The Kindling (14 page)

That last thought was so nearly painful that she cast it aside. “I apologize for not better choosing my words.” She stepped into the gatehouse ahead of him.

“Helene!” The captain of the guard rose from the table where he dealt with the matters of ensuring the castle was well defended. “You have it?”

“I do.” She reached into the basket.

“Sir Abel,” the captain of the guard acknowledged the man who entered behind her. “How might I help you?”

“I am but taking exercise as ordered by the healer.”

“Ah, aye.”

Helene held out the pot. “Add this to your wine ere you seek your rest and your sleep should be easier.”

The man closed his fingers around it. “I thank you.”

“You are most welcome. Now, if you will summon the others, I will tend them.”

He inclined his head and strode from the room.

Over the next half hour, men-at-arms entered two at a time and submitted to her examinations, the application of salves, and the cleansing and bandaging of injuries slow to heal due to her patients’ carelessness and disregard. Throughout, Sir Abel watched, and she tried not to think about how different she would appear to him if the material of her gown was not heavy and coarse but, rather, so light and soft that it whispered with her movements.

When the last man-at-arms exited, she said, “I am finished here.”

Sir Abel pushed off the wall he had leaned against in lieu of supporting himself with the staff. “I did not expect them to be so receptive to a woman healer.”

“They grow accustomed to me.” She began returning items to her basket. “Like me or nay, I ease their suffering and discomfort.”

“It seems they like you—most of them.”

“Are you among
most of them,
” she teased with what should have been but a glance at him but which stuck when she realized she had become too easy with him.

“I do like you,” he said. “‘Tis no hard thing, Helene.”

As much as she longed to repeat the sentiment, she held it in, certain it would only go wrong for her if ever he discovered whom, exactly, he believed he liked. “Good,” she said, “then you will better tolerate my ministrations.”

“I thought I tolerated them well.”

“You do, but I would have you more than tolerate them.”

“I should like them?” Something close to a smile lifted his mouth, and she wondered how they had passed from dissension over whom she prayed for to this. It was not a safe place to be, and yet she wanted to remain here.

He reached for his staff, crossed to the table, and halted before her. “That is what is so unsettling,” he said. “I do not want to like when you tend me, but I do.”

How her mouth could be so moist one moment and dry the next, she did not know, but this reminded her too much of when he and Baron Lavonne had answered her desperate cries all those weeks ago.

As she had wept with relief, she had heard Sir Abel’s soothing voice, felt his hand raise her chin, past her tears looked into his eyes and seen no revulsion as when he had believed she had abandoned her son. Instead, regret and concern had shone there. And something else that she had dared to think might be more than sympathy.

Would things have been different had their ride to Broehne Castle not been intercepted and he had not relinquished her into the care of another and continued on to Castle Soaring where Sir Robert had worked ill upon him? Or was she merely wishing where she should not?

“Helene,” he said, and she realized he had drawn nearer—surely too near for anything less than a kiss.

“Abel,” she breathed even as her ears caught the sound of a familiar voice outside the gatehouse.

One moment his breath was on her lips, the next he was an arm’s reach away, the moment after that, Sir Durand crossed the threshold.

“Again, I am in need of you, healer,” he announced, his gaze lighting first upon her. “Of course, Edwin is more in need—” Seeing Abel, he arrested his forward motion, as well as the small smile with which he had begun to regard her.

The man-at-arms coming behind him halted just short of stumbling into the one with whom he had traded sword strokes, his face and neck even more scored than his opponent’s.

“Sir Abel,” Sir Durand said gruffly.

“Sir Durand.”

After a long moment, Sir Durand returned his gaze to Helene. “I did not know you were occupied.”

“I am not.” She hoped her face was not as bright as it felt warm. “Sir Abel accompanied me that he might exercise his leg. We were just readying to return to the donjon.”

“Then I will not keep you.”

“You will not be keeping me.” She motioned him forward. “Allow me to see to your injuries.”

“Later.”

“Nay, now. Sir Abel is not in such a hurry that he would deny you and Edwin the care you require.”

The knight looked from her to Abel and, though she was not quick enough to catch whatever passed between them, Sir Durand lowered to the bench.

“You too, Edwin,” Helene said.

The stocky man-at-arms tramped to the bench and dropped down beside Sir Durand.

Helene placed herself before the knight, bent forward, and peered at his newly acquired cuts and abrasions that bled where those of the day past no longer did. “Fewer today,” she murmured, then followed the course of the cut that swept from just beneath his jaw and disappeared into the neck of his blood-spotted tunic. She pushed the material aside. “You are most fortunate Edwin did not forget ‘twas practice. Had his blade gone deeper, he might have cut the great vein in your neck.”

Sir Durand scowled. “As he is most fortunate that neither did I forget our purpose.”

Helene withheld her smile and turned her attention to the injuries upon his arms and legs.

Abel watched, certain he could not have stood more ready to strike if it was Sir Robert who knew Helene’s hands upon him. From their easy and almost friendly exchange, it was obvious she and Durand had become much better acquainted these past days. Abel did not like it and was certain the other knight could feel his dislike across the space between them. After all, Durand had trained at Wulfen alongside Abel, meaning his senses were as honed as any who knew the honor of being knighted there. And yet, when Helene had pressed him to allow her to tend him, and Abel had told with his eyes that Durand should leave, it was the healer’s will to which the man had yielded. Out of respect for her? Or in defiance of the one who had been his friend before he had trespassed against the Wulfriths once, twice, and again?

Would Helene be as eager to smile upon Durand if she learned what had happened between him and Gaenor? Abel did not believe his sister was without fault, but he also knew the knight had acted with more dishonor—far outside the bounds of a Wulfrith knight—than Gaenor had done. Had Durand loved her, the trespass might not have been too great to preclude forgiveness, but he had loved Beatrix, a woman whose feelings for Michael D’Arci had denied the knight any hope of winning her favor. And, as if declaring to all that still he was worthy of being esteemed as a Wulfrith-trained knight, he yet wore the dagger that proclaimed him one. A dagger Abel now denied himself—and might ever do.

When Helene moved on to Edwin, Durand met Abel’s regard, inclined his head, and stood. “I am once more indebted to you, Helene. I thank you.”

“You are welcome, Sir Durand.”

He started for the door, paused, and turned back. “I nearly forgot.” He opened a pouch on his belt and pulled out a bundle of small purplish flowers amid wilted leaves. “Is this the plant you were searching for in the wood yesterday?”

Of course, she had gone there with him again. Alone.

She hastened forward. “Betony!” She lifted her face to the knight’s. “I thank you.”

“I am glad to have been of service.”

“Of great service.” She took the plant and, when she turned back to the table, Abel saw remnants of the smile she had surely shone upon Durand.

The knight strode from the room, and it was another quarter hour before Edwin departed.

“How does your leg fare?” Helene asked as she packed her basket.

“It aches.” Realizing his curt reply sounded more like complaint than fact, Abel added, “’Tis obvious I must needs exercise it more.”

She wrapped Durand’s gift in cloth, settled it atop her pots, and lifted the basket. “Then more exercise you shall have. You are ready to return to the donjon?”

He was not. What he wanted was to be the one to walk in the wood with her, to replace whatever memories she had of being there with Durand. But he was not ready for it and silently cursed all the weeks lost to anger and seething that had held him to his bed until Garr had forced him out of it—an abundance of weeks that Durand had used to restore whatever the brigands had sought to take from him.

“I am ready.” He stepped the staff forward.

Neither spoke again until they reached the inner bailey. “I am sorry you do not like that I pass time with Sir Durand,” Helene said, “but he is generous to serve as my escort when I go in search of plants that Lord D’Arci does not grow in his garden.” He felt her sidelong glance. “I do not know what stands between you and him, for he still will not speak of it, but I do like him.”

“My sister, Gaenor, liked him as well—much to her detriment.”

Silence crashed loudly between them and she halted. “Pray, what say you, Sir Abel?”

What he should not have, but the words had spoken themselves before he could pull them back, violating a lesson taught to him as a boy who aspired to knighthood. The things this woman did to him!

He stopped just ahead of her and looked around. “I cannot keep you from doing as you will. I can but ask again that you heed me when I say that if you do not stay away from him, he could be the ruin of you.”

She stepped forward. “Since you will not make the accusation in words,” she said low so that none of those moving about would hear, “I must ask if you imply Sir Durand is a ravisher of women.”

He knew it must sound that way and was tempted to let her believe it in hopes it would cause her to do as he asked, but he could not make a lie of the truth. “Nay, I do not believe him to be a ravisher.”

“Then?”

He had opened the door wider yet and did not see any way to close it outside of just enough truth that might keep her from regretting she had not listened to him. “I break confidence in telling you this, and ‘tis my own fault that I must do so, but I care too much what happens to you to say naught.”

“Then say it.”

“My difficulty with Sir Durand is that he is a seducer.”

She caught her breath, and he guessed Gaenor had come to mind. “I see.”

“No more will you be alone with him?”

He did not like that she was slow to answer and liked even less her answer when she said, “I shall be more watchful, but as seduction requires a measure of my complicity, I see no reason to eschew his company or protection when I leave the castle walls.”

Abel thought he might shake her if he had both hands available. “Then it is not enough for you?”

Her smile was apologetic. “I appreciate your concern, but I have taken care of myself far too long to remain naive and foolish about longing looks, sweet words, promises, and stirring touches that tempt a woman to be intimate with a man.”

“And yet you would have let me kiss you not an hour past,” he said sharply.

Rather than avert her eyes, her gaze became more direct. “I would have, but not because you set your mind to seducing me that I might fall into your bed without the speaking of vows and the assurance of a life together until death. I would have let you kiss me because I wanted you to kiss me as much, I believe, as you wanted to kiss me—as, methinks, you have wanted to do since you raised me from the floor of that cave and vowed you would let no more ill befall me.”

Abel wished he could deny what he had spoken following her rescue when he had tried to soothe her, but he had said—and meant—it.

“That is not seduction, Sir Abel. As unseemly as it is for me to say it, that is mutual want.”

Never had he known a woman to speak thus, to be so forthcoming no matter the cost to her pride, no matter how it might pain her. And hearing her say it in spite of all he had lost and might never regain…

It made him want to kiss her here no matter who might see or what any might think.

As if sensing his feelings, she stepped back. “Of course, that does not mean it would not be a mistake to act upon it,” she said, “only that I would be as responsible as you for what resulted. That, Sir Abel, is the difference between you and Sir Durand and the reason I would do better to avoid being alone with you.”

They would both do better, but it was not possible under the circumstances. “Still,” he said, “I will ask again that you maintain distance between you and Sir Durand.”

Color slapped her cheeks, so bright it nearly covered her spattering of freckles. “And still I say nay.” She dipped her chin. “Good day, Sir Abel.”

He did not call her back, and when she went from sight, he sighed though, to his ears, it sounded more like a growl. Determined to take the stairs up to the donjon rather than go the easier way through the garden, he put his staff forward and, step by aching step, crossed the bailey and began his ascent.

Chapter Twelve

“Sir Abel does not like that you are alone with me.”

The solemn words, so different from those exchanged on their walk to the wood, surprised Helene. Loosing her fingers from the soil she had worked in order to remove the plant whole so it could be replanted in the kitchen garden, she looked across her shoulder at Sir Durand where he reclined against a tree.

“He does not. Did he tell you to stay away from me?”

“Not in words, but at the gatehouse two days past, ‘twas most obvious he did not approve of my regard for you. No doubt he has warned you away from me.”

It was not a question, and yet it was, and he deserved an answer. “He has.”

He nodded. “And yet here we are.”

“I like your company near as well as your protection, Sir Durand.”

“Then he has not told you the reason we should not be alone.” He gave a short, bitter laugh, the expression of which turned his attractive face less attractive. “Of course he would not, for to do so would muddy the Wulfrith name nearly as much as mine.”