Bride Of The Tower

Dropping to her knees beside the pallet, she motioned for Rolf to help her remove the stranger’s blood-stained armor. ’Twas much more difficult to free him from his mail than it had been for her to slip out of her own, since he could not stand or help in any way. His wounds made the task nigh impossible. By the time they’d stripped him to his undertunic and braes, while trying to protect his injuries and the makeshift bandages covering them, Julianna was drenched with sweat and felt as though she’d just wrestled an ox into submission.

Blotting her forehead on her sleeve, she settled down beside the still-unconscious man, wincing as her leggings caught on the rough floor boards. She yanked out the large splinter jabbing her backside and muttered a curse, though she wished she could howl out her pain and frustration instead. She was hungry, weary and sore—none of which was likely to change for the better anytime soon—and the servants and supplies she’d called for were nowhere in sight.

Shifting to a more comfortable position, Julianna took up a cloth and wet it, dabbing at the blood covering the man’s brow. He immediately began to shift about and moan. Had she been too rough? Mayhap she was not the best person to care for him. She laid her hand on his shoulder to quiet him and glanced up at Rolf. “Go get Mary—” A sound outside the door made her pause, but ’twas only two maidservants with the water and candles she’d requested. Julianna sat back on her heels and swiped her sleeve absently over her damp face yet again while the girls carried in a bucket, a basin and two short, fat candles. “Bring her to me at once.”

“Aye, milady.” Rolf followed the servants to the door, pausing when Julianna called his name.

“Look in the barracks first,” she told him, not bothering to disguise her displeasure. “If you find her there, I want to know about it. I cannot have her stirring the men to fight each other over her favors yet again. If they’re foolish enough to do so, ’twould normally be their business, but we cannot spare anyone at the moment. Our safety is far more important than their lust.”

Though Rolf’s expression didn’t change, Julianna could see from the look in his eyes that he’d keep Mary away from the barracks one way or another. At this point, she thought wearily, she didn’t much care how he did it. If they hadn’t needed Mary’s skills as a healer, Julianna would have sent the round-heeled wench on her way long since.

“Don’t you worry none, milady. I’ll see to it.” He nodded respectfully and left.

The door had no sooner closed behind Rolf than her patient began to stir. Eyes open wide, he stared up at her, his gaze unfocused and his face twisted into a grimace of pain. “Poor man,” Julianna murmured. “I’ll give you a draught to ease you soon.” She bent over him, smoothing her hand over his brow and shifting sweat-and blood-matted hair away from the large bump above his temple. A bit lower and he’d likely have died from the blow. She could do little to treat that injury save clean it, but she’d do what she could for the others.

She drew her hand down his cheek and along his jaw in a soothing caress, frowning as her callused fingers scraped against his whiskers. ’Twas not a lady’s smooth hand, she reminded herself, but ’twas competent enough to save him, whether it be with sword or simples.

And if she were to care for his wounds, it seemed she’d have to do so without any other help. Giving his face one last stroke, she shifted to get to her feet, then let out a shriek when he clamped his hand hard about her wrist.

“What—” His voice, barely audible despite her nearness, faded away. Licking at his lips, he tugged on her arm and drew Julianna closer. He drew a deep breath and squinted up at her, his blue eyes intense. “What is this place? Is it Birkland?”

Julianna covered his hand and loosened his hold on her wrist, her mind awhirl. Birkland. Could he be one of Richard’s men? There was nothing familiar about him or his garb, but she’d heard rumors that Richard had hired mercenaries to shore up Birkland’s defenses and help him in his quest for power.

By the Virgin, had she brought an enemy within their walls?

His fingers relaxed within her grasp and, moaning, he closed his eyes and slumped onto the pallet. She laid his hand on his chest and sat back on her heels. Enemy or not, he posed no threat at the moment, nor would he in the future, she vowed, for she’d keep him under close guard at all times.

For now, however, she’d more work ahead of her, for she could wait no longer for Mary to arrive. No doubt the wench was the worse for drink again, and would be no use to anyone. Deciding to deal with her later, Julianna poured water into the basin, then reached for her basket of simples.

Shifting the candles for better light, she cast the man one last look. Please don’t be an enemy, she pleaded silently, though she knew in her heart that it mattered not a whit whether he was friend or foe. Now that she’d held him close within her arms, felt the warmth and weight of him against her skin, he’d become real to her—not some anonymous stranger she might wield her sword against in battle.

Her hands steady, she stared at his motionless face and said a swift prayer for guidance as she stripped off the first bandage and began to wash blood away from the wound.

She sent up another plea, as well—that her intuition had not misled her.

For no matter who this man might be, she could not let him die.

Julianna quietly closed the door to her chamber and slumped back against the well-worn planks with a sigh of bone-deep weariness. Though she’d had a brief chance to rest her body once she’d settled the wounded stranger in the chamber beside her own, her mind hadn’t allowed her a moment’s respite as it circled round and round the dilemma of his identity and his reason for being so near Tuck’s Tower.

Once Rolf had returned—bearing the news that Mary would be of no use to anyone this night, for she lay in the barracks in a drunken stupor—she’d asked him to watch over the man, for she’d duties aplenty yet to see to before she could return to her chambers.

Now that her tasks were done, she’d still have no chance to seek her bed before another day passed. She couldn’t ask poor Rolf to stay up the whole night, not when he’d been on guard duty at the gate all the night before with no rest in between. She needed her good fighters as alert and ready as possible.

As for herself, she’d managed on little sleep many times before. If her patient slumbered through the night, perhaps she could snatch a nap. If not, ’twas a sacrifice she’d gladly make, for to give of herself in any way she must was a part of her responsibility to Tuck’s Tower and its inhabitants. Despite the man’s injuries, she dared not leave him unguarded.

Before she sent Rolf away, however, she’d take a moment to avail herself of the basin of warm water awaiting her on the hearth and the clean garb hanging on a hook nearby.

Julianna pushed away from the door, set the bar across to lock it, and took up the night candle beside the bed, lighting the candles near the low fire before stripping off her sweat-stained shirt and braes. Stifling a yawn, she stretched her tired shoulders, wincing at the tightness she felt from the unaccustomed task of holding a man’s dead weight before her in the saddle. At least, praise the Virgin, he was not dead in truth.

Nor had she harmed him with her rudimentary treatment of his wounds, she hoped, sending another brief prayer heavenward.

She unwound the cloth binding her breasts and tossed aside the long strip of linen with a sigh of pure pleasure, for she’d not need to wear it again till the morn. Naked, she sank down on the drying cloth spread out on the hearthstones to let the fire’s warmth soak into her aching body and took up the small, precious piece of soap from beside the basin.

The clean scent of flowers made her smile, for as always, it brought her mother to mind. Whether dressed in a fine embroidered gown or her husband’s cast-off garments, Lady Marian d’Arcy had appeared a lady, and had always smelled of sweet summer blooms blended with spices from the East. She had mixed the scent herself. ’Twas as unique and precious as the woman who’d worn it, Julianna thought, and as unforgettable.

She regretted now that she’d not paid more attention when her mother sought to pass the skill on to her, for her supply of the soap and perfume was dwindling and she wasn’t sure she’d the knowledge—or the time, if truth be told—to replenish it. ’Twas a luxury she could live without, most likely, of a certainty less important than ensuring her troops were well-trained and the keep’s inhabitants fed and cared for.

She brought the soap to her nose and savored its fragrance once more before dipping it into the basin and rubbing it into the washrag. Though she nearly always dressed in men’s garb—indeed, she could scarce recall the last time she’d worn anything else—for now she’d take what womanly pleasure she could from the fruits of her mother’s ability by perfuming her body with the fragrance of flowers.

She closed her eyes and fought back tears as she imagined that the cloud of scent enveloping her came from her mother’s arms wrapped warm and tight about her. If only her mother were here with her now, to share her wise counsel about so many things! Instead, Julianna hummed a tune her mother often sang and sought comfort from her memories as she washed herself from head to toe, dressed and brushed out her hair.

The words of the song made her blush when she recalled them, for they told of a woman readying herself to meet her lover. The handsome blond stranger filled her thoughts until, with a moan of self-disgust, she pushed his unsettling image from her mind. The fact that there might be another reason altogether for her to take such care with her appearance made her blush all the more. ’Twas naught but a simple need to be clean and comfortable, she told herself, that had her bathing in the middle of the night; it had nothing to do with the man who lay sleeping but a short distance away.

The man she’d keep watch over for the rest of the night.

“Blessed Virgin, save me from myself,” she whispered, “for ’tis clear I’ve something wrong with me! Never before have I met a man who could make me doubt my own strength of will.” She tossed her loosened hair back over her shoulders. “I’d be a fool, indeed, to allow this stranger to tempt me in any way.”

Her determination fixed, she squared her shoulders, left her chamber and went to send Rolf off to bed.

Flickering candlelight and a low-voiced moan woke Julianna from a restless sleep. She forced her eyes open in time to see her patient attempting to sit up and nearly toppling a lighted branch of candles. Since she’d drifted off sitting propped against the wall, she shifted to her knees and caught him by the shoulders, clasping him against her as she rolled them away from the wavering flames. “Have a care,” she warned, “else you’ll set the place afire.” The words trailed to a whisper as they came to rest with him atop her, his weight pressing the air from her lungs.

He lay motionless atop her, his eyes squeezed shut and his breath gusting hard near her ear. He felt heavier than she’d imagined he’d be, his body relaxed upon hers, his muscular frame molded against her as though they were meant to fit together. She couldn’t tell if he’d swooned, or was simply unable to move, but either way she hesitated to push him off her, for she was sure ’twould cause him further harm.

Yet she dared not remain in this position, either, for it felt too good, too enticing…too likely to tempt her to foolishness. Fighting back the sensation, she tried to squirm out from under him, to no avail. He held her pinned fast to the floor—rough splintery oak beneath her, warm temptation above.

“Do I know you well enough for us to be doing this?” he whispered into Julianna’s hair, bringing her wriggling to a swift halt.

She stared up into his eyes, dark blue and surprisingly full of amusement, and tried to draw a deep breath to steady her suddenly racing pulse. Even if she’d had air enough to speak, she knew not what she’d have said, for he held her captive with both his body and his warm gaze.

Mesmerized, Julianna returned his stare and waited.

Chapter Three

Will sank down against the lissome woman who had, unfortunately, ceased her provocative movements beneath him, and buried his face in her hair while he gathered his strength. By the rood! The way his head throbbed and his stomach roiled, he must have fair climbed inside an ale barrel last night.

’Twas a shame he couldn’t remember anything, for his body was most pleased indeed by the woman beneath him. He drew in a deep breath and sought to settle himself. ’Twould not do to lose the battle and swoon—or worse—over his bedmate.

She didn’t have the feel of his usual choice—short, buxom and well-padded. She fit perfectly against him, though, nigh tall enough to reach his shoulder when they stood, he’d guess, and her body’s gentle curves all the more stimulating against him for the lack of excessive flesh. He nestled atop her with a sigh and rested his aching head on the soft mass of dark, wavy hair cascading over her shoulder. Ah, this was satisfaction indeed! Why had he never before realized the allure of a strong, slim woman?

He drew in another deep breath to clear his muddled brain and smiled his pleasure as his lungs filled with the beguiling scent of woman, of flowers and spice, firing his blood hotter still. She must be far cleaner than the usual tavern wench as well; he’d not smelled such a wonderful fragrance since he’d last visited Gillian’s solar at l’Eau Clair.

The realization shot through him as sharply as an arrow—he could not mistake the sweet perfume of a noble lady.

A noble lady…

Christ on the Cross, what had he done?

Arms stiffening, Will levered himself up and tried to climb off her, sending a lightning bolt of agony through his head and arm, while the pulsing pain in his neck killed the throb of pleasure in his loins as effectively as a cold shower of water.

She moved at the same time, giving him a shove that pushed him over and off her. He slammed to the floor on his back and stayed where he’d landed, his vision fading in and out and a wave of dizziness making his stomach threaten to rebel. Will sprawled before the woman like a drunkard, unable to so much as sit up. The impact sent shards of pain through his neck and arm, as well, reminding him exactly how he’d come to this pass.

’Twas not too much ale that had brought him here, wherever “here” was.

Cursing beneath her breath, Julianna scrambled to her knees beside the man. His quiet moans of pain, as well as the solid thump of his body as it hit the hard oak planks, sent a wave of guilt through her. He lay so still, she wondered if she’d knocked him senseless.

She ran a soothing hand over his face, smoothing the hair back from his brow, and reached for the wet cloth draped over the bowl of water. Guilt tinged with regret, she admitted to herself as she eased the cloth across his bandaged forehead. Those few, brief moments of his weight atop her, his hard lean body obviously responding to the feel of a woman beneath him, had sent a shard of pleasure shooting through her before her years of training had jolted to life and she’d thrown him off.

She’d grown so used to fighting back at any physical contact—not that she’d ever before experienced anything like that—that her body responded as a warrior, not a woman.

Though why she should react with such intense lust to the inadvertent touch of a complete stranger shocked her nigh as much as the realization that she wished it would happen again….

With her patient awake and aware of her, of Julianna—not simply responding to a warm female body beneath his.

What else could account for his reaction? He knew no more of her than she did of him.

He pushed aside the damp rag, caught her hand in a surprisingly solid grip and squinted up at her. “Who are you?” he asked, demand lacing his voice despite its quiet tone.

“Hush.” She slipped her fingers free of his and reached to pick up the cloth from where it had fallen on the floor. “You must rest, sir. Who I am matters not a whit.”

His arms shook as he levered himself into a half-sitting position, then, his face nigh as pale as the linen swathed about his brow, settled his back against the wall. “I fear it does, mistress—” He caught hold of her hair and let it sift through his fingers, then tightened his grasp and raised the disheveled locks to his face and inhaled deeply. He glanced up at her. “Or should I call you ‘milady’?” His tone matched his gaze—sharp, measuring.

Challenging.

And she’d always loved a challenge.

A silent voice inside her brain warred with the soft, yearning part of her that wanted to inch closer to him, to tempt fate.

To tempt him.

Yet her good sense warned her to beware this intriguing man despite the way her senses fought to cease all thought—to feel, to react, to follow the instinctual draw of his body to her own.

Sound reasoning won out, and she gathered her hair in her hand to free it. “You need not call me anything at all,” she snarled.

Rather than release her, however, he wound her hair about his hand until his knuckles pressed against hers and she was forced to shift nearer to him else she’d fall. His breath whispered against her cheek, warm, distracting. “But I must,” he insisted, his voice low, rough, intimate. He gazed at her with undisguised heat. “Considering how close we’ve been.” He leaned closer still and brushed his lips over hers. “And are like to become.”

The insinuation coloring his voice—or was it the feel of his mouth upon hers?—sent a wave of heat through her body and a fiery flush to her cheeks. She mentally shook herself free of his spell and drew a deep breath. “That is most unlikely, sir, I assure you.” Heedless of whether or not she lost a hank of hair, Julianna wrapped her free hand about his to pry loose his fingers and jerked away from him, just as he released his hold. She fell sideways to the floor, barely avoiding the candle stand as she rolled clear, becoming tangled in her tousled cloud of hair in the process.

He slipped back against the wall with a thump.

“By the Virgin, you’re an insolent knave.” She thrust her hands through her hair, pushed it away from her face and scrambled to her feet, moving to stand over him. “I’ve a mind to send you down to the cellars to recover,” she added as she flung her hair back over her shoulder and bent to peer at him.

He didn’t groan this time, nor make any response at all to her threat. He lay slumped against the wall, his head lolled to the side and his face contorted with pain. The fury drained from her and she dropped to her knees beside him. A nudge at his shoulder produced no reaction from him, instead sending him sliding bonelessly toward the floor.

Catching hold of him, she bit back a curse and lowered him onto his pallet. He remained quiet, and he made no move to help or to resist her as she moved him into a more comfortable position.

Julianna shifted to sit beside him. “Dear God, have I killed him?” She touched the side of his neck and felt his lifeblood pulsing strong against her fingers. At least he still lived, though considering his treatment at her hands, ’twas a miracle. Perhaps he’d have fared better with the men who attacked him than he had with her, she thought with disgust.

What had possessed her? She was generally even-tempered and patient, able to weigh all sides of a situation, to listen and hold her temper in rein no matter the provocation. Yet her behavior toward this fascinating stranger was as foreign to her as he was, as though a different person altogether had suddenly inhabited her traitorous body. Her thoughts and actions felt so new, so odd, that she scarce recognized herself.

Enough of this maundering self-pity, she cautioned herself as she sat back on her heels and considered his still features in the flickering light. Easing her hand beneath his head, she sank her fingers into his thick, soft hair, satisfied when she felt no new bumps on his poor battered skull.

She checked his wounds to make certain they’d not begun to bleed again, eased him down onto his pallet, and adjusted his bandages before settling the damp compress on his brow. She drew a soft wool blanket over him and smoothed it into place with a sigh. There was naught more she could do for him now, save watch over him as he slept.

Julianna slid around and leaned her shoulder against the wall, keeping her gaze fixed on the bruise-marred symmetry of his face. Memories of the feel of his whiskers beneath her fingers, of his surprisingly soft lips brushing her own, would guarantee she’d get no rest herself this night.

’Twas just as well, for considering the blows to his head—several of which she’d caused by her own carelessness—she’d best keep watch over him to ensure he’d suffered no additional harm. She might as well enjoy the wakeful hours by reliving the brief contact they’d shared, for she doubted ’twould be an experience she’d ever know again.

Will woke alone the next time. Given what he thought he remembered from before—if it wasn’t a dream—he wasn’t sure whether that fact pleased him or not. He’d be happy to welcome the sweet-smelling siren he’d cradled upon his aching body once again, though he could certainly live without another battering by the anger-filled harpy she’d become.

He opened one eyelid with care, grateful he’d been cautious when the faint light seeping through the open shutters filled his head with a searing pain. Squeezing his eyes closed, he let his other senses explore the chamber, seeking a sound, a scent, the feel of another person nearby.

Seeking her.

He quieted his breathing and waited. He could sense no one else. Best to use the time to inventory his aches and injuries while he had the chance.

He felt battered enough to hurt even while at rest, of a certainty, but not so incapacitated as to keep him from fighting should he need to. His head felt nigh ready to fall off, but he’d suffered that same sensation once or twice after a night of hard drinking in Ireland and survived it. He couldn’t blame a cask of usquebaugh this time, however.

Blame his own idiocy, more like, or his lack of attention. To be attacked from above like the veriest untried lad…He’d been taught better—aye, and his instincts alone should have warned him even though his attention had wandered.

Had he grown so complaisant since he’d been knighted that he’d become mindless and soft? If so, he deserved whatever he got. At least he’d survived—and no one at l’Eau Clair would know of his stupidity.

Assuming he ever returned home. For all he knew, he was a prisoner here, held by the same knaves who set upon him. Perhaps the woman had been but another of their weapons, more subtle, meant to torture him into madness with her body.

Or with her temper.

He shook his head in disgust at his mawkish thoughts, an act he regretted at once. By God, but his skull throbbed! He’d fought near as wounded as this before, though he’d rather not do so again if he could avoid it. But until he knew where he was and who held him, he’d be wise to remain alert and ready to take advantage of any opportunity.

He dared not allow his vigilance to lapse again.

Nor would he let himself fall victim to the woman once more, should she return. Neither female wiles nor warrior ways would tempt him, he vowed, no matter how appealing she appeared in either guise.

The door hinges squeaked and the door swung wide, sending a draught of cool air into the room. The scent of spice and flowers flowed over him, as noticeable this time as before. His sweet-smelling temptress had returned.

Will fought back a smile and composed himself to remain still and silent while she entered the room and shut the door.

She crossed the chamber, her boot heels tapping lightly on the plank floor, and dropped to her knees beside his pallet. Her hand rested cool and light upon his brow for but a moment before she rose and moved several paces away.