Surprising Rafael was a feat she would never tire of doing.
The eau-de-vie had shocked him fully. For a moment, Rafael had paled so much that Elizabeth had feared he might pass out, just as his companion had. But he inhaled sharply and narrowed his eyes, wavering only slightly on his feet. His jaw was clenched and his teeth bared, a sure sign of the agony he endured.
His expression turned wary again. Elizabeth knew he thought she could not do this, and Elizabeth was determined to prove him wrong.
No matter how her bile rose.
She threaded the needle.
“Ensure the wound is clean before you secure it,” he advised tightly. How had he stood all the night, then argued with her this morning, with this injury? She supposed he must have endured worse in his time.
No wonder he thought her a sheltered innocent. Just the sight of his flesh cut open so cruelly was nigh enough to make her retch.
“How?” she asked.
“Rinse your hand, then put your fingers into the wound. It is too deep to see clearly. You have to feel it.”
Elizabeth looked into his eyes, half thinking he made a jest. But nay, Rafael was deadly serious, his manner like that of Eleanor when she gave instruction.
Elizabeth took a deep breath and pried open the wound. She tried not to think of it as Rafael’s arm, though it was hard to do as much with him glaring down at her and the heat of his flesh beneath her hands. He flinched when she slid her fingertips into the warmth of the cut, then exhaled shakily.
“Any debris will hide at the deepest point of the wound,” he said, and she heard the strain in his voice.
She nodded and felt with care, easing something that looked like a shard of metal from the depths of the wound. She placed it on his discarded aketon and Gunter examined it closely. “From the blade in question, no doubt,” that man said. “You had best check again.”
Rafael closed his eyes and tipped his head back as Elizabeth did just that. She found no more shards and lifted her needle. “Eau-de-vie again,” Rafael whispered. “’Tis a cursedly expensive wound.”
The men laughed though he did not. Elizabeth winced in sympathy as the liquor made the open flesh more red, then rinsed the needle and thread and began to stitch.
“What would you have done without my embroidery needle?” she teased and his nostrils flared. “It seems a location you would have trouble reaching.”
“He would have had an ugly scar,” one of the men confided.
“My stitches would be poor indeed,” agreed another.
“Take more flesh,” Rafael advised, and she realized that he was watching her efforts. “So, it does not tear so readily before it heals.”
“You will have a scar, to be sure,” she said and he tried to smile, though it looked like more of a grimace.
“Simply another for my collection.”
It was true that there were a number of marks upon Rafael’s skin. Elizabeth did not want to be caught staring at his body, so she stitched quickly and with care. She wanted to finish it soon, but also to do a good job. She was keenly aware of the way he watched her, his gaze like a weight upon her. When she had closed the whole wound, he cleared his throat.
“A little more, mi piqueño ángel.” His husky tone sent a thrill to her, his voice pitched so that it seemed only she was to hear him. “If it tears, it will be much worse.”
“I could stitch it again.”
“I will not be in your vicinity.”
She lifted her gaze to his, not having considered that he would leave so quickly as this. She saw his conviction, though, and her heart chilled at its portent. Aware that the other men would hear any protest she made, Elizabeth did as Rafael instructed, then knotted the thread. She admired the neatness of her stitches for a moment, then, without thinking, bent to bite the thread, just as she oft did with her embroidery.
Her lips were on Rafael’s skin when she heard him inhale sharply. His flesh was warm against her mouth and the scent of the eau-de-vie filled her nostrils. She glanced up only to be snared by the intensity of his dark eyes. He did not blink, his gaze burning into hers as it had when he had kissed her.
Her heart skipped. Her mouth went dry. She could not move.
He was not so immune to her charms as he would have her think.
He was leaving to protect her from his impulses.
Elizabeth smiled against his skin, her confidence restored. For she, she was not immune to Rafael in the least. Never had a man prompted such a reaction within her. The ribbons convinced her that she was right to place her trust in him.
On impulse, Elizabeth pressed her lips against him fully, holding his gaze as she kissed the end of his wound. His nostrils flared then pinched shut, his eyes blazing. She thought he might swear and turn away, but she could not look away from his potent gaze.
It seemed the entire world fell away and there was naught for Elizabeth but Rafael. He bent a little closer, looking dangerous and determined, and her heart skipped as she wondered what he would say.
But she was not to know.
A hand fell on the back of Elizabeth’s waist in that moment and she started to find Malcolm behind her. “The stitches are not nearly so fine on any of your other scars,” her brother said to Rafael, his tone so resolute that Elizabeth straightened at the warning she heard there.
She saw how Malcolm met Rafael’s gaze, some accusation in his expression. Rafael actually appeared to be discomfited, which Elizabeth thought telling. “I thank you, my lady,” he said gruffly to her. “The angle was such that I could not have done it myself.”
“Indeed,” Malcolm said, clearly unconvinced.
“He wanted a pretty scar for a change,” one of the men jested, and they laughed.
Save Malcolm and Rafael, who continued to eye each other.
Elizabeth wanted to dismiss the tension between the two of them. “Will your comrade’s hand be saved?” she asked Rafael, indicating the man who had passed out.
Rafael shrugged and grimaced, his eyes narrowed as he considered his companion. “I have done my best.”
“Now the matter is in God’s hands,” said a grey-haired man in the company.
“Rafael’s best is better than most can do, Gunter,” Malcolm said and that warrior nodded agreement. “We have been blessed indeed by Rafael’s expertise.”
“You speak aright,” the first man conceded. “The Sable League would be far smaller, without your gift with strategy and Rafael’s talent for healing.”
An awkward silence fell over the men then, and Elizabeth realized they were thinking of Malcolm no longer fighting with them. Again she spoke to cover the silence. “How was he injured?”
“Ranulf has a skill with Greek fire,” Gunter said. “He must have cut the fuse too short, thus the explosive ignited when he had not thrown it far.”
“Did he see the arrival of the Fae?” she asked. Again she felt rather than saw the change in their manner. They might have closed ranks against her and their expressions turned impassive.
“Demons,” Rafael corrected softly.
“They are not demons,” Elizabeth said with some impatience. “They are Fae, beings other than us who live amongst us and have powers beyond our own.”
Rafael’s eyes narrowed. “They are wicked.”
“They have not our sense of morality,” Elizabeth said. “Though I am not certain that makes them wicked. They do keep their pledges.”
He considered her for a moment, then turned away. Elizabeth watched him, hungry for his attention, but knowing he would not give it again before Malcolm.
One of the men cleared his throat. “I know only that I saw naught last eve that I would confess to seeing.”
The others nodded and this time Malcolm filled the silence. “I thought we would see Reynaud buried on the morrow, in the morning, if that is amenable to all of you.” The men nodded agreement. “Catriona wished him laid in what passes for our chapel. The earl’s men will be taken back to his lands and
a few mercenaries in his employ buried here on this day, but Catriona believed you might all appreciate more time to say farewell to Reynaud. We shall bury him at first light.”
“A marked grave?” one man asked, glancing up.
Were they accustomed to their fellows being laid to rest with less dignity than that? By their manner, Elizabeth guessed so.
Rafael was right that she had many assumptions that were not shared by his kind.
She would simply have to learn.
She looked up in time to see Malcolm’s fleeting smile. “Aye, for so befits a friend of the Laird of Ravensmuir. If you all think it acceptable, he could be laid to rest beneath the floor of the new chapel.”
“That would be a fine tribute, Malcolm,” Gunter said, and he seemed to Elizabeth to be overcome with emotion.
“Not too near the altar,” Amaury jested and poked Gunter in the shoulder. “We would not see all those laid to rest at Ravensmuir condemned because of the company they would keep.”
The men chuckled together, but Elizabeth was aware that something had changed in their manner. They were pleased by Malcolm’s offer.
Perhaps their assumptions were not so different, after all. Circumstance shaped much in their lives, but not perhaps their desires.
“We all have labor this morn,” Malcolm said. “But there will be a hot meal in the hall at midday, and with the slightest smile from Dame Fortune, a fresh delivery of both bread and ale from Kinfairlie as well.”
One man shook a finger at Malcolm. “You fare well at this task of lordship for one so new to its demands,” he teased.
“It is my lady wife who considered such practicalities. She has a talent for inventories and planning, it appears, which suits me very well.” Malcolm smiled down at Elizabeth. “And so it is a happy day when a man and a woman bind their lives together, each shouldering half of the burden in seeing their duties done. Come along, Elizabeth. I shall have to lend my aid to Alexander in finding you such a happy match.”
There was no question of denying Malcolm and Elizabeth saw from the line of his mouth that he would tolerate no argument from her. The mercenaries bowed to her, all save Rafael who simply watched, and Elizabeth took Malcolm’s elbow as he led her away.
“You wanted me away from them,” she charged quietly. “Why? They are your guests.”
“And Alexander has not only arrived, but fears for your virtue, which is his obligation as your oldest brother and guardian,” Malcolm said mildly.
Irritation surged through Elizabeth. “They are simply men.”
“Aye, they are simply men,” Malcolm agreed. “Men accustomed to taking what they desire. Men who plan for the next hour of their lives and no more. Men who have no roots, who would forget their histories, who have learned to ensure their own survival, comfort and pleasure first.” He glanced down at her. “They are not evil men, Elizabeth, but neither are they men who have the same expectations as you.” He raised his brows. “Much less those of Alexander.”
Elizabeth felt her lips tighten. “Alexander bade me choose my own spouse.”
Malcolm laughed. “He did,” he admitted, his eyes sparkling. “But not from that company.”
Elizabeth halted to confront her brother, folding her arms across her chest. “What if I told you that I see my ribbon entwined with that of Rafael?”
Malcolm sobered. “Then you would have my condolences, for you would be doomed to live your life alone. I have never met a man so sure of his place in the world as Rafael.” He tapped a finger on her arm. “And I would wager all of Ravensmuir that if you told him of your admiration for him and desire to wed him, that he would decline the honor without hesitation.”
Elizabeth felt her cheeks heat beneath Malcolm’s knowing regard.
He shook his head and spoke gently. “The key, Elizabeth, in waging war is to recognize when a battle cannot be won, and to retreat without squandering one’s resources to no good end.” He raised that finger when she might have protested. “I would ask for your assistance on this morn where triumph can be won.”
“What do you mean?”
“The hall needs to be set to rights before the meal, and Catriona is nigh overwhelmed.”
Elizabeth frowned. “But all was orderly there last evening...”
“Yet during the night, a miracle occurred.”
“I do not understand.”
“You will soon enough.” Malcolm smiled mysteriously, then ushered Elizabeth toward the hall.
Such was her curiosity that she went.
When Elizabeth walked away with Malcolm, Rafael knew he should have been glad to see her go. Instead, the company of his fellows seemed lacking.
He was tempted to turn and watch her progress across the bailey.
Rafael was still amazed that Elizabeth had taken his dare and tended to his wound. He was still shaken by the kiss she had granted to him, touching her lips to his wound. There had been a moment of potent intimacy there, a moment in which he could have been persuaded that she was the woman for him, a heartbeat in which he might have believed she was right about their entwined fates.
Nay, it had been a moment in which he had yearned that she might be right. It would suit him well to have such a woman as this at his side. Though Rafael had never imagined he might have such an opportunity, though he knew better than to hope for what could not be readily gained, Elizabeth made him wish he were another man. She was not readily daunted or frightened, this maiden, and he found his admiration for her only grew with each exchange.
The spell she cast was a potent one indeed.
Rafael lifted the flask and shook it, revealing that there was still some eau-de-vie within it. It would not go to waste, to be sure. Rafael took a mouthful himself then passed it around. The others each took a swig in turn, and the liquor restored their usual manner.
In the silence, he knew they all thought of Ranulf being maimed and Reynaud being dead. Ranulf stirred a little, and Amaury gave him the last of the eau-de-vie.
“And so we live to fight another day,” Gunter said grimly, then nodded to the others. “The Sable League rides from the battlefield again.”
There was a grunt of satisfaction at that. “Anyone else in need of tending?” Rafael asked, but they shook their heads in unison.
“Scratches and nicks,” Tristan said.
“Naught a cup of ale will not mend,” agreed Louis.
“Or another such pleasure,” Giorgio said heartily. They nudged him as one, for he was the sole one of the party whose whore had not only traveled with them but had accepted only his attentions.
Bertrand claimed the last of the eau-de-vie then shoved a hand through his dark hair. “So, only Reynaud does not rise to fight again.”
They crossed themselves as one, then silently divided the labor before them. Bertrand, Tristan and Giorgio went to Reynaud, then carried his corpse to the tent being raised over the place where Catriona would have her chapel built. The canopy would protect the bodies from the sun while the graves were dug. Several of the boys were already digging in spots indicated by Malcolm. The horses had to be tended and then weapons would have to be cleaned and sharpened, in preparation for another day.
There was labor aplenty to be done, and Rafael was not the sole man who would want to wash the mire of battle from his skin. One of the squires confided that there were tubs filled behind the stables, and though he would not have the first water, bathing would still be welcome.
Then Rafael would tend to his steed. His most costly possession and his most loyal one would be skittish. It was the nature of horses to distrust the smell of blood, and it was a healthy impulse, to be sure. Rayo tolerated battle better when he was in the midst of it, likely because he could see. Being tethered in a stall while a battle waged always left the destrier troubled.
And truly, tending Rayo would settle Rafael just as much as it did the destrier. Elizabeth had vexed him because he was exhausted, no more than that.
He knew the nightmares
would come when he eventually did sleep.
They always did after a battle. It was one fact upon which he could rely.
Rafael would have to become drunk if he meant to sleep dreamlessly this night, and it was easy to resolve to do as much.
Indeed, that might convince Elizabeth that he was not the man she believed him to be. Rafael could not think of a single tale in which a knight showed his valor by becoming drunk beyond belief in his patron’s hall. Indeed, such a lack of grace was oft the mark of a villain destined to die.
His was the perfect plan, in more ways than one.
The bath water was cold and it was not very clean, but Rafael scrubbed himself down thoroughly all the same. At least there was soap, given that they were at Ravensmuir, and he had a clean chemise in his pack.
As usual, his birthmark was noted and commented upon. The strange thing was that after his experience of the night before Rafael could not make his usual jest. He had a port wine mark on his buttock that looked like an open hand, though it was a little larger than a man’s hand. He usually jested that it was the Devil’s hand upon him, just to frighten the squires, but on this day, he could not utter the words.
He had seen the King of the Dead, after all, and visited Hell itself. It was much tougher to be skeptical of judgment and the wages of sin when he had spent the night with Franz.
He rubbed himself down and dressed in clean chausses and that chemise, tugging on his boots before he strode back to the stables. His hair was wet but he did not care.
All was bustling in the stables, just as he had anticipated. The squires worked steadily, along with the other warriors from the Sable League who had already joined them. The horses had been brushed down the night before, and they were in their stalls. Most were dozing or nosing in their hay, stamping their feet and swishing their tales. At the sight of Rafael, one of the squires came running.
“A number of the steeds have been injured,” the boy said, his tone breathless. “And there is no ostler at Ravensmuir. Could you aid them?”
“Of course.” Indeed, Rafael welcomed the task.
Once again, his skills were of use, for a cut upon the flesh of a horse was not that different from one upon a man’s skin. To his relief, none of the steeds had broken a limb in the battle, and none had been killed. There were a variety of scratches and cuts to be tended, and he noticed that several of the squires had sustained greater injuries. He spent the morning busily occupied and it was welcome labor.
All's Fair in Love and War: Four Enemies-to-Lovers Medieval Romances Page 113
