Domning, Denise (35 page)

Rannulf's laugh was quickly caught back in pain. "She can do it," he persisted hoarsely. "She can even comb her own hair and dress herself."

"Oh, love, do not laugh," Rowena admonished him again. "There is nothing funny here."

His hand closed around hers. "My sweet, it is laugh or cry, and I prefer to laugh. Besides, our situation has remarkably improved in these last moments." Then he closed his eyes against the stab of Nicola's needle. "Stop," he said, "my head is spinning. If I fall against her, I might hurt her and that babe she bears. First, give me some of that drink, for I am parched with thirst, then let me lie down."

While Nicola helped him hold the pitcher of watered wine to his mouth, Rowena leapt up and laid out the pallet, swiftly putting the bedclothes in place. Between them, they laid him back on this mattress. Then she held her husband's hand and gently stroked his hair while the girl went swiftly to her needlework. Somewhere in the midst of it, Rannulf drifted into a place where pain could not reach.

When Rannulf finally knew he'd returned to the living world, Nicola was no longer in the room. His wife sat beside him, and, although he'd not yet opened his eyes, he knew she cried. As well she might, for his folly had put them in a place where they might as easily die as live. It was his own shame that kept him from speaking to her.

Then, suddenly, she lifted his hand to her lips and pressed a trembling kiss against his fingers. "I cannot bear to think that you might die," she whispered. "Please, do not die."

He sighed and tightened his hand around hers. "Do not cry, sweet," he muttered. "I will not die." There was no hope of that. Besides, it would be too easy an escape from this morass.

The knowledge that he was once again conscious only seemed to make her tears fall faster. "Oh, Rannulf, I am so afraid. I have only had you such a short time, and there is so much more left in my life. Do not leave me, I love you."

Her words made his breath catch in his chest in hopeful disbelief, then he sighed and released the air in the impossibility of it.

"You speak those words because you are frightened. And, as welcome as they might be to my ears, I think you are mistaken," he managed, stopping between words to catch his breath in effort. "Until only days ago, I have been a less than ideal husband, and now I have nearly cost you your life. What reason could you have for loving me? There has not even been time enough for you to even come to know me, much less come to love me."

Yet, even as he spoke, there grew within him a desperate need to hear her repeat the words. He prayed that she'd meant them and that her reasons for loving him would convince him of their truth.

His wife rubbed her free hand against the tears that stained her face, and drew a shattering breath. "But, I have known you for months, since February."

"Hardly. I have been gone most of that time." He loosened his grip on her hand only to twine his fingers between hers.

"Aye, you were gone, but your son was not, nor was your brother nor your people. Your kindnesses to them was in their eyes when they thought on you, and I heard your gentleness when they told their stories of you. Every time I looked at Jordan, I saw you. Aye, you were angry, and for that you have explained and apologized. Then, in our bed"—her suddenly hushed voice was shy as she continued—"you did not hurt or take, you made me love you." Her words died away into silence.

Rannulf closed his eyes against the enormity of his contentment. She loved him; it was true. He needed to touch her, to hold her close. At his tug on her hand, she slipped down to lie beside him. When he reached out and turned her face to his, their lips met in a gentle union. With her kiss, he felt his life begin anew, even in this dark and terrible place. He murmured in wonder, "You love me and you will never leave me, for Graistan holds your heart as it does mine." Then the urge for sleep overtook him, and he drifted peacefully into its healing embrace.

Morning's light brightened the room just a little as a tiny slice of sunlight entered through the narrow, east-facing window. Rowena opened her eyes slowly, knowing a new queasiness. Although it was not enough to make her empty her stomach, it was uncomfortable. She'd had nothing like it at yesterday's dawn. Was it because she now knew she was with child and expected sickness, or was it only because she'd eaten nothing last even? At any rate, it passed quickly, leaving only an odd heaviness in her womb.

She rolled toward Rannulf; he still slept. A brief touch to his brow said he had no fever. Arising, she took her beads from her purse and recited her prayers, adding grateful words of thanks for their continued survival. With that familiar ritual completed, she stripped off her filthy gowns and wimple, and tossed them into a corner. Dressed only in her shift, she went to stand at the tiny slit in the stone walls.

Ashby's bailey stretched, green and fragrant, down to the river. She could hear the water rippling and gurgling along its banks while it tumbled and glittered in the newly reborn sun. From a willow's crown, a lark threw it's song high into a cool and cloudless morning sky. Men whistled and sang in the distance. A sheep bawled, so did a child. The fresh breeze brought the smell of baking bread. How could something so horrible have happened in such a peaceful place?

Heartsick, she turned away from the view. In her purse she found her comb and went to sit, tailor fashion, on the edge of the mattress. Last night she had ignored her hair, and now she would pay the price. She loosened the long braid and began to slowly work the comb through her tangles. When her hair was once again smooth and straight, she drew it over her shoulder to plait it.

"Leave it," Rannulf said hoarsely, startling her. "I like it loose around you."

She turned swiftly to face him, her hair flowing around her in soft waves as she moved. "I did not know you were awake. How do you fare this morn, my lord? Have you any pain?"

"Aye, but you can ease it if you will help me rise so I can use that pot."

Rowena made an irritated sound at his flippant manner, but did as he bid her. "Good Lord, but you are heavy," she said, as he leaned on her after rising from his knees to his feet.

"It has never seemed to bother you before," he quipped. "Hold a moment, my head is spinning again. If I fall, let me drop. I would not hurt you or that babe of ours."

"I will not," she declared, resettling her arm around his waist.

He shielded his eyes with his hand for a moment, then took a breath. "It is better now. Let go, I would make the few steps it will take me by myself." When she clung, he said, "Wren, do not hold me. I am useless to us now. If we are to ever win free of this prison, I must speed my healing. To do that, I must get my feet back under me, and right quickly, too."

He managed the short distance, but he had to brace himself against the wall. When he'd finished and turned, she gasped, for his face was white with his effort. "Damn it, I am too stiff to retie this string. Do it for me, will you?" He leaned against the wall while she once again knotted the waist string of his stockings. This time, he did not complain when she held him for the few steps back. But when they reached the pallet, he balked.

"Nay, I will not lie. It causes me too much pain. Push it up against the wall and let me sit. You can wad the blankets up behind me to aid me." When she hesitated, he snapped, "I can stand for as long as it will take you to move the pallet."

"As you wish, my lord," she retorted sarcastically, but did as he requested. She placed the mattress near the window so he would have the sun to warm him for as long as it shone into the room. After she had propped him up to her own satisfaction, she handed him the pitcher and he finished what remained in it. Slowly, his color returned.

"You look better now. How is it with your head?" She took the emptied container and stood back a step to set it near the door.

"Well enough." The words were short and harsh. He was staring out the window at the sky above. "Why did you not tell me you were with child?"

"I did not wish to raise your hopes, my lord," she said quietly. "Ilsa says a woman's first often sits less securely than those that follow." She could not bring herself to tell him the rest of the truth, that she would die of a broken heart if he valued her only for the child she bore.

"You put my child and yourself into danger because you believe you might lose it?" His words were so hard, almost cold.

"Nay," she retorted, anger at his stupidity leaping to life in her heart, "you put
my
child into danger because you were hell-bent on coming here and would not listen when I tried to tell you what might happen. And it is a good thing that I came. If not for me, you would be lying dead next to that damn horse you love so well."

"Ah, Roland," he said sadly and sighed, still not looking at her.

"What, no word of thanks to me? I have saved your life, but all you can think of is that animal?" Her voice rose just a little. He had room in his heart for a beast of burden, but none for her. Why had she spoken to him of her love? No doubt, he would use it against her someday. She turned her back to him. "Would you have liked it better if you'd died and left me a widow with a child who would never know his father?"

" 'Tis not the men in my family who die young," he retorted harshly. "If you'd not been with me, my concentration would have been intact. As it was, I was half out of my mind in worry over you. Dear God, I thought Roland had killed you when your mare fell." He paused to catch his breath, as if his intense speech was costing him dearly. When he continued, his voice was filled with pain. "If I had known you were breeding, I would have insisted you stay at Graistan. All women are weak, but breeding women are the worst. I should know. I've lost my mother, my stepmother, and two wives to some stage of childbearing."

Rowena turned slowly to stare at him, but he refused to look at her. "You are worried for me?" she said in growing wonder.

He shot her a short, irritable glance. "Well, of course I am. I am injured to the point that I cannot protect you while we sit trapped in this godforsaken room with no food yet this morn despite that girl's promise. And only after I've practically killed you with my foolishness do I discover that you are with child. You should have told me." Once again his gaze was focused out the window.

"Nay, that is not it." Her words came from her in amazement. "You are terrified that this babe will be the death of me." He slowly turned his head, and when he met her gaze, she was awed by what was in his eyes. He could not bear that she might die. His love for her radiated from him.

What a fool she'd been not to realize that he might, too, have come to care for her as she had for him. It was not for possession's sake or to keep her inheritance that he'd chased her down. It had been to apologize and bring her home as an honored wife. While she had gloried in his attention yesterday, for it fed her love for him, she had not seen that with his every word and touch, he had made her one with him and given her his soul.

"I am precious to you, and you cannot bear to think of losing me," she whispered before she realized that she hoped to tease words of love out of him.

"Wren," he said softly, "do not badger me this morn. I am hurt in both body and spirit. A man I thought I knew has been turned against me, and I myself helped it to happen. I am sick with fear for you. You are right, I do not wish to lose you when I have barely had a chance to know you. Now, come sit beside me and let me put my arm around you. I need to feel you close, for I have a sudden loneliness."

"As you wish, my love," she said gently, burying her joy. She slipped down beside him to join him in the sunlight.

The room had once again dimmed before Nicola finally appeared. "My pardon for being so late," she breathed as she darted in the door. She bore a basket with breads, cheeses, and slices of meat pie. There was a pot of rich broth for Rannulf and a pitcher of small beer. On her arm hung a bucket of fresh water for washing. Behind her stood a servant bearing the basket of personal items that had been packed for Lord and Lady Graistan. The man swiftly shoved it into the room, then left.

Nicola locked the door and went quickly to her patient to check her handiwork of yesterday. She seemed satisfied with what she saw. "Maeve is gnashing her teeth in rage, for they've not yet found your four men. I heard Richard say, they'd ridden all the routes to Graistan, and there'd been no sign of their passing. He says they are hiding in the village or, mayhap, in Eilington." Her hands flew as she rewrapped bandages.

"How fares your sire?" her husband asked.

The girl sighed. "He is no worse nor had he awakened yet, but when I whispered to him that you wished to talk with him, he seemed to rest easier. Now I must go. I doubt if I can come again before the morrow." She slipped out and locked the door behind her.

"Here," Rowena said, handing him his broth. She watched as he made short work of it.

"Now I'll have bread as well," he said.

"You should have no more than broth," she replied, suddenly remembering a lesson long ago learned from the convent's infirmaress. "It is not good for injured folk to eat too heavily."

"Piss on it, I am hungry. You hand me a roll, or I will get one myself." There was laughter in his voice, and his expression was suddenly much lighter. "And when I am done, I will want to wash and dress in something clean. Best you use the water first, for I will leave it bloody."

She handed him his bread, then turned with great hunger to the basket. All of a sudden it seemed the child within her made her hollow with its need. She ate well. If the foods were simple, all was fresh and savory with herbs and onions. When she was finished, she washed, then helped him.

Afterward they dressed, he in fresh chausses and a clean shirt, she in a linen undergown, dyed light blue. There was no need within their prison cell for more formal attire and the weather was warm enough to allow it.

"This is much better," he said in relief. "I hate the feeling of dried blood on my skin."

"Gilliam says you hate feeling dirty at all. I think he finds your insistence on cleanliness oppressive." She tossed the reddened cloth into the bucket and pushed it away from them.