For My Lady's Honor

To his surprise, ’twas tenderness he felt flowing through him, not lust. To hold a woman so close with no other intent than to provide comfort and care was to him a foreign emotion, no question of that.

Yet there was a rightness to the feel of Lady Alys in his arms…a sensation as right and true as the feel of his sword held firm in his hand.

By the saints, the day’s misfortunes had turned him into a maudlin fool! In truth, he felt no more than any decent man might—his knightly duty to care for those weaker than himself.

’Twas naught more than that.

He closed his eyes for a moment before forcing himself to ease his grip on Lady Alys.

Absolutely nothing more.

His thoughts now firmly under control, Padrig gathered Lady Alys a little nearer, brushing his palm over her forehead, then cupping her cheek. Her skin still felt cold, although she’d a tinge of pink riding high on her cheekbones. Mayhap the color was a result of the liquor she’d drunk, rather than any returning warmth—though the faint brush of her breath against his fingers seemed less chill than before.

Still, ’twas such a slight improvement. Further concern edged its way into his already uneasy thoughts. Despite his efforts to warm her, Lady Alys continued to shudder and shake within his hold.

Jesu, she must be frozen to the very marrow of her bones!

He needed to get her out of this pit now, but he dared not move her alone. Any movement that jolted Lady Alys’s arm or shoulder would be excruciating.

But he dared not keep her here any longer, either. In addition to her injuries directly attributable to the storm’s fury, she could have developed an inflammation of the lungs, or some sort of fever.

By the rood, for all he knew Lady Alys might have injured her head as well; she had not asked about her maid since they’d first uncovered her. Though he might not know her well, he knew well enough she’d never have forgotten about Marie.

He glanced down at her face. She appeared to be asleep, her features slack from exhaustion…and mayhap a bit from the strong drink, too. Whatever the reason, he’d not find a better time to get her out of this hole. “Alys,” he murmured, brushing his fingers over her cheek. “Milady?”

She nestled deeper into his embrace, the innocent movement filling his unruly body with an unexpectedly intense heat. Aye, ’twas time—past time—to get them both out of this morass.

He loosened his hold on Lady Alys and repositioned her to sit upright across his lap, her weight slumped against his arm instead of draped over his body. Shifting, he pulled himself up with his free hand so he could peer out over the rim of the hole.

The rain had slackened noticeably in the brief time since he’d climbed in here with her. Unfortunately, the sky had not cleared much. Scattered moonlight broke through the scudding clouds, the fitful light providing scant illumination—and now the storm had died down—there had been very little lightning in the area to lend its questionable assistance, either.

A dubious blessing; they need not worry so much about being struck down by a bolt from above any longer…yet the price of such security was to be struck nigh blind instead.

’Twas ever his share of fortune, he thought with a wry chuckle—to be blessed on the one hand, and cursed on the other.

But mayhap their luck was about to improve. They ought to be able to kindle torches now. Lord knew they could use them! He couldn’t see much as he gazed out over the expanse of destruction, only vague, shadowy movements shifting about off in the distance.

He’d absolutely no notion who or what he saw—there was as much chance ’twas their horses he was watching as it was his men.

He took a deep breath and tamped down his frustration; this night seemed endless, maddening, a test of his leadership he feared he’d fail.

He’d not let things come to such a pass, he vowed silently.

The sun had to rise sometime soon—but he’d not wait for it. ’Twas time—past time—to get things moving.

To get Lady Alys out of here, to make certain she and the other injured were out of the storm and tended to.

Now.

Chapter Seven

“Rafe,” Padrig muttered, grown impatient with waiting. “Damnation, where are you?”

“Right here, sir,” came the reply from just the other side of the pit.

Clutching Alys to his chest with one arm, his free hand grasped firm about his knife hilt, Padrig leapt into a half-crouch.

“Christ on the cross, man, but you gave me a start,” he said. Exhaling sharply, he let his dagger drop to his feet and lowered himself to sit again. His heart still thumping hard, he eased Lady Alys’s limp form down to rest against his chest and drew the blanket higher about her throat. She settled into his lap as if she’d done so many times before. Softening his voice, he added, “I didn’t even hear you draw near.”

“I tried to stay quiet, sir, so as not to disturb the lady if she’d settled into sleep.” Rafe climbed up onto the mound, perched on the edge and gazed down at her.

“I don’t know that much of anything will disturb her at the moment.” Padrig shifted her body a bit, so she rested in a more comfortable position. “She didn’t so much as twitch when I jumped up.”

“Poor wee lamb,” Rafe said quietly, shaking his head. “Just look at her, all bruised and battered—and no doubt hurt in other ways as well, like the others.” He reached into the leather bag hanging from his belt and drew forth a small cloth-wrapped bundle. Unfolding the material, he revealed a candle stub, tinder, flint and steel, the lot of which he held carefully cupped within his hands. “’Tis a miracle she was able to stay awake and call for help, without a doubt.”

“’Twill be a miracle, indeed, if you can manage to start a flame under these conditions.” Padrig watched as Rafe leaned forward from the waist, using his upper body to shield the tinder from the drizzle. “But a welcome one, nonetheless. Here, let me help.” He wiped his hands on the blanket edge and picked up the oilskin, raising it to form a makeshift canopy over Rafe’s hands.

Rafe struck the flint and steel a number of times before he ignited the tinder, then the candle wick.

“Well done,” Padrig murmured as the wick burned with a steady light. “Could it be that our fortunes are finally about to improve?”

“We can but hope, milord,” Rafe replied.

The faint flame glowed bright as the sun after so long in the dark. The light was a blessing, for the longer Lady Alys remained asleep, the more concerned Padrig grew about her condition. At least now he could get a better look at her.

She had remained limp in his hold when he’d jumped up, sat back down—even now she hadn’t so much as stirred or in any way seemed to take notice of either their conversation or the candlelight.

“Let’s hope she’s hardier than she appears.” Padrig smoothed his hand over her disheveled hair and let it rest for a moment on her cheek. Was her skin warmer, or did hope alone make it seem so? “I assume you’ve a place ready for her?”

“That we have, milord.” Rafe pointed to the east, where the devastation had been the worst. “Just along the edge o’ the new clearing. Figured since all the trees’ve already come down, it should be as safe a spot as we’re like to find.”

Padrig nodded his approval. “Good work! See if you can find a safe place for the candle and lend me a hand raising her out of here, would you? We might as well get her to the shelter while she’s sleeping so soundly. We’ll not get a better chance.”

Rafe stashed the candle beneath an arching branch and climbed down to help Padrig.

Careful to jar her as little as possible, Padrig slid out from beneath her. “I pray she stays asleep. If we’re lucky, she won’t even notice we’re moving her. I don’t believe there’s any way to get her up over the edge without hurting her.” He settled her right arm gently across her stomach. “From what she told me, I’m afraid her shoulder is out of the socket.”

Rafe winced, and looked unconvinced. “I don’t know about that, milord. She’d have to be more than asleep to bear the pain—she’d have to be flat out insensible!”

“You’ll need to be very careful then,” Lady Alys warned them, startling them both when she slowly eased out of Rafe’s hold and sat back against the side of the pit. “For I’m wide awake now and in full command of my senses, more’s the pity. And thanks to your lovely candle, Rafe, I’ll see whatever you do.”

“I take it you couldn’t get her to drink all o’ the whiskey?” Rafe muttered to Padrig. “She must have a head hard as an ox! By my reckoning there ought to have been more than enough liquor in that flask for such a dainty lass to drink herself into a stupor,” he said, his amazed expression so comical, Alys couldn’t help but chuckle. “Aye, one so deep ’twould last for days!”

Even the minor act of laughing sent spiky shards of pain lancing through her. Slightly breathless, she told them, “This ‘dainty lass’ knows better than to take more than a few swallows of that devil’s brew. Even if I could buy myself a brief period of oblivion from the pain I feel now, it still wouldn’t be worth the agony I’d go through later.”

“Milady, I doubt there’s any way we’re going to get you out of here without hurting you,” Rafe warned. He picked up the flask, opened it and held it out to her. “Please—have some more. As much as you like! You might as well go ahead and—”

Ignoring the flask—no easy feat when the smell wafted all around them—Alys cut him off with a shake of her head. “Nay,” she said firmly, the mere idea of swilling that much liquor making her stomach clench. “I said I’ll not have any more, and I meant it.”

“But milady—just this once—” Rafe met her gaze and evidently saw she would not back down. Sighing, he lowered the flask. “’Twould truly be for the best if you’d go ahead and drink.” Meeting her scowl with one of his own, he held the whiskey out to her once again.

“Enough, Rafe.” To Alys’s surprise, Sir Padrig reached out and took the whiskey and cork from Rafe, stoppered the flask and set it down out of the other man’s reach—but within hers. “If she says she’d rather not, we cannot force her.” He met her gaze, his own steady, reassuring. “She’s no child, to be cajoled into going against her own wishes.”

“I got quite thoroughly drunk on my father’s whiskey just once,” she said, hoping if she explained, Rafe would accept that she’d valid reasoning behind her decision. “I was such an idiot once I drank it, and the aftereffects were so bad, I vowed then never to subject myself to such an embarrassing experience again. As a general rule, ’tis easy enough to avoid it.”

Rafe’s single-minded determination that she avail herself of the whiskey to dull her pain, however, did make her wonder. Precisely why did he think she’d need it? She hurt now, ’twas true, but ’twas not so bad as to be unbearable.

Did they think something was so wrong with her that she couldn’t bear to deal with it? By sweet Mary’s grace, what were they trying to protect her from?

Mayhap, she pondered with a frown, they thought her a weak, cowardly woman, unable to bear the slightest pain or misfortune.

She bit back a wry laugh at the idea. Men! If they’d ever any idea how strong women really were, they’d no doubt be terrified.

She should simply ask them what they were so concerned about….

Or was she better off not knowing?

Whatever they had in mind, she had heard them say they were moving her out of this pit. At the moment, getting out of this vile place was all she cared about…and was as far into the future as she would allow herself to think.

She didn’t know how much longer she could continue to sit here and hold herself together. It took all her energy to simply carry on a conversation and try not to shake as if she were about to fall apart.

“If you’ll help me, milord,” she began, holding out her left hand to Sir Padrig. “I’d like—”

All of a sudden she could feel her chest tightening, her breath coming in short, hard gasps, her heart thundering until she thought ’twould burst. She tried to bring her right hand up to her throat to ease the tightening noose of muscles choking off her air, instead setting off a wave of agony as her arm remained limp at her side.

“Alys!” His voice sharp, his touch firm, reassuring, Padrig caught hold of her by the waist and hauled her up from where she had slumped against the wall of the pit.

She heard Padrig telling Rafe, “You needn’t have tried so hard to get her to drink more whiskey. All you needed to do was talk her into insensibility!”

Then sight and sound faded away.

“Jesu, what a stubborn wench,” Rafe muttered. “Not a bad thing, I suppose—”

“Unless you’re trying to work around her stubbornness,” Padrig pointed out. “Then no, ’tis not good.” He tugged at the blanket and wrapped it around Alys, careful not to jostle her. “And given that we don’t know how long our good fortune will last this time, we shouldn’t waste another moment.” He hoisted her up in his arms and got to his feet. “Let’s go.”

“You don’t think she’ll awaken again anytime soon, do you?” Rafe asked.

Padrig settled Alys more comfortably in his grasp. “Who knows? I wouldn’t count on her remaining quiet for long, though.” He gazed unseeing out of the pit for a moment, then shook his head. “‘A quiet wench, though ’tis doubtful she’s any sense at all rattling around her pretty head,’” he muttered to himself, transferring Alys up into Rafe’s arms. “Not bloody likely.”

“Milord?”

Padrig made a sound of disgust and bent to retrieve his dagger, slipping it into its sheath and adjusting the strap tied about his thigh. “You’d think I’d know better by now than to believe a word that pompous twit Hugh de Tremont says.”

“What are you talking about?” Rafe asked. Picking up the flask, he uncorked it and took a long swallow, then held it out to Padrig.

When Padrig shook his head, Rafe slid home the stopper and climbed out of the pit.

Padrig scrambled up to join him. “I was repeating one of the lies Hugh told me about Lady Alys,” he said, not bothering to hide his disgust. “He did his best to make her sound nigh brainless whenever he spoke of her.”

Rafe snorted. “Hugh is an ass.” He gazed down at Alys’s face for a moment, as though weighing whether or not he should speak, then glanced at Padrig and shrugged. “I’m not surprised,” he added. “The lecherous sot has been trying—without any success whatsoever that I could see—to get under her skirts. Hasn’t quit since he came to l’Eau Clair last year. So far as I know, she’s scarce seemed aware of him at all.” He grinned. “’Tis clear to me that Lady Alys is a most discerning woman.”

His heart suddenly lighter than it had been all night, Padrig laughed and reached out to take Alys back into his arms. “So it would appear, if she’s kept him at bay all this time.” Careful of his footing, he began to make his way over the pile of debris. “Now that you mention it, I had noticed he deems himself quite the gallant. How could I have forgotten? From what I’ve heard, there’s hardly a woman in the entire demesne he’s not tried to bed—except for Lady Gillian, of course.”

“Do you think he’s got that much sense?” Rafe asked with barely suppressed amusement. He tucked the flask into his tunic, picked up the candle and caught up with Padrig, grabbing Alys’s sodden cloak as he passed by the spot where Padrig had tossed it earlier and flinging it over his shoulder.

“Sense—nay?” Padrig sidestepped down the side of the mound and waited for Rafe. “Self-preservation? Perhaps. ’Twould be more than his life is worth to anger Lord Rannulf.”

“Or Lady Gillian, given her ability with a blade,” Rafe added reverently. “She could defend herself right well, I’d wager.”

“Indeed,” Padrig agreed.

Though he doubted Rafe had any notion just how skilled with weapons the women of that family were.

Lord knew, he would never forget the sight of his cousin, Lady Catrin—who was Lady Gillian’s cousin, as well—wielding his sword, standing alone against several outlaws after she’d tricked him into leaving for help…

So that he could live to fight another day, she’d told him later.

Padrig shook off the memories and cradled Alys a little closer in his arms. She remained motionless and silent, but from the sound of her breathing, she’d settled into sleep, not a swoon, thankfully.

They picked their way toward the shelter, even the meager light from Rafe’s candle a help as they wended through the mess of toppled trees and uprooted brush littering their path.

“Lady Alys spurned Hugh’s advances, then?” Padrig asked, finding himself surprisingly eager to turn the conversation back to the woman in his arms.

“Aye—several times in public, so rumor has it. Truth to tell, I doubt anyone would expect any different.” Rafe frowned. “She’s always seemed a shy little lass. Talks more with the older men, ones who’ve been around since before Lady Gillian and Lord Rannulf wed. Strange, that. Could be she likes ’em well-seasoned—”

Suddenly he stopped and grinned. “Did you show any interest in Lady Alys?”

Padrig paused, as well. “I asked Hugh about her, nothing more than that,” he replied, trying to think back to the discussion. Had he asked about any other women? He couldn’t recall.

Rafe clapped him on the shoulder. “With Hugh, it wouldn’t take more than that. In his eyes, he’s God’s own gift to womanhood—and every other man is his competition. Aye, you got him worried, and he tried to distract you from paying her any notice.”

“Worried? About what?” Padrig asked, completely baffled.

“That you’d ruin his chances, of course. A strong, handsome fellow such as yourself, newly returned from foreign climes, rumored to be a bruising fighter—”

Padrig snorted and started moving again, but Rafe kept on talking even as he kept up.

“—I can see why he’d be concerned. He’s not really as successful with women as he likes to claim.”

“There’s a surprise,” Padrig muttered under his breath, eliciting a nod from Rafe.

“So how can he compete with you, a mysterious warrior the ladies are waiting to discover?”

“Mayhap it isn’t only Hugh who is a fool,” Padrig scoffed. “By Christ, how did you come up with such nonsense?”

Rafe laughed. “’Tis none of my making! I heard some o’ Lady Gillian’s young ladies talking about you. Including Lady Alys,” he said, his grin widening. “Could be that Hugh heard them, as well—they were making no effort to be quiet.”

By the saints! Padrig felt a flush of embarrassment heat his face. Given the speed with which gossip usually spread throughout l’Eau Clair, ’twas nigh a miracle that he’d heard naught of this before now.

Yet he couldn’t help but be amazed by the thought that a group of women—noble ladies, no less—had found him worthy of discussion.

And what should that matter to him? Despite the fact that he had several noble relatives, he himself sat far lower in rank. He was a landless knight, nothing more. Clearly some misunderstanding had occurred, for in the ordinary way of things, he’d hardly have a slew of ladies in pursuit of him.

No matter how “mysterious” they found him to be, he thought with a rueful smile.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what Alys—Lady Alys, he reminded himself lest he get too full of himself—what had she thought? What, if anything, had she added to the discussion?

Rafe stopped; Padrig did as well, noting that while they’d been involved in their most peculiar discussion, they’d made it to the shelter. Rafe had paused just outside the makeshift hut.

In the eerie glow of the candle, Rafe’s knowing expression shone all too clear. He moved closer. “Wouldn’t you like to know what Lady Alys—”

“Nay,” Padrig cut him off, ignoring the intense desire to hear what Rafe was obviously eager to share.

“Sir Padrig—” he goaded, “—I did hear her, you know.”

“No,” Padrig said flatly.

Rafe turned away from the shelter and faced Padrig, his manner more serious. “I’ve seen how you look at her, milord… Jesu, if you could only see how you look at her now.”

When had Rafe turned into the devil, to taunt and test a man nigh beyond endurance?

He’d not give in, no matter how strong the temptation.

“Enough,” he growled. Turning from the other man, he tucked Alys more firmly against his chest and ducked to enter the hut.

Chapter Eight

Sheer anger—at himself, at their situation, at God Himself—lent Padrig energy enough to carry him through the remaining hours of the seemingly endless night. Shortly after he and Rafe had brought Lady Alys to the hut, Jock and Peter carried in the last two of the missing men—both badly injured by the storm, and chilled to the bone by the weather besides.

Their party now numbered eleven: four unharmed; four badly hurt, including Marie; and three, including Lady Alys, whose injuries fell somewhere in between.

Once they’d gathered everyone together in the shelter, Padrig, Rafe, Jock and Peter did what they could for their battered comrades. With Padrig tending to the women—an awkward experience he’d rather not repeat any time soon—they got everyone out of their sodden clothing and bundled them up in whatever dry cloth they could find in the baggage.

Fortunately the packs were wrapped in heavy hides, and had escaped the worst of a soaking. Every piece of clothing, bedrolls, spare saddle blankets—even the rags for cleaning armor were put to some use.

Padrig had stripped off his surcoat and mail hauberk. ’Twas a relief to be rid, even for a brief time, of the cold, wet garments. Clad in a shirt and tunic over his still-damp braes and boots, he felt considerably warmer than he had in his armor.

They needed a fire. However, though they might have trees in abundance, wood dry enough to burn was in very short supply. Amazingly they found a small cache of it buried beneath a pile of brush, along with the last man they rescued—who was not too seriously injured.

Somehow Rafe scraped together enough wood to build a fire. Protected within a circle of stones in the back corner of the shelter, scarcely big enough to heat a pot of water, nonetheless its flames threw off a welcome glow of light and a small pool of heat. They’d not get very warm or dry from it, but it provided them with hot drinks to help warm up the injured.

The mere sight of it helped to brighten a truly dismal night.

Considering the paltry light of their few candles, the crude conditions and their meager store of supplies, they treated the injured as well as they could, but Padrig feared they’d not done enough.

Everyone was so cold and wet! In addition, the injured men, Lady Alys and her maid all needed more care than they had resources to provide. ’Twas too long a journey to go back to l’Eau Clair; they needed to find someplace nearby to seek shelter and aid.

Right now he couldn’t say for certain where they’d ended up. Under the current conditions it was nigh impossible to take note of any sort of landmark—they might be in an area he’d have easily recognized before, and he’d not know it now.

Once the sun rose and he’d had a chance to scout the area, mayhap he’d have a better idea of their location, and thus what options they had.

In the meantime, he could do naught else but take care of his charges and pray.

Until he’d fulfilled his duty, relaxing his guard in any way was not a luxury he could allow himself.

Not that he’d have been able to rest anyway.

But once they’d set up their patients on their makeshift beds, Padrig sent Rafe, Jock and Peter to get what sleep they could while he kept watch. Everyone else seemed to have drifted into some sort of rest; ’twas fairly quiet now that the storm had moved on, with only the occasional distant rumble of thunder accompanying the soft patter of rain on the branch-covered roof. Every so often someone would groan or snore, but other than himself, it appeared everyone had settled deep into slumber.