L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep (21 page)

A bond that included her, for some reason.

Whether from the fact that she’d given a command to some of
them—which they’d surprisingly obeyed—or that she’d been willing to come into
the barracks to tend their hurts, they’d decided to include her in their
post-battle revels. Every man had a tale to tell, some straightforward, others
embellished. Especially once the ale began to flow.

She motioned Padrig closer and smiled at something Cedric said.
They’d never know how much their easy acceptance and camaraderie meant to her.

By the rood, even Brigit had joined in their celebration once
she’d determined that Moira had the better skill at stitching up cuts. She’d
claimed the one crude chair in the place, accepted a foaming tankard of
ale—much depleted already—and sat there smiling widely as the stories flew.

Moira reached for the hem of Padrig’s shirt, intending to tug it
up and over his head as she would a child’s, to examine his bruised ribs, but
he scooted back from her and pulled the shirt down about his waist, clutching
the worn linen in both hands.

“Lad, are you daft?” one of the men asked, his voice loud and
slurred with ale. “Never refuse a lass when she wants to help ye take off
yer
clothes.” He grunted when the man next to him gave him
a poke in the gut. “
Beggin
’
yer
pardon, milady.”

A roar of laughter greeted his comment, and Padrig’s face went
from milk-pale to cherry-red in an instant.

Before she could try to ease his humiliation, the door flew open
and Connor stepped inside, Will behind him.

Moira placed a hand on Padrig’s shoulder—for support and to hold
her balance—and rose.

She didn’t know how to interpret Connor’s expression, but to her
eyes, he didn’t appear best pleased.
Don’t
let him spoil this for them,
she prayed.

He glanced about the crowded room, his gaze lingering the barest
moment on Brigit, then on Moira, before he grinned and turned to Will. “Why
weren’t we invited here sooner?” he asked. “Do you think they feared we’d
guzzle all their ale?”

The men roared at that, as enthusiastically as they had earlier,
and the man tending the ale keg held out brimming mugs to Connor and Will.

Relief took the strength from Moira’s knees and she dropped down
onto the bench. “Are you all right, milady?” Padrig asked, concern replacing
embarrassment on his face. “Do you need Brigit?”

She peered over at the maid, slumped back in the chair, her
wrinkled cheeks pink, her veil askew, and shook her head. “Nay—and ′tis a
blessing I don’t, for I doubt she’s able to stand, let alone do much else.”
Meeting Padrig’s eyes, she added, “I believe she’s been drinking something
stronger than ale. How shall we get her back to the keep?”

He gave a mischievous smile. “Mayhap Lord Connor will carry her
to her bed.”

“You honor me, lad, but you greatly overstate my strength,”
Connor said from behind Padrig. He stepped over the bench and sat down facing
Moira, giving her a nod of greeting.

Despite her boldness earlier—or perhaps because of it—she felt
shy of him. But it would not do to let it show, lest she destroy any progress
she’d made in keeping the weak and tearful Moira hidden away. So she met his
dark, intent gaze. “Have you finally come to let me tend your injury, milord?”

“Later, perhaps,” he said. He turned to Padrig. “How
fare
you, lad? You took no serious hurt tonight?”

“Nay, milord, I’m fine.” Padrig looked at her as he said it, as
though daring her to refute his claim.

What to do?
she
wondered, holding
Padrig’s pleading gaze. She dared not send him off without seeing to his ribs,
yet she knew he didn’t wish to appear weak before his master. “He’s a tough
fellow, milord, for he took little hurt, save for someone thumping him smartly
in the ribs.”

Though Connor’s expression remained serious, she saw a spark in
his eyes that told her he knew precisely what she was about. “Excellent,
Padrig!” For a moment, she thought Connor meant to give his squire a
congratulatory slap on the back, but he merely clasped Padrig’s shoulder briefly.
“Has Lady Moira finished with you, then?”

Before Padrig could make some excuse and escape, Moira held up a
long strip of linen. “I was just about to begin, milord.
”
She met the squire
’
s
resigned look with a faint smile.
“
Will
you indulge my motherly concern, Padrig, and let me wrap your ribs? I know ′tis
naught but a woman’s foolishness, but I’ll worry that you’ll end up with a rib
stuck through your lungs by morning if I don’t bind them up. Just for tonight,”
she added.

“Excellent advice,” Connor said. “You cannot be too careful.” He
stood. “We all must heal quickly, to be ready to fight again if necessary.”

“Aye, milord, milady,” Padrig said. He tugged his shirt up over
his head and emerged with his brown hair sticking out in every direction. “Do
what you must,” he told Moira, his voice and face resigned.

“I’ll leave you to your work,” Connor said, turning away. He took
two steps, paused and glanced back at her. “Are you nearly through here?”

“Aye.” She placed the end of the linen beneath Padrig’s arm and
nudged him to his feet. “This is my last patient.” She reached around his
slender middle and pulled the wrap tight. “Except for you, milord,” she added,
loudly enough to mask the squire’s grunt of discomfort.

Connor nodded, took a swallow of ale. “I’ll escort you back once
you’ve finished here. Padrig can help me get this off—” he indicated his
hauberk “—before he seeks his pallet.”

Padrig shifted on his feet until Moira gave another tug on the
bindings wrapped about him. “But what will you do with Brigit, milord?”

Brigit, Moira noted without surprise, had nodded off where she
sat, her head tilted back, a gentle snore emanating from her open mouth. “I’d
suggest you leave her here, milord.” She chuckled. “But the men might not get
much rest if you do. Once she’s had a bit of ale, she can snore fit to wake the
dead.”

“Are you certain you want her in the keep?” Connor asked. “She
sleeps in your chamber, doesn’t she?”

Moira nodded, resigning herself to a restless night.

He smiled. “Don’t worry. Two of the burliest men-at-arms will
carry her over when you’re ready to go. I’ll find a place for her where she
won’t disturb you.”

Something about his voice, the promise in his smile, made a
shiver of … something unrecognizable tremble along her spine.

Whatever the sensation was, it made her breath catch, her heart
race, her skin feel more sensitive. The brush of Connor’s gaze over her felt as
solid and real as the touch of his hand might.

Her weariness seemed to melt away. Sitting up straight on the
bench, she met his smile with a tentative one of her own.

His smile deepened. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”

Connor and Moira followed along as their motley troop returned to
the keep. Two men supported Brigit, her bulk slumped between them. Padrig
carried Moira’s basket of bandages and Connor the wooden box of simples. Moira,
her mind still distracted by Connor, let him lead her through the silent,
torchlit
bailey, a supportive hand beneath her elbow.

Somehow they stole through the hall full of servants without
waking anyone. Once they reached the top of the stairs, however, they paused in
the dimly lit corridor to decide where to put Brigit.

“There’s that empty room at the end of the hall,” Connor
suggested.

“The bed’s not made up,” Moira told him, a shudder passing
through her at the mere thought of going in there.

“She sleeps on a pallet anyway,” Connor pointed out. “′Tis
the easiest solution. The room has a door stout enough to quiet her snores, yet
she’ll be close if you should need her.”

He took the basket from Padrig and strode to Moira’s solar. He
returned carrying a lighted candle in one hand and Brigit’s pallet rolled up
under his other arm.

While Moira stood watching from the corridor—feeling a fool for
refusing to enter the room, but still not willing to do so—Connor and the
others settled Brigit for the night.

Once he’d sent the two soldiers back to the barracks, he turned
to his squire. “Make up the fire for Lady Moira.”

Padrig nodded, his eyes drooping with fatigue, and headed into
Moira’s bedchamber.

Connor took her by the arm, his touch making her senses spring to
life once again. “Solar or bedchamber?” he asked. His eyes met hers, searching
them for something.

She took a step toward her solar, but realized there was no water
there to wash away the blood from his wound. But the pitcher in her chamber
should be nearly full … Did she want Connor in her chamber now? ′Twas
past midnight …

Padrig returned and bowed. “Go to bed, lad,” Connor told him.
“Don’t bother waiting for me.” The squire nodded and crept past them to the
stairs.

Moira tugged free of Connor’s hold. “Come into my room. I’ll see
to your arm there.”

Not waiting for a reply, she entered the solar and lit a candle
from the banked fire, then went into the next room and lit the two branches of
candles there.

The metal ewer held water—cold now, but not unbearably so. Still,
she placed it on the hearth and knelt to feed more fuel to the growing blaze.

The door from the corridor opened and Connor slipped into the
room. “Let me do that.” He carried a pitcher—from his chamber?—which he set on
the table beside the bed.

“I need no help to lay peat upon the fire,” she said tartly. “I’m
not some helpless idiot! I know I’ve not done much to prove otherwise since you
came here, but I’m usually competent enough to get by without a keeper.”

“Nonetheless, you need not do everything yourself,” he chided. He
joined her by the hearth, reaching down and clasping her about the shoulders.

Even with his support, it seemed a formidable task to stand. She
wavered on her feet, and Connor wrapped her in his arms.

It felt so good, with his warmth and strength surrounding her,
that Moira knew she must break away from him at once. But he refused to release
her, instead cradling her to his chest. “Don’t run away,” he whispered into her
hair. “Rest here a moment, till you’ve caught your balance.”

“That’s not likely to happen if I remain where I am,” she said,
too tired to hide her regret.

He drew back to look at her. “What do you mean?” he asked,
watching her with a hawk’s all-seeing stare. “I wish only to keep you from
harm, Moira, nothing more than that.” He smoothed her hair away from her face,
his fingers caressing her cheek. “For tonight, at any rate.”

She remained in his arms for a time, savoring the closeness and
giving silent thanks that he’d returned from battle relatively unharmed. But
the rough weave of his hauberk against her face, felt even through the light
padding of his surcoat, reminded her that he had yet to remove the signs of
combat from himself.

Easing away, she raised her hand to cup his whiskery cheek.
“Come, ′tis late, past time to take care of you.”

She retrieved the pitcher he’d brought, setting it on the hearth
with the other one. When she turned back to him, he’d unbuckled his sword belt
and hung it over the back of the chair. Moving gingerly, he tugged at his
surcoat, trying to pull it up over his head one-handed. “Here, let me,” she
offered.

Together they drew it off. He yawned as he emerged from the
garment, and she urged him toward the chair. She folded the surcoat and set it
on the chest at the foot of the bed, then gave a cry of dismay when she saw him
still standing there, trying to remove his hauberk by himself. “Should I wake
Padrig?”

“There’s no need.” He untied the material bound round his upper
arm and handed it to her. Then, leaning forward from the waist, he let the
heavy mail tunic slide down over his head to land in a pile at his feet. “I
never had a squire till I left for Ireland,” he said, picking up the hauberk
and setting it by the door. “You see, I’m self-sufficient as well,” he added
with a tired laugh. “I’m used to managing on my own.”

He drew the chair close to the chest and pointed to it. “You sit
there.
′Twill
be more comfortable for you.”

She scowled at him and stood her ground, waiting for him to sit
in the chair as she had planned.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice how you’ve been rubbing your
back?” He took her by the shoulders and turned her, then walked her backward
until her legs bumped the chair seat. “As your overlord’s representative, Lady
Moira, I command you to sit down.” He pressed on her shoulders until she
obeyed.

“Do you think to suddenly become a tyrant, milord, now that
you’ve discovered I have a backbone?” she asked while he moved the candle
stands closer.

He went into the solar and returned with her bandages and
simples. Placing them within her reach, he sat on the chest and faced her.
“I’ve always known you have backbone, Moira. Only a strong woman could have
held Gerald’s Keep and kept it out of Hugh MacCarthy’s hands these many months
until help arrived.” He took her hand and held it loosely clasped in both of his.
“Despite the odds against you, your people are safe, the keep is still standing
and you’ve even managed to plant some of the fields. You’ve provided for your
people—
ofttimes
, I imagine, at your own expense. It
cannot have been easy to do all that, and to care for a dying man as well.”

She blinked back tears; she’d done all she could, but she’d
wondered—wondered still—if she’d done enough.

She was so tired—not simply the physical weariness, but
emotionally. She’d had no one to share that burden with.

Could she share it with Connor?

He gave her hand a squeeze and set it in her lap, reaching up to
rub his right shoulder above his bloodstained sleeve. Perhaps they’d find the
time to speak of those things later, but for now, she’d ignored his injury for
too long already.

She sat forward to peer at his arm. So much blood had soaked into
the sleeve, it clung to his arm from below his shoulder all the way to the
wrist. “Is it stuck to the wound?” She gave the linen at his wrist a tug. It
didn’t move.

“Aye, it’s clotted over.” He endured her gentle probing as she
worked her way up his arm. “Just needs a bandage over it, most like—” His
breath hissed between his teeth when she touched a spot just above the crook of
his elbow.

“I hope you’ve more shirts, milord, for this one’s life is over.”
She stood and removed her eating knife from the sheath on her belt, then caught
hold of the loose fabric at his throat.

“The shirt’s life, or mine?” he asked, the faint smile in his
eyes telling her ′twas a jest.

She tightened her grip on the shirt and pulled him closer. “You
do
trust me, milord?”

“You know I do,” he murmured.

Ignoring the tide of warmth that flooded through her at his
words, she poked the blade into the material and sliced it open.

Despite the steady throb in his arm, Connor felt quite well
enough to savor Moira’s closeness. Her sweet scent of flowers and spice
surrounded him; he turned his head, brushing against a strand of her hair where
it had escaped her veil. He was tempted to ease closer, to brush against the softness
of her cheek, to make her shift her obviously averted gaze to his face.

But he didn’t. He didn’t wish to force himself on her in any way,
whether it be his presence, his ardor, his body …

He’d better abandon that line of thought soon, else she’d know
precisely what thoughts had taken over his errant mind.

“Turn around,” she told him. He did so, and she slid the blade
into the back of his shirt, then tore at the fabric until the sleeve hung free.
She moved to stand before him. “Do you want to take off the rest of the shirt
before I begin?”

“I might as well.” If she didn’t mind him sitting there
half-dressed,
he
certainly didn’t.

She’d seen his scars already, heard him admit who had caused
them. If she mentioned them again, he would tell her more—tell her all, if she
wished to hear the tale. He had asked
her
to trust him with her life and that of her child; surely he could trust her
with the story of his own.

He reached up, tugged the remains of the shirt over his head and
let the material drop into his lap. For the moment, it appeared her attention
remained focused on his latest scar-in-the-making.

As was his own, he thought when he glanced up. She placed a
needle and stout thread on the chest, alongside some strips of white fabric and
a small pot of unguent.

Moira moved about the room, gathering together a basin, a dish of
soft soap and a towel. Setting the basin on the chair, she filled it from a
ewer on the hearth. Straightening, she rubbed her lower back, the arching
movement emphasizing the mound of her belly.

“Moira, your back is hurting.” He reached out and moved the basin
from the chair to his lap. “Sit down, please.”

“It’s never ached so much,” she told him. “But it’s been a long
day, and I’ve spent the last few hours trying to bend.” She glanced down at her
belly. “Something I cannot do right now.”

“Would it help if I rub your back?”

She shook her head and, grabbing hold of the chair’s arms, eased
down into it. “I don’t dare relax until I’m through with your wound.” Laughing,
she added, “You wouldn’t want me to fall onto the floor in the middle of
stitching it up, would you?”

“I’d catch you, I swear,” he said, chuckling as well.

“It strikes me that we’re both too jolly, considering the
situation.” She picked up a towel and dunked it in the basin. “Which tells me
we’re both too weary and should be abed by now.” She wrung out the cloth and
laid it over the cut, holding it in place to loosen the sleeve.

“I guarantee I’ll not fall asleep while you’re doing this.”

“It might be better if you did.” Catching hold of the top of the
sleeve, she began to gently pull it free.

It stung, but he’d felt worse—for a far less worthy cause.

Other than the sheen of sweat that broke out on his brow, Connor
sat silent, motionless,
expressionless
while Moira
bathed away the blood from his arm and set stitches along a cut the length of
his hand. Her face had paled, but he couldn’t be sure if ′twas what she
was doing, or sheer exhaustion that caused it.

“There,” she said, laying aside the needle and the knife she’d
used to cut the thread. Sitting back in the chair, she sighed. “You were lucky,
for it’s not deep, and ′tis a clean, straight wound. It should heal
well.”

She spread a creamy, sweet-smelling ointment over the cut and
wrapped a long strip of linen loosely around his arm, tying it securely near
his armpit.

He rolled his shoulder, hoping to loosen the tension, and
wriggled his fingers. “Everything works fine.” It certainly felt better, now
that she’d finished. There must have been something in the ointment to draw away
the pain, as well, for some of the ache had disappeared already. He took her
hand and brought it to his lips. “Thank you, milady.”

“I’d hoped you’d tell me everything that happened tonight, but
I’m so tired, I doubt my brain could understand it.”

Connor rubbed his hand over his face. “I doubt whether what I’d
say would make sense, either. We’d best wait until tomorrow.” He stood and
began to gather up the items she’d used, intending to put them away.

“You needn’t do that.”

“You’ve done enough yourself. It’s late—”

“I’ll leave it for Maeve to take care of in the morning.”

He didn’t believe her, so he finished the task, ignoring her
frown. “You see, it took but a moment,” he told her, snuffing all but one of
the candles.