He put the cloth back into the water and squeezed it out. Sitting down carefully on the side of the bed, he gently lifted her head up with one hand and put the cloth on the back of her neck with the other. The cold sensation received more of a reaction than he had expected; her eyes flew open.
“To the devil with you,” she gasped. “Why must you torment me so?”
She wasn’t in her right mind; the words were coming out slurred, dreamlike, and her eyes closed once again. He removed the cloth and lay her head down on the pillow, all the while thinking how soft her hair had been. His thoughts were misplaced and he knew it, feeling rather caddish. The woman was gravely ill and all he could think of was how beautiful her hair was.
Ailsa came running back into the room, sliding to an unsteady stop. “Is she dead yet?” she panted.
Tate calmly swabbed Toby’s left arm. “Nay, she is not. I told you that she is not going to die.”
Ailsa slowed down and approached the bed, her little face full of fear. “But she looks so ill.”
“She is,” Tate said. “But Sir Stephen is a great healer. He shall pull her through this.”
Ailsa’s eyes were big as she watched Tate methodically bathe her sister’s face. Her gaze trailed to Tate, studying his strong features, wondering if she should believe him when he said that Toby was not going to die. As with all children, however, her attention span was finite and thoughts completely disassociated from her sister began to roll through her head.
“Are you married?”
Tate paused in his duties to look at her. She was innocent, and it was an innocent question. He’d long since gotten over the pain the question had once provoked.
“I was once.”
“What happened?”
“She passed away giving birth to my daughter.”
“Oh. Did your daughter die, too?”
“Aye.”
Ailsa began to toy with the bed linens, her sister’s limp hand. “My mother nearly died giving birth to me, too. I do not think I shall ever have any children.”
He smiled faintly. “Why not?”
“Because it will kill me.”
“Not always. As with anything else, one’s fate is in the hands of God.”
“Did God kill your wife and daughter, then?”
He shook his head slowly. “He did not, little one.”
“But why does He allow bad things to happen?”
“I do not know. I have often asked myself that question. I would suppose that everything happens for a reason, though we do not know what that reason might be at the time.”
Ailsa chewed her lip as she thought about it. He made sense and little made sense in her life; a distant father, an invalid mother, and a sister who was haunted by enormous responsibility. Tate seemed strong and certain.
“May I ask another question?”
He lifted an eyebrow at her. “I suspect you will no matter what I say.”
“Is it wrong to ask why you are called Dragonblade?”
His eyes twinkled. “I suppose not.”
“Then why?”
He lay down the arm he had been swabbing and picked up the other. “Your question will be answered when you see the hilt of my sword.”
