Ceidre was in the corridor between the kitchens and the manor, instructing two boys on their duties for the day. “What is it?”
“’Tis the lord. He is hurt and will allow no one to touch him but you!”
Almost a week had passed since her wedding night. Ceidre had not seen Rolfe since the horrendous noonday meal the day after. She had kept to the manor, overseeing its servants, and she had kept to the village —anywhere that would keep her as far as possible from him. Once, when she was cutting through the orchard on her way back to the manor, she had heard the sounds of his men in their mock battles, and she had glimpsed him, from a distance, on his huge gray steed. She had not paused to watch, but had hurried on. He hadn’t seen her.
Two days ago he had taken a dozen men hunting for large game, including Guy. Ceidre was well aware that the hunting party had just returned, for she had heard first the watch’s horn and then the large cavalcade passing through the bailey, the sound of so many horses’ hooves echoing thunderously. She had been replacing the rushes in the manor with Lettie, and she had ignored their advent. Lettie had not. She had cried out gleefully and run to the doorway to watch, waving at her favorites.
Ceidre had forgotten, the best she could, her wedding night. The truth was that it had become almost like a dream and, like a dream, haunted her mostly after dark. She tried not to think about the Norman, and when his golden image invaded her mind, she was quick to tell herself how she hated him. The hurt at his casual indifference to her was gone, numbed now with the passing of some time, into her own attitude of indifference. Therefore, it was a surprise that her blood should start racing madly at Mary’s words. “I will fetch my potions,” she said. He was hurt!
Her feet had sudden wings, and she returned in a flash. Mary was crying, wringing her hands, urging her to hurry. “What happened?” Ceidre asked, somehow getting the words past the lump that was trying to choke her.
“’Twas a boar! He has been gored, Ceidre.” And she started to weep.
He had been gored. The maid was hysterical, so Ceidre ignored her, running now. She was aware that her throat had tightened at the ominous words, that her heart was palpitating unsteadily. She was flying across the bailey and through the inner portcullis. She was not aware of bounding up the steps of the keep, or throwing open its huge door. Most of the Norman’s men stood huddled and quiet in the great hall. Oh God, it was like a burial! They parted as she swept through their midst.
In the doorway of his chamber she came to an abrupt halt. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of him. Alice and Beth were hovering by his side, as were Athelstan and Guy. She could only see his shoulders and head and neck; he appeared naked. He wasnotlying in agony, as she had feared, but sitting straight and tall, his face in that hard, contained mask she knew so well. Her heart froze at the sight of him. He was golden and handsome, he was sexually magnetic, and she had forgotten this in the past week.
He saw her, and their gazes locked. Ceidre realized she had stopped breathing, so she took a long breath. Anger reared. He was not badly hurt, this she could clearly see, because he looked her over carefully, the way only a man who has been intimate with her could, in a way that suggested he would be intimate with her again. She blushed.
“Come here,” he said, his voice strong, in a command. “I am hurt.”
If he was hurt, she was a witch, Ceidre thought caustically. She came forward, lips tight. Her heart was thudding so hard it was painful. The men moved aside. She noticed that Alice did not, and that her delicate white hand was clasped possessively upon his shoulder. The sight almost stopped her in her tracks. It certainly brought a sudden nausea to her. He beckoned her forward.
Then she saw that he was hurt, and a cry escaped her lips.
He was completely naked. His right thigh, nearer to her, was gashed from hip to knee, raw and bloody. “Get water and linens,” Ceidre ordered, kneeling by his side, at Alice’s feet. She was aware of his gaze relentlessly upon her, as she gently touched the unmarred flesh near the wound. It was already hot. His leg tightened beneath her fingertips. “It hurts when I touch you?” she asked, with real worry.
“No,” he said harshly. “Your touch does not hurt me, Ceidre.”
His tone made her look up. His gaze was both so bold and so intimate that for a moment she forgot his wound and the presence of everyone in the room. She recovered, however, when Alice shifted angrily, her skirts swishing. She noted, then, the tight curve of his mouth, and knew he was in some pain. “How hurt are you?”
“I’ve suffered much worse.”
“Do not play the hero with me,” she snapped.
His tone was low, almost a purr. “I want only to be a hero in your eyes, Ceidre.”
A flashing recollection of her wedding night pierced her. “Then you have gravely erred in judgment, my lord.”
“I realize that.” His laugh was bitter.
“My lord,” Alice cut in, her voice high, “you look uncomfortable. Here, lean back, I—”
“I am fine,” Rolfe said curtly. “Do not hover over me, I am not a boy.”
Alice removed her hand from his back, taking a small step back. Ceidre quickly dropped her gaze to his torn flesh, but not before receiving the full brunt of Alice’s glare. Alice’s movement, as well, crowded her unreasonably, but she said nothing and began a careful inspection of the wound. It was not deep, not deep at all, and she was relieved. But it would require a few stitches after being more thoroughly cleaned. Beth returned with the items she had requested, and Ceidre placed everything upon the floor where she knelt, within easy reach. Alice’s skirt billowed near the urn of water. Ceidre looked up at her sister and said politely. “Would you move, Alice? I need room.”
“I will not,” Alice said, her face pinched.
“Lady Alice, take yourself to the hearth,” Rolfe ordered, and that was that. Alice obeyed, mouth pursed.
Ceidre couldn’t help feeling sorry for her sister, to be spoken to with such obvious dislike. She wanted to ask the Norman exactly how he felt about his wife, and if he disliked her so, she wondered how he could bed her, night after night. She reminded herself that liking had nothing to do with lust—as she knew firsthand. And of course she could not voice these questions, even if they were alone in the room, ’twas not her affair. She picked up a clean rag. “’Twill hurt.”
“I suffer gladly,” he murmured, holding her gaze.
She broke the contact, thoroughly unsettled now, and began cleaning the wound. He made not a sound, although she was aware of his big leg cramping beneath her gentle touch. She became thoroughly immersed in what she must do. When the wound was cleaned to her satisfaction, she picked up needle and thread. She did not hesitate. Her stitches were small and neat and very fast. Rolfe was so still he might have been carved of stone. She was keenly aware, however, that his breathing was harsher than usual.
To distract him, she conversed. “Was the hunt successful, other than this?”
