someday she would stand aside when he insulted someone. He deserved to endure the consequences of his actions.
A seagull’s call pierced the fog in her mind, and all of her senses snapped into awareness.
Diggory was dead.
Then who was this man at her side?
She had no idea how she had gotten into this predicament, but whoever this rogue was, he would have a rude awakening. If she could just get to her dagger. She always kept it to the left side of her bed. Slowly, carefully, keeping her eyes closed, she stretched her hand out.
A low voice rumbled from beneath her, calm, holding a trace of amusement. “Your belt and dagger are in a heap in the corner. However, if you would like my dagger, it is beneath our pillow.”
Her eyes flashed open.
Philip was watching her, lying still, his gaze traced with careful hesitation. She felt as if she were a delicate fawn, that he was concerned that the slightest wrong move could send her fleeing from him, perhaps never to return.
The events of the past day flooded in on her, and with them a soothing warmth. She lay back down against the pillow, comfort easing through her.
“Good morning,” she welcomed him.
His body’s tension melted away, and his hand came up to tenderly stroke her hair. “Good morning,” he agreed.
The fire and heat of the previous night had quieted in the golden dawn, but it left a different kind of warmth. Gone was the burning flame of cheating death and wishing to seize life in the richness of kissing. But in its place was the knowledge that this man had stood by her side when every second counted. That he had done what it took to save a ship full of innocents. And then, although undoubtedly exhausted, he had attentively, carefully, tended to her wounds with a skill she had rarely seen.
His eyes shone with emotion. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
She lifted a hand to twine it into his thick hair. “Just wondering if those kisses last night were seasoned strongly with my near-death experience, or if they really are that magical in the light of day.”
His mouth quirked up. “I suppose we could just see –”
There was a movement at the curtain, and a low cough sounded.
Johann’s smiling face poked through. “Did I hear someone say they were ready for breakfast?”
Chapter 4
Isabel smiled her thanks as Luigi spread the moss-green blanket across them. The man was careful to keep his eyes averted from her even though she was still fully dressed. Johann was far less circumspect as he brought them in a tankard of mead and a board spread with cheese and bread. He gave Philip a wink before drawing Luigi out of the tent. Luigi gave a flourishing bow as he eased the flap closed.
Isabel took a long swallow of the warm liquid, then drew her eyes to Philip’s face, tracing the curve of his lips with appreciation. She gave her head a shake.
“Yes?” asked Philip with a smile.
“I simply had no idea that kissing could be like that,” she admitted, leaning back against the headboard of the bed. “Married for twelve long months, and I was a babe in the woods.”
His eyes held a sparkle, but his voice was carefully neutral. “I take it your husband was not …
amorous?”
She scoffed. “Diggory? He was twenty years my senior, and if he wasn’t out studying dusty documents in the Cathedrals during the day, he was drinking and gambling in the taverns at night. I was fortunate he even remembered I was alive.”
Philip paused for a moment. “So why did you marry him?”
She took a long drink on her mead. “It is complicated,” she sighed. “Maybe because my father told me not to. Maybe to escape the harassing attentions of Lord Ingram, the man who shot me. Maybe to finally get away from home and see the world.” She wryly shook her head. “Diggory promised me travel, adventure, and instead …”
She let the words trail off, looking out the thin crease where the flap of the tent didn’t quite meet the edge. Instead he had ended up run down by a carriage, his broken body lying ignominiously amongst the trash and clutter of a crowded city street.
There was a movement before the tent, and a burly, red-haired man stepped in. Isabel remembered seeing him on the deck during their flight to the island.
Philip nodded to the man. “Braun, this is Isabel,” he introduced.
Braun’s weathered face broke into a grin. “As if the lass is not known in every corner of this sandy spot,” he teased. “A braver woman has never been found.”
His face became serious. “A ship has been sighted on the horizon.”
In an instant Philip was on his feet. For the first time Isabel was able to get a good look at him in the light. Every ounce of his body was sturdy muscle, well-honed through regular use. Several scars traced down his arms, attesting to the rough life he led.
He strapped on his sword with the speed of a trained soldier, and in a minute he was striding with Braun down the hill.
Isabel looked down at herself. Her dress was now covered with blood, and half of its lower section had been cut away. She had no other dress to wear. She shook her head in frustration, pulling the blanket closer to her.
