Chapter 3 #3
Confused, she turned back to face him.
He gave her a suspicious frown. “Why do you touch me?”
She immediately let go. “I didn’t mean to offend you, milord. I was only thinking that I could tend your wound better if you were seated.”
“My squire can tend my wound.”
She lifted her brow at him. “Milord, if the scar on your neck is a testament of the boy’s handiwork, then I beg you to please allow me to stitch your forehead. I shudder to think of the scar he would leave.”
As if hearing his name, his squire appeared from the side of the donjon. He had a stool in his right hand, a bowl in his left, and a linen towel draped over his shoulder.
“Lord Simon told me to fetch this for you, milord,” he said to Draven. “I also brought a cloth and water.”
Lord Draven stood a moment as if debating something, then he finally spoke. “Where would milady like the stool placed?”
For some reason she felt as though she’d won some kind of skirmish with him.
“Over there, please.” She pointed to the spot where Simon had been resting earlier.
The boy ran to obey her.
Emily led the way with Draven no more than a step behind. As she walked, she could feel his gaze on her like a gentle caress. She sensed that he wanted to touch her and yet the very idea seemed ridiculous, especially given the tone of his voice when he asked why she’d touched him to begin with.
His squire placed the stool where she told him, then quickly ran off to fetch his master’s sword and helm from the training field.
Draven settled himself on the stool while Emily dipped one corner of the towel in water.
No sooner had he removed his mail gauntlets and balanced them on his thigh, than Alys came with her basket and wine.
“Thank you, Alys.” She took them from her and placed them on the ground next to the bowl of water.
To her consternation, Alys, who stood directly behind Lord Draven, looked at the back of his head, then met Emily’s gaze and patted her chest to indicate her heart raced the way Emily’s did. If that wasn’t bad enough, Alys balled her hand into a fist and bit her forefinger.
Emily felt heat sting her cheeks at her maid’s pantomimed expressions.
Draven took that moment to look at Emily, then seeing where her gaze was directed, he turned about to catch Alys still biting her hand.
Alys’s smile faded and she took her hand out of her mouth and shook it. “Darn fleas. Bit me something silly last night.”
Lord Draven looked less than convinced as he turned back to Emily.
Alys locked gazes with her and lifted her brows several times. “Milady has all she requires?” Alys asked in a voice that conveyed her meaning of I’ll gladly be going to leave the two of you alone.
“Aye, Alys, thank you.”
“Should milady have any further need of me for anything,” Emily cringed at the way Alys stressed the word, “please don’t hesitate to call.”
“I won’t, Alys.” Emily gave her a pointed glare. “Thank you.”
Alys made one last kissing face at Lord Draven, then rushed off to the keep.
Embarrassed to the core of her soul, Emily picked up the towel and dampened a corner of it.
“Tell me, milady, is your maid possessed of some strange demon that makes her dance about so?”
Emily wrung out the towel. “If the demon has a name, milord, I fear we must call it mischievousness.”
She bathed Lord Draven’s wound. His brow was warm to her touch and unlike her father, Lord Draven didn’t hiss as the cloth scraped his skin. He merely watched her with an intense gaze that seemed to burn her skin.
“Most ladies would beat their maids for such insolence.”
“Well, I am not hypocrite enough to punish her for a sin that is so dear to my own heart.”
His gaze softened. “Aye, I have a feeling that you could well tutor her on the subject.”
Emily smiled. “Comparatively speaking, she is but a novice and I a master craftsman.”
As she brushed her hand through his curls to remove them from his wound, she was struck by how soft his hair was compared to the rest of him. It was like fine silk sifting between her fingers.
“You smell like apples and cinnamon,” he said gruffly.
Emily paused and held the cloth to his brow. “‘Tis a perfume my sister wears,” she whispered. “I always told her she would attract more flies and bees with it than men.”
He frowned. “Then why are you wearing it?”
“I miss her, and wearing it comforts me.”
He looked away.
Licking her dry lips, she retrieved a needle and thread from her basket, then dipped them in the cup of wine.
He sat with his legs wide apart and his hands on his knees. Emily tried not to notice the way he surrounded her as she stepped between his legs to stitch his wound. Nor the fact that her bosom, which drew strangely taut, was level with his gaze.
“I’m afraid this will sting a bit.”
He snorted. “I assure you, milady, I have been stitched enough times not to notice.”
A point he proved well as she completed the first stitch. He remained as still as a statue. Her father would have cursed and jerked, as had any man she’d ever stitched. But Lord Draven just sat there lost in his thoughts as she made three tiny stitches to close the wound.
Stepping away, she retrieved her silver scissors from the basket.
“You have a gentle touch.” His deep voice was strange to her ears.
“Thank you, milord. ‘Tis not in my nature to hurt people.”
She cut the thread, then reached for the bag of herbs she kept in her basket. While she prepared a poultice to keep the swelling down and reduce the chance for infection, she felt him again watching her every move.
“What brought milady to the field this morning?”
Emily mixed her herbs with the wine. “I was wondering why no one was in the hall, breaking the fast.”
“‘Tis not my habit to do so until mid-morning.” He glanced away from her. “I shall have Druce inform the cooks to rise early and have your food prepared for you.”
“Druce?” she asked as she spread the poultice over his brow. His skin was so different from her own. It was smooth, but not delicate. Just masculine.
“My squire.”
“Ah…” She finished her ministrations. When she bent down to reach for the towel, her hip inadvertently grazed his inner thigh.
He hissed sharply, then sprang to his feet so quickly she gave an involuntary shriek.
Before she could apologize, he was out of her hearing range.
Draven took long, deep breaths as he struggled with the fire coursing through the entire length of his body. His thigh ached as if someone had placed a hot iron to it.
Had he stayed one more instant with her, he would have dishonored them both.
With no thought save to put as much distance between them as possible, he headed into the stable which unfortunately was occupied by Simon.
“I thought you were in the donjon,” Draven snapped at his brother who was standing over the makeshift pallet Draven had made the night before.
“I heard from Druce that you had moved your things in here and sought to verify that fact.”
Draven tried to ignore him as he removed his surcoat. “Where is my squire?”
“Eating last I saw. Here, let me assist you.”
Draven gave him his back so that Simon could unbuckle and unlace his armor.
“Why did you give the lady your solar?”
Draven felt his jaw flex. “‘Tis none of your business.”
“I know, but I’ve never seen you act so strangely.”
Closing his eyes, Draven wished for once that Simon would just go away. But he knew him well enough to know Simon wouldn’t leave until he had whatever answers he sought. ‘Twas the most annoying habit of a man who had numerous annoying habits. “If I stay away from her, I won’t be able to harm her.”
He felt Simon grip his mail hauberk in his fist. “How many times must I tell you, you are not your father?”
Draven shrugged his grip off, then jerked the heavy hauberk over his head. “You don’t know me as well as you think, brother.”
Simon gave him a feral glare of anger. “I’ve never once seen you strike out in anger, why—”
“What of your back?” he asked, interrupting him.
The anger fled from his features as his face paled considerably. “We were children, Draven, and I hit you first.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He tried to banish the sight of his brother bleeding on the ground, wounded by his own hand. “I almost killed you that day.”
“You’ve never raised a hand against me since.”
“Because you’ve never made me angry.”
Simon snorted. “Well, it certainly wasn’t from lack of effort on my part.”
“I don’t find you amusing.”
“See,” Simon said triumphantly. “You’re angry at me now and yet you do nothing to harm me.”
“‘Tis not the same,” he insisted. “I cannot, nay,” Draven corrected, “I will not take such a chance.”
Simon shook his head and sighed. “More’s the pity then. You deserve someone to love you, Draven. I’ve tried, but you push me away as you do anyone who tries to get close to you.”
His brother leaned against the stall behind him and folded his arms over his chest. “I was only thinking that mayhap this woman could be the answer to my prayers. That at last you would be forced to see that you can be with a woman and not hurt her.”
Draven wished he could believe that. But he knew better. He was possessed of the same rage as his father and was as powerless to stop it.
How many times in battle had he killed without even feeling it? Once his rage took root in him, he became its pawn. He felt nothing, saw nothing or knew nothing until it passed. And then more times than not, ‘twas too late for the poor soul who had crossed his path.
Having seen his own mother fall to that kind of violence, he would never knowingly jeopardize a woman’s life for the sake of himself nor of a need for heirs.
Nay, the curse of his blood would stop with him. He would make sure of it.
With a disgusted look on his face, Simon pushed himself away from the wooden post, then made his way from the stable.
Draven finished removing his armor, and dressed in a tunic and breeches.
As he left the stable, he caught sight of Emily heading back toward the donjon. Druce was by her side and the two of them were laughing over something. The sound of her musical laughter rang in his ears.
What he would give to be free to make jests with her as well, and to see her eyes light up with humor.
With her head held high, and her pale blonde hair and veil flowing behind her, she was a graceful, beguiling creature.
And for the first time in his life, he wanted Simon to be right.
What would it be like to have the life of a normal man? To sit before the fire while his lady went about her duties and tended his children?
To have her turn to him with a smile meant only for him?
He would sell what little soul he had left for it.
But it was a dream he’d left behind long ago out of necessity. Now with Emily’s presence here it had resurfaced with such vengeance that he cursed Henry for his decree.
On my honor I, Draven de Montague, Earl of Ravenswood, will never lay hand to the Lady Emily in violence or in lust. She will leave my company in the same manner with which she was brought, or I shall surrender myself to the king’s justice whatever it might be.
If it was the last thing he did, he would uphold that oath, his body and wants be damned.