For My Lady's Honor

Perhaps he could use the time to collect his thoughts and work out some sort of plan for the morrow. Now that he’d the opportunity, however, his mind—full to overflowing with worries and possibilities—would not cease its headlong whirl.

Sighing, he sprawled on the ground beside Lady Alys’s pallet so that he faced her, stretched out his legs, and reached over to smooth his hand along the length of her hair where it lay spread atop the covers. He gently worked his fingers through the tangles, savoring the softness against his skin. It calmed him to touch her. He found it soothing, reassuring in some strange way.

He didn’t understand it, and he knew ’twas wrong of him to make free with her person—especially without her knowledge or permission—but he could not resist the impulse to do so. Perhaps all he felt was the comfort of human touch. If so, mayhap his touch brought comfort to her, as well.

He hoped so.

He choked back a bitter laugh. It suited him to believe so, more like.

Still—for the moment, where was the harm in it?

He stroked the back of his hand over her forehead before cupping his palm about her cheek. Thankfully her skin had finally warmed, her breathing had become slow and even. Whatever her other hurts, she’d at least escaped becoming sick from lying out in the cold and damp for so long.

Lady Alys stirred beneath his touch, shifting awkwardly within the bedding before opening her eyes. She glanced around the shadowy structure before her attention came to rest on his face. “Padrig,” she murmured. “Where are we?”

Her voice, husky with sleep, skittered along his spine like a caress, making his body—nay, his entire being—take notice of her in a manner that was completely inappropriate.

Yet wholly tempting.

Especially when combined with the dark, smoky look in her amber eyes as her gaze met his.

Lord save him! Padrig snatched his hand back from Alys’s cheek as though she had suddenly burst into flame. Moving slowly, he sat back on his heels, his hands resting on his knees. “’Tis the—” He sounded like a croaking frog; he cleared his throat and tried again. “’Tis the shelter my men built.”

She nodded and tried to pull herself up to sit against the crude wall, but stopped in mid-movement, grimacing. Her breathing uneven, she motioned to her right arm, which remained resting across her torso. “Could you help me up?” she asked.

“Of course.” Feeling like a fool for not realizing what she’d been trying to do, he dropped to his knees beside her, reached out and eased her arm to her side.

She cradled it against her body, supporting it with her left hand.

Though ’twas clear that moving hurt her, she let him clasp her about the waist and shift her.

By the rood, why hadn’t he thought to bind her arm so its weight would not pull at the joint? If he’d done it when she’d been sleeping so deeply, he might have spared her this pain.

’Twas too late to worry about that; instead, he’d do what he could to fix the situation. Still holding her, he looked around for a length of cloth, a shirt—anything he could use to fashion a sling.

A strip of linen left over from binding wounds caught his attention, tossed aside on the floor. Snatching it up, he knotted it into a rough sling and carefully positioned her arm within its folds.

Though her body tensed and her breathing roughened for a moment, amazingly she hadn’t cried out. He’d seen hardened warriors nigh in a swoon to have their arm moved at all under such conditions.

Lady Alys continued to surprise him—not necessarily a good thing, since the more he learned about her, the more he wanted to know.

A man like him didn’t need to know anything more about a young noblewoman save that she was above his touch, in every way that mattered.

He’d do well to remind himself of that fact every chance he got.

“Thank you.” Alys closed her eyes for a moment as if to compose herself, then opened them, met his gaze and sighed. “’Tis strange, is it not, to thank someone for doing something you know will be awful? Still, this does make things a bit more comfortable.”

“If I’d done it earlier, you might have slept more soundly.” Still supporting her, Padrig rearranged her blankets, concentrating on smoothing them out and making certain her feet were well covered rather than on watching her face. “You might still be asleep.”

“I must have rested long enough, for I feel wide awake now.” She laid her left hand atop his, bringing his restless fidgeting to an end. “I’m glad to be upright, Sir Padrig, and to be free after lying pinned for so long in that mountain of trees.”

He allowed his gaze to rise, to alight on her lovely face, and felt any intelligent words—words he could say without sounding an idiot—fly straight out of his head. “I’m glad we found you,” he finally managed.

Of course you’re glad, you stupid fool, he berated himself. What else would you have done—left her there?

If he weren’t careful, he’d soon be sounding as pathetic as Hugh.

Wasn’t that a disquieting notion!

Evidently she saw nothing wrong with his response, however, for she relaxed against him. “’Tis warmer and drier here—and the view is certainly better, as well,” she added, her lips curving into an almost imperceptible smile, her gaze settling on his face with an intensity it took all his attention to ignore.

That look, combined with the way it felt to hold her, set thoughts he’d no business thinking rushing to his brain—as well as to other, more unruly parts farther south.

By the saints, she should know better than to look at him that way!

“Is that so?” he replied, even as he regretfully mustered his common sense and withdrew his support, easing her out of his grasp. Straightening his legs, he settled himself beside her pallet, once again facing her. “I believe I can put your arm aright once there’s light so I can see what I’m doing,” he told her.

“I know.” She met his questioning look, her expression solemn. “I drifted in and out of sleep while you were carrying me—I heard bits and pieces of your talk with Rafe.”

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