Taming the Barbarian (28 page)

Her gaze followed his. She could see Killian from there, his face pale, his body still beneath the shadow of the ancient Celt. “Of course,” she said. “I shall see to it immediately.”

He faced her as if to speak, then took his hat from Tessa, who stood in the doorway, and left without another word.

“My lady.” The maid’s voice was very small. “Shall I tell the men to bring the knight inside?”

The statue stood solemn and silent, towering above the quiet glory of the garden, keeping vigilant watch over the fallen warrior.

Tessa cleared her throat. “The master’s chamber would make a fine place to view—”

“No!” Fleur snapped, then closed her eyes and turned toward the maid. “Do not say the words.” Her heart felt slow and heavy in her chest, but she drew a deep breath and faced the maid with something akin to normalcy, as if she could survive this. As if she could hope to live if he did not. “He is not dead.”

For a moment Tessa looked as though she would object, but then she bowed her head. “Of course not, my lady.” There were tears in her eyes. Fleurette ignored them. She would not cry. Would not wail against injustice. “But surely we should bring him safely out of the damp.”

He hadn’t moved a muscle, not even at the doctor’s harsh ministrations.

“Before he catches a chill,” Tessa continued.

Fleurette turned back toward her. “We shall not dishonor him with the master’s chamber.”

Uncertainty flickered across the maid’s face. So they thought her mad, Fleurette thought, and almost laughed out loud. “He shall remain in the garden.”

The girl winced as if struck, but finally she nodded and left.

As for Fleurette, there was little she could do but return to the Celt.

The day slipped away like the curtains of hell. Night settled in, and with it came the clouds, dark and thick and somber. Lightning crackled in the distance, but Fleur remained in the garden.

Killian yet lay on his back, his expression blank, his eyes closed.

Fleurette turned. Standing silently between the statue and the wounded Celt, she clasped her hands in uncertain supplication.

“I don’t know who you are,” she said, looking into the ancient stone face.

No one answered. Thunder rumbled quietly, like the growl of a distant beast.

“And I do not pretend to understand why you came.”

The night was utterly silent for a moment, the darkness heavy and damp.

“I did not think I needed help.” She took a stuttering step closer to the statue. “Indeed, I did not think I needed anyone.” The Celt gazed silently down at her, impervious to the world, unmoved by her troubles. But when she put her hand on his thigh, the stone felt as warm as life beneath her fingers.

“I was happy alone.”

He watched her in grim silence and she glanced at her hand, lying flat against the powerful thigh.

“Content at least,” she corrected. “I was content. You cannot deny that.”

It almost seemed as though she could hear the restless rustle of the destrier’s hooves in the foliage at its feet.

“But there was much I didn’t know.”

The Celt waited patiently. Misty droplets sprinkled from the darkened sky.

“Love,” she said and cleared her throat. She was, after all, no weak-kneed wench, crying like a broken fool because her hero had fallen. “Perhaps I did not know love.” He did not argue. “Gentleness,” she whispered. “True gentleness…” She laughed a little, for she had thought she was wise. Thought she was clever. So independent. So strong. ” ‘Tis a rare gift. I see that now, despite what the…” She winced and swiped at her cheek with the back of her hand. “Despite what the peerage may think, a gentleman is not born, he is made. His value is not determined by the cut of his coat or his ability to waltz.”

The hewn muscles almost seemed to shift beneath her hand.

“I love him,” she whispered. “Please.” She raised her gaze in tortured supplication and moved closer, pressing desperately up against the rocky leg. “Let him go,” she begged. Her tears mingled with the raindrops that fell soft and steady from the leaden sky.

There was a groan behind her. She turned with wooden breathlessness, and even in the darkness she could see Killian shift beneath his blankets.

She dropped to her knees. Their gazes met with a velvet clash. She reached for his hand, and her hair, wet and wild, slapped against his skin.

“Killian.” She breathed his name like a prayer and pulled his hand to her breast. “You’re back.”

He scowled. “Ye said ye were scairt of the dark,” he rumbled.

She hiccupped a laugh and squeezed his hand against her chest lest her heart leap from her body. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Then hie thee inside, lass. ‘Tis raining bloody hell out here.”

“A
s I heard it told, the lass here carried ye to Briarburn after ye were wounded by the wee pistol. Is that the way of it?” O’Banyon asked.

Killian turned his attention irritably from Fleurette to watch the Irishman in silence. He sat in a chair next to the sickbed, his foolishly elegant fingers long and tapered against the tiny cup he held aloft. What the hell kind of man had hands that pretty?

“Tell me,” Killian rumbled. “Have ye yet been shot with one of the wee weapons?”

O’Banyon’s lips quirked slightly, etching a dimple into his cheek. “Nay, I canna say that I’ve had the pleasure.”

Killian watched him from beneath lowered brows. ” ‘Tis something every man should experience.”

O’Banyon’s laughter was deep and quiet. “If ye were na stretched out flat on yer back with naught but the wee lass here to keep ye from death’s door, I would think ye were threatening me, old man.”

Killian snorted and shifted to stand, but Fleur was there in an instant, placing a surprisingly strong hand on his arm.

“You must remain still,” she said, “or you’ll tear open the wounds.”

Killian opened his mouth to assure her all was well, but despite her firm tone, her eyes were filled with such soft caring that he found himself hopelessly falling under her spell once again.

“Please.” She smiled tremulously. His muscles quivered beneath her touch, aching to drag her onto the bed beside him. There could be no earthly reason to be lying abed like a withered gaffer if she wasn’t there with him. Their gazes melded, promising pleasure and hope and a thousand unspoken vows. She smoothed her hand up his biceps to touch his cheek. He covered her delicate hand with his own, and even that simple touch was nearly his undoing, for there was nothing he wanted more than to take her in his arms and spend eternity in the shelter of her love. But she shook her head as if reading his thoughts. “The doctor said you must rest if you are to return to your full strength.”

The Irishman chuckled quietly. Fleurette smiled mistily and drew away. Killian scowled and shifted his gaze back to his tormenter.

” ‘Tis said,” O’Banyon added, laughter in his voice, “that the king’s own physician declared ye to be dead already.”

“Mayhap even ye can see he was mistaken,” Killian rumbled and shifted uncomfortably beneath the blankets. He could not be near the maid without desire burning him like a brand.

“Well aye, ye do still seem to be breathing,” O’Banyon said and shrugged. “But if ye were felled by such a small missile, most any wee problem may well be yer undoing. An ache in yer tooth. Fatigue. ‘Tis na too cold in here for ye is it, Scotsman? Methinks I feel a draft.”

Killian deepened his scowl.

O’Banyon’s smile brightened. “And ye look a wee bit flushed,” he added.

Fleurette rushed forward to lay a hand on his forehead. “Are you chilled? Do you need another blanket? Shall I—”

“Lass.” Killian caught her fingers in his own, and even the feel of those delicate digits made him squirm with unanswered desire. “All is well. Do not listen to the Irishman’s foolish prattle.”

She held his gaze until Killian shifted his toward O’Banyon’s.

“Ye will na worry the lass again,” he rumbled. “Are these words ye understand?”

The Irishman grinned, then set his cup aside and rose to his feet with the litheness of a hunting hound. “Me apologies, me lady,” he said, bowing gracefully. “I did not mean to alarm ye. The truth is this, the bastard Celt here—”

Killian cleared his throat and darkened his scowl.

O’Banyon shifted his gaze toward the bed as if surprised, then bowed again and took Fleurette’s hand between his own. “Me apologies again. ‘Tis simply what his friends called him in days of yore.” He cleared his throat and began anew. “As I was aboot to say, yer brave, beloved knight…” He shifted his gaze toward Killian as if his presence in the elegant bed were naught but cause for constant hilarity. “He is all but impossible to kill. Indeed, I have tried it meself on more than one occasion and—”

“What?” Fleur snapped, and yanked her hand from his. “You tried to kill him?”

“He jests,” Killian said, sprinting a glare at the Irishman before turning his gaze back to Fleurette. “O’Banyon here could na kill a midge with a long pike.”

“He tried to kill you?” she breathed. Her eyes gleamed with protective zeal, and there was something about her bloodthirsty expression that caused him, more than ever, to long to drag her into the bed beside him and promise love and protection and everlasting happiness.

But O’Banyon was still damnably present. Killian gave a mental sigh. “Lass, me apologies, but I would have a few words alone with the damned…” He stopped himself and nodded toward the other. “With me friend here.”

Her eyes were worried as she stared at him, but finally she pursed her wild strawberry lips and nodded. “Of course.” She turned her back to him and brushed past O’Banyon with a murmur. The Irishman’s brows lifted with a snap, then she was gone, closing the door quietly behind her.

An instant of silence lay between them before Killian found the other’s gaze with his own. “And what did she say to ye?”

The blue eyes danced with dangerous joy. “I suppose ye would na believe me if I said she had begged to meet me in the stable loft in one hour’s time.”

Killian kept his body carefully relaxed and tilted his head. “Nay,” he said, “but I might see ye gelded.”

O’Banyon laughed lightheartedly and slouched back into his chair. “She said that if I harmed ye, she would throttle me with her own hands.” He glanced toward the door, his smile faded, his eyes showing an odd meld of admiration and jealousy. ” ‘Tis a strange thing, though, her ire might well be worth the trouble just to feel the touch of—”

Killian cleared his throat and silently debated murder.

O’Banyon’s grin lifted merrily. “A bonny lass ye’ve found yerself there, Scotsman. Mayhap a bit bloodthirsty for me own taste, but who are we to resent that, aye?”

Killian’s chest swelled so that he had to steel himself against the burgeoning emotions, but he carefully tamped down the unfamiliar feelings. For now, he would concentrate on the business of keeping her safe. But later… He scowled and locked the thoughts firmly away. “What of Kendrick?” he asked, hoping to hide the weakness she spawned in him, the desperate need to look into her eyes, to feel her hand in his.

“I have seen to him,” O’Banyon said offhandedly. “Ye’ve naught to worry on, old man.”

“Seen to him?” Killian growled. “What the devil does that mean? ‘Tis na the Dark Ages, Banyon. Did I na warn ye. Ye canna simply murder a man these days, na matter how surely he deserves—”

“I spoke to him,” the Irishman corrected, and laughed. “God’s truth, man, she’s made ye as soft as a Yuletide pudding.”

Killian relaxed marginally, no easy feat, since O’Banyon had indeed been known to attempt to kill him from time to time. “What did ye say to him?”

The Irishman shrugged. “Na so verra much. Simply that ‘twould be unwise to show his face in England again if he hopes to keep his head above his shoulders.”

“Ye did him na harm?” It was not easy for Killian to keep the disappointment from his voice. But Fleurette deserved a civilized man, a forgiving man, and he was determined to be just that. “Na even a broken bone or two?”

“Nay,” Banyon said, then grinned. “But I hear there was a wolf what followed close on his heels until he reached the docks.”

Killian could not quite manage to contain his grin. Surely, even a civilized man would enjoy the idea of Kendrick’s reaction to being hounded by a wolf the size of a Russian bear. “He boarded a ship then?”

“Aye, paying double the usual fare to sail at first tide.”

Killian nodded and drew a calming breath. His Fleur would be safe so long as he breathed. “And what of ye?” he asked. “What be yer plans?”

A flash of hopelessness shone in the Irishman’s eyes for a moment, but he bundled it quickly away and shrugged. “It seems I have little choice. I shall remain near the Celt.”

Memories slinked in—endless darkness, eternal hopelessness. But there was light, was there not? He remembered the feel of Fleur’s hand on his thigh, remembered being drawn into sunlit hope.

“Your curse may yet be broken,” Killian said.

The other shrugged as if it was of no concern. “Unlike yerself, I dunna have me liege lord’s death to avenge. Indeed, I seem to have been dragged into this world as a sort of afterthought.”

Killian glanced out the window. From his vantage point, he could see the statue. Old memories stirred dark and tumultuous in his soul, but at that moment Fleurette stepped into view. Her gown was daffodil yellow, her hair as bright as sunlight. And at the sight of her, something as old as time stirred in his soul.

So this was love. Who would have dared hope it would come to him at this late date? He watched her as he spoke. “Ye know then that her husband was the Master’s kinsman.”

“Aye,” said O’Banyon. “His only remaining blood. ‘Twas his death what finally stirred ye from yer slumber.”

She bent to pet the spaniel that had avoided the Irishman like the plague, but now bounced about her feet.

” ‘Twas what I thought at the start,” Killian admitted, his words half to himself as he watched her.

” ‘Twas the curse what was cast,” Banyon reasoned. “Ye were to live in darkness, captured by the stone until ye found a way to make amends for betraying the Master. Surely avenging his final heir’s murder would do just that, na matter how long it took.”