Ironheart

Sir Edmund scowled. “Wish a littler harder then.”

Brenna tiptoed closer to the embroidered bed hangings.

“Aubrey!” she whispered under her breath. He made no sign. A prickly aura of awareness breathed over her skin, crisp and distinct as cold air.

Suddenly she was very much afraid…

She shivered and shook her head as thoughts uncalled-for ran like ice melt through her brain. Was he…was he unconscious? Was he…dead? Her doubt turned to sudden, over-mastering dread that urged her forward.

“Aubrey!” she said again, and finding herself close to him she bent and very lightly touched his shoulder. He moved then, and she almost gasped with relief.

“What—?” he said, lifting his head. He blinked, frowned, his nose a handspan from hers. His face was flushed and his lips a set line. Shadows slipped across his eyes as if things moved, troubled, in his memory.

“Drink this. ’Tis but a simple tisane to take away the headache and ease the fever.” She cradled his head in her arms, feeling inside her a warmth that bordered on love. He made a sound between a sigh and a grunt, and obediently swallowed sips of the mixture. Carefully she relaxed her forearm, laying his head upon the pillow. “Now listen to me, I don’t want you out of this bed except to use the chamber pot. Do you understand?”

His eyes closed. “Aye.”

“Good.” Raindrops spattered through the window slit, a sudden gust of storm. She went to close the shutters. “I’m going back downstairs. I have chores to do. You stay in bed, hear?”

“Aye.” Faintly.

She forced a smile to her lips. “See that you do.”

Darkness, and a scent of herbs, and a deep sense of peace pervaded the workshop. Brenna carefully set the lamp on a stand. Its feeble glow barely reached the walls of the herbarium. Neatly arranged on wooden shelves that ran up the wall, sat her herbs and powders and whatnots, each resting in small pottery jars. A large white dog rose from its place by the fireplace and ambled toward her, its tail swinging side to side.

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