wcEND.rtf (17 page)

After a moment she glanced Maude's way, relieved to see the maid busy filling a cup with wine then pouring in it a light powder from one of her vials. She handed the cup to Hunter who drank it in one swallow. Isabel wondered if it was some kind of anesthesia. Hunter's stoic expression didn't necessarily mean he wasn't hurting, just that he chose not to show his pain.

"Do you have the healing herbs ready?" Isabel asked, trying to sound knowledgeable and praying Maude knew what to do and wouldn't question her further.

"Aye." But Maude made no move to hand Isabel anything.

Isabel glanced her way. "Well, where are they?"

"Will you not stitch the wound first, my lady?"

Isabel felt the blood drain from her face as understanding dawned on her. Maude expected her to do what? Good God, not even if t
h
ey were in the middle of a desert with no help for miles would Isabel set needle to flesh. She couldn't even sew cloth, for goodness' sake.

"
Cauterize it and be done with it," Hunter said.

Isabel groaned, knowing she couldn't possibly fake her way anymore.

"It is not too deep of a cut, my lord," Maude said. "You would be best served by having the cut sewn shut. Besides, my
l
ady has the touch of an angel and her stitches are so small and tight you shall barely have a scar."

That did it! She couldn't possibly do what they expected of her. Isabel realized her selective amnesia was poor excuse for not remembering skills she used to possess. Maude hadn't even understood how she could eat apples when it was obvious Détra disliked them.

She lowered Hunter's hand to the table, then took a step back. "I cannot do that."

Cannot or want not?
Hunter thought.

He swallowed down the question along with the shame clogging his throat. Was it not enough he had been bested by a mere squire in front of knights, men-at-arms, and servants alike while distracted by mundane thoughts of his lady? Had he also to suffer the ignominy of having Détra refuse to tend to his wounds?

Who had ever heard of such denial from a wife? Then again, Détra had been naught but contrary since the day they were wed.

Heat rose from his neck to his face. Confounded grief! He would be the laughingstock of Windermere Castle.

Hunter refused to even consider the possibility the castle fo
l
k might also know he had yet to consummate their marriage. Détra had sworn secrecy and yet, considering
their last spat before the chalice had robbed her of memories, he had to wonder if she told him the truth then.

And thus here he was, still playing the waiting game. But not for long, Hunter swore. At the end of this accursed week, and if he could help, much earlier, Détra would be his wife in fact. He had discovered passion underneath her icy veneer and by God and king he would not let her forget that.

Détra showed him her shaking hands. "I would poke you silly," she said, looking distraught. "You are better off having Maude tend to your injury."

Détra seemed truthful enough. Would he be so fortunate that she cared? Nay, he would be a fool to believe her refusal to tend to him was for fear of causing him pain. She could not harm him with a needle any more than she had already done with her thoughtless words two mornings past.

Hunter would also hazard a guess that her reluctance had naught to do with being squeamish at the sight of blood. As the lady of the castle Détra had no doubt tended to many wounds of knights and servants alike, had surely assisted in childbirth, and probably witnessed the slaughter of animals. Blood was a constant in any of these events.

And yet the horror and sorrow in her expression when she first caught sight of his injury had not been false. She had stood there paralyzed for a
l
ong moment as if in the throes of some horrible nightmare. Or memory.

What was Détra hiding from him or mayhap from herself?

It suddenly dawned on Hunter how little he knew about his wife. His youthful fantasy of
the
beautiful lady who would love and accept him without qualms, the heart of his heart wish, had proved a fallacy. His experience with her since their wedding had been naught but hardship.

And yet, he could not deny that since the morning the chalice had unleashed its powers on her she had changed. Not to his idealized vision of her, as he had wished, but to a different D
é
tra, nonetheless.

Even the way she rejected him now carried a hint of regret.

The damn cut on his hand throbbed more with every passing moment and every new aggravation. Hunter wanted this done and over with now. He turned to Maude. "Do as your lady bids you," he said through clenched teeth.

Maude opened the small box, from which she withdrew needle and silk thread, but before she moved to his side, Détra cried, "Wait!"

Hunter snapped his gaze back to Détra. Did she change her mind? Would she tend to him after all?

"Boil the needle first," she said. "And wash your hands with soap."

Hunter and Maude exchanged wary glances. What did Détra speak of?

"Clean hands and needles will keep festering away," she explained.

Hunter had never heard of such a remedy before. How could boiling a needle prevent in any way a wound from festering? Had the chalice not only robbed Détra of her memories but also addled her wits? Or was trickery hidden behind her claim? A prickle of doubt stung Hunter again. The morning of Détra'
s
transformation he had been at his wits
'
end, and she had known it. Mayhap it was for that reason that she had revealed her true feelings for him with hurtful words she could never take back.

Could D
é
tra have concocted the loss of memory to control him, counting on his honor to continue to play her waiting game? But what did she wait for?

Hunter pushed those nagging thoughts aside.

"Do it," he ordered Maude. What possible harm could a boiled needle and clean hands do him?

Maude nodded, then rushed outside, returning moments later with scalding water. Détra put the needle in a small bowl and poured boiling water over it, then watched care
f
ully as Maude washed her hands with soap. Only then did Détra empty the bowl, leaving the needle in it.

"You may use it now," Détra said.

Maude picked the needle up and threaded it, then went to work on his already swelling hand.

Sitting by his side on the bench, Détra whispered, "Tell me what happened, Hunter."

Throughout the ordeal his lady wife listened to his tale of the incident and other small matters she kept prompting out of him, and before he knew it the task was completed.

Détra took over then, spreading a paste Maude had given her over his swollen palm, then setting on top of it a poultice of a large green leaf filled with crushed herbs before wrapping his hand with clean strips of linen.

Her touch was soft, her expression concerned, her moves sure. "We should change the bandages and the poultice every day," Détra said. "And try to keep it from getting wet." She smiled at him. A radiant smile she could not possibly feign.

She was a walking contradiction. And Hunter disliked the uncertainty immensely.

Disconcerted, he moved his hand and gaze away.

"Perhaps you should give Hunter that potion you gave me yesterday, Maude. He could use some sleep," Détra suggested.

"I still have many duties left in this day," Hunter said. Was she trying to get rid of him?

"But you are hurt. Can you not rest for a while?" Détra asked.

Mayhap they could spend some time together this day,
Hunter thought as he dismissed Maude. Détra followed Maude to the door, probably thinking herself dismissed t
o
o.

"My lady wife," Hunter called and Détra halted. She pivoted to face him. "I request you share the midday meal with me."

"In the great hall?" she asked, looking eager to escape the war chamber.

He shook his head. "Here. It is more private."

Détra'
s
gaze flipped from him to Maude to the room in obvious indecision. That his wife was reluctant to spend some time alone with him, to share a private meal together, grated on his nerves.

"Sure," she finally said.

With a sinking heart Hunter knew she would rather be anywhere but here with him.

******************

THEY ATE ALONE IN THE WAR ROOM, AMID PARCH
m
ents, ledgers, maps, and utter silence. Isabel was emotionally and physically drained and she wasn't up to idle chitchat. Was Hunter mad at her for bailing out of sewing his wound at the last moment? He was so quiet, Isabel wondered about his thoughts.

Wondered but wasn't fool enough to ask. She didn't want to start any conversation that required her to give an explanation of her behavior.

Isabel missed her uncomplicated life. Missed her painting, her long walks, and her solitude. She didn't know how much longer she'd be able to bear living in another woman's body, this woman's body. Everything felt wrong, from the heavy hair atop her head, to the fleshy body she dragged around and whose reactions she seemed to control very little, to the troublesome emotions that filled her heart.

Guilt for what she'd done, fear she wouldn't find the cha
l
ice, desire for a man who belonged to another woman, were all too intense emotions for her to bear.

Should she chance it and ask Hunter again about the chalice? She'd already broached the subject yesterday, though that had amounted to nothing. Still, now that he knew she remembered the chalice, what difference would it make if she mentioned it again? But what would she use for motivation? What would she say if he asked why she wanted it?

"How is your hand?" Isabel asked just to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Throbbing."

She was surprised he admitted this much. "Maybe you should rest a little."

"You keep saying that. Do you think me a weakling?"

A weakling? Was he teasing her? A man who took stitches on his hand without anesthesia? "I think you brave beyond comparison."

"You mock me."

"No," Isabel said quickly, touching his arm. "I care what happens to you, Hunter."

He turned those inscrutable onyx eyes on her as his hand covered hers. "Indeed?"

Isabel sucked in her breath. She tried to move her hand away without appearing to be rejecting him again. It didn't work. He held her hand in place.

"Was that the reason you refused to tend to my injury, because you care so much for me?" His voice was deceptively calm, putting Isabel on the defensive.

"You seem to forget my lack of memories," she retorted. "I was afraid I could hurt you more man I could help you." Then, tired of having to explain herself every moment, she added, "I'm trying very hard to reconcile with my duties as the lady of the castle, Hunter."

"I see," he said after a long pause. "Though you accept your role as the lady of this castle you continue to refuse to assume the role of my lady wife."

"If I had a choice our lives would revert to how it was befor
e
—
"
She almost said before she found the chalice. "Before I struck my head."

Hunter rose angrily. "Would you now?"

Why would he doubt her? "Yes, I would. Do you think I like not knowing who I am or not remembering my beloved husband? Do you think it is easy for me to be living this . . . this stranger's
l
ife?"

Fuming, Isabel sprang to her feet. She was at the end of her wits, and angry too. Angry with herself, with Hunter, with the world at large, and especially angry at fate for giving her a glimpse of a man she could love but could never have. A man she was deeply hurting.

"I want my life back," she cried. "I want to be sure of what I am doing. I want to be free to love whomever I choose."

"And who might that be?"

You!
she wanted to shout.

"You," she whispered. Though love was not what she'd been looking for, Isabel recognized the possibility with Hunter. But what possibility? There was no possibility between Hunter and Isabel. Isabel didn't exist for him. Isabel was only the cause of all his turmoil.

Isabel realized Hunter was baffled by his wife's behavior, riddled by her rejection, disheartened by the turn of events. Had Détra been here she'd have tended to her husband's wound with care, ability, and love. She would be sharing his bed and his heart. Isabel had given him none of that. No wonder he was so vexed.