She chanced a look his way, then gasped. He was almost on his feet. Forgetting that she wished to hide her tears, she rushed to his side.
“What are you doing?” She tried to urge him back into bed but only succeeded in keeping him from standing up.
He reached up to cup her face in his hands, ignoring the sharp twinge in his wound. “You have been weeping.” Hot tears slid from her eyes, dampening his hands. “Wrong. You are weeping.”
“I am not. Lie down—or do you forget you are wounded?”
Slowly he let her push him back down, but he kept his gaze fixed upon her tear-soaked face. “It appears you have more concern about this scratch than I.”
“Scratch? Scratch you call it? Scratches do not need stitching. Scratches do not soak a tunic with blood.” She could hear the frantic note in her voice, but could not seem to shut herself up. “Scratches do not sap the strength from a man so that he must be helped to his bed.”
“It weakened me for but a moment.” He fought back a smile.
“And in that moment you could have had your head taken off your shoulders.” The mere thought made her shudder.
“Gytha, snuff the candles save for the one by my head.”
“What?”
“Snuff the candles.” He watched as she somewhat distractedly obeyed the command. “Now, shed your clothes and come to bed.”
Giving an exasperated sniff, she did as he said, laying her clothes carefully over a chest and sliding into bed with as much care as possible. When his uninjured arm slipped around her, she nearly flung herself at him. Clinging tightly to him, she sought comfort in his warmth, in the strength of his body, in the steady beat of his heart. She promised herself that she would learn to control such emotion in the future. This time she had been caught unawares, shock stripping away all defense. She huddled even closer to him as he moved his big, calloused hand over her back in a soothing gesture.
“You have seen my scars and know I can take a blow now and then,” he murmured.
“Aye. I know.” She realized she had never thought on the blood, the pain, or the danger that had produced those scars.
“Though it bled freely and caused some weakness, ’tis not a serious wound.”
“I know that too.” And she did, knew the stitches were really only needed to lessen the scarring.
He kissed her forehead. “So you may still your fears.”
“Nay. My tears and this foolish, weak carrying-on—aye. My fears—nay. Robert and that stinking cur he calls uncle mean to see you dead. As Roger said, ’tis war. They will try again.”
“I am ready for that.” He frowned, reliving the battle in his mind. “We saw an attack, but now I see t’was more than that. Murder was planned.”
“Your murder.”
“Aye. They neatly kept Roger from his place at my back, leaving me with two foes and no aid at hand. That shall not happen again. We will be ready for such a ploy next time. I have survived battles with better men.”
“I know. Forgive me my weakness. I shall not fail you so again.” As she slowly regained control of herself, embarrassment crept in.
“You did not fail me. Despite your tears and all, you tended my wound as well as any could.” He loosened her lightly bound hair, running his fingers through its thick silken length. “I will strive to shield you from such violence in the future.”
“T’was not the violence,” she snapped, then sighed, knowing she would have to try and explain or be treated as if she were weak, too delicate to endure life’s harsher side. “T’was not the battle.”
“Well, ’tis true you held firm through the first attack.”
He felt the tickle of hopeful excitement. If it was not the battle itself, then it had to be because he was wounded. That she could be so distraught over that had to indicate some depth of feeling for him.
“Aye, I did. ’Tis most odd. I felt no concern, no fear at all that you might be struck down then. This time I had no such confidence. The moment the attack came, I was afraid for you. I sought reasons for that change. I want no skill at—well, at foretelling what is to happen. The reasons I grasped at had no strength. I think seeing that what I had feared—what I had felt—had come to pass added to my foolishness.”
“Such feelings are not as uncommon as you may think. Men facing battle often have a sense of their fate, or that of those close to them.”
“Please God that I am not so accursed. ’Tis bad enough that you must fight at all.”
“A man—”
