For My Lady's Honor

He dismissed the notion as soon as it formed. They could not wait so long. Glancing up at the storm-filled sky, he judged it was barely dusk now. Though it felt as if it had been an eternity, and it was nigh impossible to gauge from their surroundings, in truth he doubted much time had passed since the storm’s wrath split their world asunder. In any case, ’twas too cold and wet to leave anyone exposed to the weather for a moment longer than necessary.

They needed to get the injured men they’d left huddled beside the trail to shelter, as well.

He shifted and peered down into the gaping opening. At least they knew there was someone here, though they could not see who it was. ’Twould be best to deal with what they knew, before venturing off into the darkness again.

He bit back his frustration and breathed deep as though he were readying himself for battle. The urge to jump up and escape into the night was nigh overwhelming. ’Twas as likely he’d find answers there, lost among the destruction, as he would by muddling along here.

He scarce gave the traitorous thought life before he forced it from his mind. ’Twas only that it had been so long since he’d felt so helpless, adrift in a sea of uncertainty—and the weight of command sat heavy upon him, foreign, unfamiliar.

Thank the Lord, the cold and wet hadn’t affected his breathing. Given their ill luck to this point, he’d expect no less. However, he couldn’t help adding a prayer of gratitude for that favor to the heartfelt pleas for God’s mercy that he’d already sent heavenward.

He’d rather have an enemy to fight, by God, someone he could face over a shield, battle with a sword, a demon he could slay and be done with it.

Biting back a mocking laugh, he shoved his dripping hair back from his face and sighed.

He ought to know by now that nothing was ever that simple.

Calmer now, he considered how best to conquer this obstacle. Rafe had caught hold of her, but it seemed he was too small to keep a grip on her. Padrig swung around on the tree and began to tug at his sopping boots, working them off and tossing them aside before unbuckling his belt and knotting the leather tight about his waist.

“What’re you doing?” Rafe asked.

“I’m taller than you are,” Padrig told him. “If you or Jock grab my belt and hang on to me, mayhap I can get a good grip on her and haul her up. I doubt I can pull her straight up through the debris without her getting entangled worse, so whichever of you isn’t holding on to me had better crawl up here and do what he can to help ease her out.” He hefted himself back up onto the tree. “Meanwhile, Peter, you go and see if you can find any sign of the others.”

“Aye, milord,” Peter said before disappearing into the gloom.

Rafe and Jock had no sooner situated themselves behind Padrig and begun to ease him down into the gap when shouting cut through the rumble of thunder.

Padrig barely caught himself from tumbling into the morass when Jock and Rafe loosened their hold on him and turned to answer Peter’s frantic cries.

Padrig hauled himself up and sprawled over the rough bark as Peter came into view.

“Milord, come quick!” Peter stumbled to a stop before them. “’Tis Lady Alys, milord—I’ve found her, and she’s alive!”

Chapter Five

A man shouting close by startled Alys, setting her heart thundering faster in her chest and making her limbs tremble even harder than they had already—despite all her efforts to bring such cowardly behavior to an end.

She knew ’twas not cold alone that made her shake so badly. Fear was as much her enemy as the cold, should she give in to it.

“I’m here,” she cried, her voice sounding faint even to her own ears. Disgusted by her weakness, she gathered herself to try once more. “Hello, I’m here! Please don’t leave!”

Thunder boomed again, rendering the reply indistinct, but the muffled thud of running feet and the muted sound of additional voices soon after the din faded away gave her hope that rescue was at hand.

As she’d lain there, numb with both pain and cold, her right arm useless, it had taken nigh all her resolve to stay alert and keep calling for help…to force her body, protesting all the while, to shift as much as she could within the tightly interlaced shroud of branches enveloping her on the faint chance she might wriggle her way closer to freedom.

’Twas only by reminding herself of the valiant people whose tales she’d worked so hard to chronicle during her years at l’Eau Clair that she found the fortitude to continue fighting against the sapping lethargy that threatened to overwhelm her. Whether brought on by the icy rain, her injuries, or a combination of both, she didn’t know, for her knowledge of healing ways was sparse. But whatever the cause, she did know ’twas dangerous in these conditions to fall asleep.

Better to allow her anger free rein, to let it work to help her. How it galled her to lie here nigh helpless, waiting to be saved!

The voices grew louder, though she could scarce make out what they said. “—be back in a trice,” she heard, followed by what sounded to her straining ears like retreating footsteps.

“Nay, don’t leave!” she cried. “Please—please, come back.”

No answer met her plea; she could hear naught but the storm.

She must be patient, she reminded herself, disgusted by the feelings of panic she could not completely suppress. For all she knew, many others could be trapped as well, in circumstances far more dreadful than her own. There were people out there searching; they’d not leave her here any longer than they must.

She could endure this! Think of Lady Catrin, she told herself, wounded by bandits, with none but Lord Nicholas to help her. Remember Lady Gillian, abducted by an evil kinsman and spirited away from Lord Rannulf, from her home and all she held dear…. Did these intrepid women give up? Nay—they remained strong, did whatever necessary to help themselves.

At the least, she could wait patiently for however long she must.

And in the meantime, she’d try again to work her way out. She’d one useful arm, hadn’t she? What more could she need than that?

Despite her resolve, however, tears streamed down her face, startling her with their warmth. ’Twas such a contrast to the utter cold suffusing her from head to toe that it made her shudder more violently. Sweet Mary, how the slightest movement hurt…but she refused to give in to the pain. She’d withstood it till now, she could not let it overwhelm her.

Seeking distraction, she concentrated instead on her surroundings as she carefully worked her arm about in the narrow space enclosing her. ’Twas impossible to move anything much out of the way, but by dint of gritting her teeth against the pain and pressing her arm against the dense jumble of branches, she was able to increase the space around her.

’Twas still not much room, barely enough to shift so that her head rested higher than her feet and she could almost pull herself into a half-sitting position. Nonetheless, the simple fact that she’d made this much progress inspired her to keep at it in spite of the pain.

Alys had no idea how much time had passed, but it appeared the storm had finally begun to fade, the rumbles of thunder more distant and farther apart, the rain lessened from a pounding torrent to a soft, pattering shower.

Other sounds rose to replace the storm’s fury. Boughs creaked and snapped as they were moved about, debris crunched beneath booted feet. Voices wove through the sounds; though she could not clearly understand the words, the mere sound of them—the sense of resolve they conveyed—lent her strength, gave her faith that this ordeal would soon be over.

Lightning flashed yet again, however, followed almost at once by the deep boom of thunder and a series of sharp cracks as wood splintered. She stopped moving and held her breath for a moment to listen as the sounds faded away, lips moving rapidly in a near-silent prayer. Thankfully she heard no panicked cries of pain, nor the crash of more trees coming down close by.

The rumbling had barely ended, however, before she realized the lightning had filled her timbered prison with a brief, eerie glow so bright she was able to briefly distinguish individual branches piled overhead.

Anticipation flared higher—there had to be less debris piled atop her than before, if she could see so well!

Who would she find there, she wondered, once the rubble had been cleared away and she’d been pulled from the pile? Were there others trapped as well, or injured?

Was Marie all right? Though she could not distinguish individual voices, what she could hear sounded nothing like a woman’s higher tone.

Which could mean nothing more than that the men had already settled the maid someplace safe.

And what of Padrig? He’d been riding at the head of the column…had he been the first to fall?

Abruptly on the verge of panic, Alys caught her breath, disgusted by her weakness. What was wrong with her? By the Virgin, had she grown maudlin from lying here so long?

No more! Calling herself a fool, she closed her eyes for a moment and prayed that all their party had escaped the storm’s wrath unharmed…that she’d find within herself the will to do whatever she must.

Calmer now, her strength of will restored, she opened her eyes, clenched her teeth against the renewed pain and resumed her task. Though she tugged and pulled with all her might, one-handed, in so little space, she could make little additional headway into the thickly packed tangle of limbs along her side. Nigh growling with frustration, she shifted to lie flat on her back and thrust her left hand up into the thick mass overhead.

All of a sudden the entire mound above her shifted and disappeared, sending a torrent of cold water and debris spilling over her. Temporarily blinded, she gasped and coughed as she sought to catch her breath and clear her vision.

When a warm hand captured her own, she couldn’t help but shriek.

“Alys? Milady, is it you?” Padrig asked, his tone urgent as he shifted aside more branches with his free hand. He kept hold of her, the feel of his fingers clasped tight around hers as comforting as an embrace. “Jesu, are you all right?”

She’d inhaled so much water—especially when she’d screeched—’twas a wonder she hadn’t drowned, but it mattered not a whit. “I am now,” she said, still gasping a bit, her voice little more than a croak.

Grinning like a fool, realizing she’d no doubt sounded like one for shrieking when he’d touched her hand, Alys tilted her face into the clear cascade of rain and let it wash away the bark and needles clinging to her skin. She turned her hand within Padrig’s until they touched palm to palm, their fingers intertwined. “Thank you for finding me,” she murmured, tightening her grasp.

He shifted to sit on the edge of the mound and leaned closer, his face scarcely visible in the faint light. What she saw there, however, pushed aside her joy at being found, replacing it with the fear that had haunted her captivity.

“What of the others, Sir Padrig?” she asked. “Where is Marie?”

In her urgency she tried to sit up, the movement wresting a cry of pain from her before she could suppress it. “Have a care, milady,” he cautioned. He wrapped his arm about her; with his assistance, she pulled herself up so they were face to face.

Sir Padrig somehow maintained his hold on her as he eased himself over a sturdy tree trunk and down into the hole with her. Tears of joy pooled in her eyes; she blinked hard till they were gone, for she did not wish to appear weak before him.

She’d far rather keep such vulnerability locked away, lest he think her naught but a pathetic fool.

“Don’t worry about the others, milady,” he said, his manner calm and reassuring, his face kind.

Yet there was a fleeting look in his eyes…

This close, even in such poor light, she could tell there was something he sought to hide—but ’twas there, then gone, in an instant.

“You’ll see the others soon enough once we get you out of here,” he told her. “Meanwhile, let me see how you’ve fared in this disaster.” His gaze had shifted away from hers as soon as he began to speak.

Increasing her misgivings. Something was obviously amiss.

Since he hadn’t given her a direct response, he’d simply have to hear her question once more—and yet again, if necessary, until he answered her.

Her stomach in a knot, she tightened her grip on his hand until he looked at her. Once she was certain she had his attention, she asked, “What of Marie?” She infused her voice with Lady Gillian’s quiet tone of command and hoped ’twould be effective. “Have you found her? Is she alive?”

Chapter Six

“What of Marie?” she’d asked again.

Lord save him from a tenacious woman! By Christ’s bones, why must she ask such questions now, when ’twas her safety paramount in his mind?

“She is alive,” he told her, his tone abrupt.

“God be praised,” she murmured. “Thank you, Sir Padrig.”

Guilt weighed upon him at her words, at the relief so evident in her expression, but he brushed the useless emotion aside. “Now, milady, will you please let me take care of you?”

There was scant room for him in the niche Lady Alys had created around her, evidently by her actions as she’d attempted to dig her way out. That she’d done so much under such horrendous conditions was impressive; that she’d not been able to do more—given that she appeared to him to be extremely determined, made him worry about the extent of her injuries.

He supported her weight with one arm as he wriggled into the narrow space alongside her. “Rafe,” he called over his shoulder, “Lady Alys’s cloak is sopping. See if you can find a blanket or something to wrap her in. If there’s anything that’s not dripping wet, it would be an improvement. And bring some wine or ale, if there’s any to be had.”

She rested her head on his arm and sighed. “’Twould be such a pleasure to be warm again.”

The way she felt next to him made Padrig’s heart trip and his chest tighten, the sensation completely different from the way he felt when his breathing bothered him. She leaned against him so easily, as if it were the natural thing to do—as if she trusted him to make all right.

By the rood, there was a formidable—nay, a truly alarming—notion!

Taking a deep, calming breath, he shoved that idea far back into the recesses of his brain where he’d not be aware of it. Instead Padrig forced himself to focus upon their surroundings.

The pit Alys lay in was deep; the top would likely reach to mid-chest were he to stand up. She must have been terrified, held captive within its dark, wet confines for so long.

Any guilt he felt over the extension of that time because of the decisions he’d made, he must wait until later to indulge.

If she’d been frightened, or still was, she scarce showed it now. Her voice, while weak and scratchy—no doubt from calling for help—otherwise seemed steady and sure. Her expression, what little he could see of it in the meager light, held joy at being found.

Joy mixed with what was obviously pain, he noted with a swift glance at her strained appearance once he’d settled down into the confined space alongside her. Careful not to jostle her, he slipped his arm from behind her, watching her closely. Her entire body tensed and she began to list away from him before he caught her and gathered her close again.

Sucking in a sharp breath, she buried her face against his shoulder. She held on to his hand all the while, her grip fierce, as if she drew something—strength, or comfort, perhaps?—from the contact.

His touch as gentle as he could make it, he slipped his hand free and held her upright within the cradle of his arms, shifting them both into a more stable position. With a bit of maneuvering he sat and stretched his legs out before him, leaning back against the same tree he’d slipped over to join her, and drew her down to rest against his chest. “Where are you hurt, milady?”

She pressed her cheek so hard into his linen surcoat, ’twas likely she’d carry the impression of not only the coarse fabric, but also of the mail hauberk beneath it, crushed into her flesh. Stirring slightly, she mumbled something unintelligible into his neck, her breath cold against his own none-too-warm skin.

He drew together the sodden strands of hair plastered to her face and swept them aside, resisting—barely—the urge to bury his fingers within the lavender-scented mass. Instead he cupped his palm about her cheek and tilted her head slightly, so he could see her when she spoke. His gazed fixed upon her, he bent close and asked again, “Lady, where are you hurt?”

Even in the dim light, he could see how she gathered herself, composing her features into a semblance of calm, swallowing and clearing her throat before she replied. “I’m not certain—though I hurt everywhere, or so it seems,” she murmured, her mouth curving into a faint smile, her voice stronger than it had been when he first found her.

“I’m not surprised,” he told her. “You were buried beneath enough wood to build a fortress. Did you hit your head? Are your limbs sound? What of—”

She placed her fingers over his mouth to silence him. “I believe I’ll have to get out of here and try to stand up before I can give you a full accounting of all my aches and injuries.”

“We’ll get you out soon,” he assured her.

“Why don’t we try now?” she asked. “With your help, I’m sure I could climb out.”

“You couldn’t even sit up straight but a few moments ago—what makes you believe you can stand?” he demanded, shaking his head at her foolhardiness. “Besides, I’ve got no place to put you once you’re out—not yet, at any rate. We’ll see what Rafe has to report before we do anything more.”

“Do you think I can get any wetter? More rain is hardly like to harm me at this point, Sir Padrig,” she told him, her voice tart. “I’m no delicate flower to be battered by wind and rain—”

Footsteps crunched nearby, interrupting her tirade—for which Padrig was grateful. Where was the quiet young woman he’d been told had scarce two thoughts to rub together?

Not that he’d actually believed she was like that, but still—

“Here you are, sir.” Rafe leaned over the edge of the hole and handed Padrig a bundle of cloth wrapped in oilskin. “I couldn’t find any wine or ale, milady, but this here will warm ye straight to your toes,” he assured Alys as he held out a wooden flask.

Moving carefully, she took it, gifting Rafe with a slight smile and a nod. “Thank you, Rafe,” she murmured. “Whatever it is, it will be most welcome. Though I’m wetter than a fish, I’m very thirsty.” Despite her brave front, Padrig noticed her arm shook as she lowered the flask to her lap.

“There’s plenty there, milady—the flask is full—so have as much of it as you like. And don’t let Sir Padrig take it all, either,” Rafe warned, chuckling. “He’s been known to be a trifle stingy when it comes to the sharing o’ drink.”

“Indeed.” Alys’s body quaked with laughter and she craned her head around, her eyes questioning.

“I’ll try to restrain myself for your sake, milady,” Padrig assured her with mock seriousness. “Never let it be said I did not treat a lady with every consideration—the best tidbits at table, the most comfortable seat, first chance at a goblet of wine or mead—”

“Ah, but who gets the last sip?” Rafe asked, eyebrows arching to emphasize his point.

“The lady, of course,” Padrig said, laughing. “’Tis one of our knightly responsibilities. ‘A noble lady shall have the best of everything, first to last,’” he quoted in a portentous voice, his gaze on Lady Alys to judge her reaction to their banter. Amusement brightened her expression, faded the shadows in her eyes. “Is that not the way of it?” he asked Rafe.

“Aye, Sir Padrig, it is. He has manners better than many a fine lordship—some o’ us call him ‘milord,’ milady, right to his face. He doesn’t seem to mind it. So you needn’t worry too much about this rogue’s ways, milady—at least for the nonce.” Rafe grinned, his teeth showing bright amidst his dark whiskers in a sudden flash of lightning. Once the thunder faded he told her, “You’ll not have to put up with him for much longer. We’re readying a place for you to rest out o’ the weather. We’ll be finished with it in a trice. In the meantime, you’ve naught to do but settle yourself here and trust Sir Padrig to make you more comfortable.” Nodding, he clambered out of the hole and disappeared into the shadows once again.

Chuckling, Padrig called out his thanks, then turned his full attention to Lady Alys once more. After peeling off her sodden cloak and tossing it out of the way, he spread the blanket over her, then covered as much of the blanket as he could with the oilskin. Tucking it all around her, he gathered her close against him.

Though he might be near as wet as she, at least his body still threw off some heat. Hers, on the other hand, radiated an icy cold everywhere they touched.

He uncorked the flask and sniffed the fumes rising from it before sampling the powerful liquor. ’Twas strong enough to peel the hide from an ox! With any luck ’twould do her some good, however, for it had most definitely sent a wave of fire flowing in its wake.

As long as she didn’t choke on it.

Raising her head a bit, he held the drink to her lips. “Careful now,” he cautioned. “I’m not precisely certain what this is, but I assure you it’s far more potent than any wine.”

She took a small sip, gasping and coughing for a moment. “Aye, ’tis not wine,” she told him once she’d caught her breath again. “I’ve had such drink before. ’Tis a favorite of my father’s. The Scots make it.” She closed her left hand over his, brought the bottle to her mouth and drank again, then, surprising him, swallowed still more. She took a deep breath and let it out on a hiccup and a sigh. “Sweet Mary save me, but in truth ’tis the devil’s own brew!”

“Then I pray ’twill lend you some of its fire to warm you, milady.”

Letting her hand drop into her lap, Lady Alys closed her eyes and slumped into Padrig as her tension eased. He took one last sip of the liquor and corked the flask, balancing it by his side should Lady Alys have further need of it.

She lay curled against him as though she would crawl inside his very being to seek his warmth. “I told you before that I don’t know the extent of my hurts.” Her voice slurred a bit, as if she hovered on the cusp of sleep. “I do know, though, there’s something wrong with my right arm.” She raised her head slightly from his shoulder and met his gaze, her eyes huge in her pale face. “It will not work at all—and it hurt terribly when I did try to move it.”

“Indeed.” Mind awhirl, Padrig did his best to maintain an impassive mien and to keep his body from revealing his dismay.

Damnation! He had a very good idea what the trouble with Alys’s arm might be. If he was correct, ’twas something he could make right, but the process would likely be very painful for both of them.

For her especially, for he knew from personal experience the gut-wrenching agony caused by settling a dislocated shoulder back into its proper position.

The thought of causing Alys such pain, of using his strength against her, of manhandling her delicate body, made his stomach twist.

“We’ll look at your arm, and your other hurts as well, once we get you out of here. Rafe will be back soon,” he assured her. “We’ll move you to shelter, get you dry and warm.” He nestled her more firmly under his chin and pressed his face into her hair, the scent of her filling his senses once again. “Do you feel any warmer yet?”

“Aye,” she told him, though she sounded as though she held her teeth clenched tight together as she spoke, making him doubt she told the truth.

Still, what more could he do but hold her, try to protect her, keep her safe until his men had made some sort of shelter?

Aye, Padrig, a mocking voice within him chided, ’tis a terrible burden, is it not, to hold such a lissome creature so snug within your embrace?