Lois Greiman (18 page)

“The day’s not over, lass.” Was there desperation in his tone or just sadness?

“Aye,” she said, gripping the tiny rose harder. “’Tis. Over and done.”

“Not till we step back into his house.”

She noticed that he didn’t speak Poke’s name aloud. As if the spell would be broken if he did. And perhaps it would, but she shook her head, remembering hard-learned lessons. “I must—”

“No.” Turning slightly, he gripped her hands in his. “You mustn’t do anything. Not today. Just this once…” His expression was earnest, his eyes irresistible. “Let me take care of you.” And she was drowning.

“You don’t understand.” Her voice was barely audible to her own ears. Panic burned like poison in her gut. She could not let herself care for him, not on pain of death. His or hers. “If we return empty-handed—”

He lifted her gloved fingers. The rose blossomed sweetly between them. “But they’re not empty.”

“’Tis not a jest,” she whispered. “’Tis deadly serious.”

“I know,” he said and his expression concurred. “But all will be well. You needn’t worry.”

“But…” She skimmed the faces of the people around her, then hurried her gaze back to his. “You’re a horrible thief,” she whispered, and his eyes smiled.

“Yes,” he agreed, and kissed her.

G
emini jerked, roused from her restless sleep. Had he awakened? She glanced at the Viking. That’s what she called him, for she dare not use his real name, not even in her own head. For it wasn’t safe.

He moaned and she lurched forward to touch his brow. Was he feverish? Was he worsening? But no, his skin felt cool to the touch. Too cool? Was he cold? She shifted the blankets higher on his chest and scanned his face for signs of awareness. But there were none.

He was wounded. Pierced. Her eyes stung with the thought, but she hurried her gaze busily to her handiwork. She’d torn his sleeve from his tunic and used it as a bandage for his arm. Fresh blood had seeped into the cloth, so she eased out the knot, washed the wound, then wrapped it in a swath of fabric she’d torn from an old gown.

Lying quietly on his back, he looked peaceful, despite the angry wounds. Ox had called him ugly, and maybe he was, but she had spent a fortnight under his guard at Westheath Castle on Teleere. She had listened to his stories of his wee sisters while he brushed the tangles from her hair, though his only appointed task was to keep her from escaping. Aye, he was Laird MacTavish’s master guard, a fighting man, a warrior, but his hands…She
skimmed her gaze to where they lay on the bed and felt her eyes fill with tears, for even they were torn. She touched his scraped knuckles with her fingertips, but he didn’t stir. Not a flicker of awareness crossed his peaceful features. He looked almost boyish in his quiet slumber. But he was not a boy. Reaching up, she gingerly traced an aged scar that bisected his eyebrow. Gone was the scowl he so often wore, leaving his face relaxed, but the years of battle had left a host of old wounds to blend uncomfortably with the new. No, he was not a boy, full of silly thoughts and arrogant ways. He was a man full-grown, wise with years and well-worn experience.

“Trussing up the turkey, lass?”

Gem twisted about, swiping at her cheek as she did so. Oxford stood in the doorway, his face etched with a perpetual jeer.

“Going to serve ’im for the Yuletide feast, are you, Gemini?”

He stepped into the room. Danger crowded in with him. She narrowed her eyes. She had dealt with a hundred men of his ilk. If she couldn’t sidestep them, she could generally outwit them; but things were different now, for she had another’s life to consider. She stood up slowly, shielding her patient behind her.

“Done torturing kittens are you, Ox?”

“Aye.” He sneered at her. “Come to torture something a bit larger, I ’ave.” He glanced at the Viking’s face. “If ’e’s still alive, that is.”

“Oh, ’e’s alive,” she said. “But you’d best leave ’im be.”

“And why’s that?” he asked, stepping up close. She refrained from backing away. Though evil washed off him in waves, there was nowhere to go.

“Didn’t your mother ever warn you not to poke the sleeping bear?”

He smiled at her. “’Ere’s the thing,” he said, and crowded closer still so that she could smell the stench of him. “I poke ’ooever I wish.”

She clenched her fists and stood her ground. “Oh that’s right,” she said, “you didn’t ’ave no mother. Seems you was spawned by the devil ’isself.”

Ox jerked his fist up, but she had her knife at the ready, and pressed it against his belly.

“Let fly, Ox, and you’ll be rotting in ’ell afore you know what stuck ye.”

He snorted his disdain, but lowered his fist. “You think you can kill me, girl?”

Her hand was shaking. She pressed the blade more firmly into his gut. “Could be I can’t, Ox,” she said. “But I can sure make you wish you was dead.”

“It’s time someone’s put you in your place,” he snarled, but in that instant, Poke entered the room.

“Well, there you are then, my little ones.”

Ox held her gaze. Gem held her breath.

“Not quarreling again, are we?” Poke tsked.

“Call ’im off,” Gem gritted.

Poke raised a genteel brow. “What’s that, Gemini?”

Caution rushed in on her. “’E’s ’elpless,” she corrected, nodding numbly toward the Viking behind her. “It wouldn’t ’ardly be fair.”

Poke smiled. “Are you threatening our guest again, Mr. Oxford?”

Ox leered. “I only said I think ’e’d make a fine Yuletide feast, the way ’e’s trussed up all tidy like.”

Poke chuckled. “Cannibalism, Mr. Oxford? Surely not.”

The Ox pressed closer. “And
you
would make a tasty bit for dessert,” he gritted into her face.

She felt herself go pale, but braced against the weak-
ness, for it surely spelt death. “Go to ’ell, Ox.”

“Not afore—”

“Mr. Oxford,” Poke crooned. He was right beside her now, so close she could touch him, if she were ever so foolishly bold. “I think it time you took a walk outside.”

“Fuck—” Oxford snarled, but when he glanced up, Poke met his gaze straight on. He had not a weapon to hand, and his smile seemed almost angelic, but there was something in the air—the smell of death, as clear as day.

“What were you about to say?”

The room fell silent. Tension cranked up tight, like an ancient crossbow, too long unused.

“It stinks like ’ell in ’ere,” Ox snarled, and stepped back a pace. “I need me some air.”

Gem’s knees almost buckled when he turned away. Indeed, it took all her strength to keep her upright.

“Gemini.”

She turned toward Poke, and he reached out to stroke her hair.

“Whatever shall I do with you?”

The knife was shaking like a windblown thistle. She pressed her arm against her thigh, hiding her weakness in the folds of her skirts. “’E ain’t right in the ’ead, Master Poke,” she said.

He raised his brows as if surprised, but nothing surprised Poke, surely not his henchman’s derangement. “You think Mr. Oxford is addled?”

“Aye. ’Tis certain,” she said.

He skimmed his knuckles down her throat, watching her with eyes of angelic blue. If she didn’t know better, if she hadn’t seen what he was capable of, she would think him quite sane. “How old are you now, Gemini?”

Her throat had closed up again and breathing was dif-
ficult. “I don’t know just exact,” she said. “Six-and-ten, mayhap.”

He smiled. “You’ve grown quite bonny under my tutelage.”

She licked her lips and kept herself from moving beyond his reach to safety.

“And talented.” He skimmed his fingers along her bodice.

She stared at him, her heart wild in her chest.

And then he kissed her. She stood frozen in place, terror and dread mixed to lethal doses in her pounding veins.

He drew slowly back, his eyes lazy and knowing. “Put the knife away now, lass. Your hand is shaking,” he said, and, turning, left the room. His footsteps echoed down the hallway. A door opened and closed.

She exhaled sharply and dropped to the chair, feeling dizzy and deathly sick to her stomach.

“So that’s it then?”

She jumped, jerking about to face her patient. He lay perfectly still, but his eyes were open and glaring.

“Jesus!” She said it like a prayer, though she was certain God had forgotten her long ago. Or at least she
had
been certain. Until this moment. “You’re…” She reached out, then drew her hand shakily back. “You’re awake.”

His eyes never flickered from her face. “He’s the reason ye left.”

She shot a glance at the door, but there was no one there. No one within hearing. Still, she dare not say what was in her heart. “I thought you was going to die.”

He drew a heavy breath, flaring his nostrils. “Did ye?”

She lowered her gaze and restrained all the feelings that jumped like silvery fishes inside her. “You’ve been unconscious for days.”

“And why is that, lass?”

“Don’t you remember?” She could barely get the words out. Could barely force herself to think of the night he’d arrived, stepping through the doorway, already bloody, already wounded, but still on his feet, still determined to…To do what?

“I remember a good deal,” he rumbled.

“They stabbed you.” Her hands were shaking in earnest now. “I couldn’t stop them.”

“Why?” he gritted.

Her face twitched with the agony of struggling for strength that had abandoned her long ago. “I wasn’t strong enough. I—”

“Why?”

She sobbed once, but that was all she allowed herself “I tried to stop them. But—”

“The devil with
them,
” he growled. “Why did ye leave?”

She blinked, trying to clear her eyes, trying to think. “Leave?” She almost laughed. “What are you talkin’ about? I been ’ere since the first—”

“I would have let ye go,” he rasped. “Would have seen ye safely on your way. Ye needn’t have snuck off while me back was turned.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Aye, ye do, lass. Ye do.”

She stared at him. “They all but killed you, Viking. They all but crushed your skull, and all you babble on about is my leaving!” Anger roared up inside her. “What the devil is wrong with you? Why did you come ’ere?”

His eyes flashed, and his jaw flexed with rigid emotion, but when he spoke, his tone was level. “I came for answers, lass. I think I deserve that much.”

Unwanted memories crowded in. Memories of laugh-
ter and peace and hope. She stared at him, trying to push them aside. Dreaming was dangerous. Hoping was deadly.

“Why did ye go, Gem?”

“Why?” She laughed, feeling breathless and lost and panicky. “What else was I supposed to do?”

“Stay put. Stay safe.”

“Safe!” She laughed. “At Westheath Castle? Where they ’ang folks like me?”

“I vowed to protect ye. Gave ye me word of—”

“You weren’t there, Viking. Remember?” she hissed.

His scowl deepened, darkening the angry wound on his high-boned cheek. “You had guards. Men who—”

“Men who’d just as soon kill me as look at me. I’m a thief, Viking, in case you forgot.”

“I haven’t forgot,” he rumbled. “I believe you took me horse when you left.”

She cleared her throat, shifting her eyes away. It had been a spiteful thing to do. She might be a thief. She might be a liar. But she wasn’t spiteful. Usually. “Aye, well, I ’ad to leave,” she said. “I didn’t belong there.” Not without him. “The guards was lookin’ at me funny.”

Something glowed in his eyes as he leaned toward her and tightened a fist in his blanket. “Did they touch you?”

She could only hold his gaze for a moment. “No,” she admitted. “But I didn’t trust ’em.”

“They would have kept ye safe,” he said, relaxing marginally. “Until me own return.”

But when would that have been? It had been agony without—God’s bones! What was wrong with her? She was no sniveling milkmaid. She was independent. Strong.

Tears burned her eyes. She fought them back.

“Well they didn’t,” she snapped. “They didn’t keep me safe, cuz Poke come for me, didn’t ’e?”

Understanding flashed in his eyes, but he narrowed
them, hiding his thoughts as he glanced toward the door. “The one that came to Westheath whilst I was gone?”

“Aye.”

“Poke, you call him?”

What was he thinking? To look at him some might believe him slow witted. Some would be dangerously wrong. “Round ’ere ’e’s known as lord and master.”

He stared at her and it took all her strength to keep from collapsing under his glare. “Ye had but to yell for help.”

But what then? Who would have suffered if she had defied him? Poke hated MacTavish with mind-numbing potency. Indeed, none dared speak the laird’s name in his presence, but he knew little of the Viking guard called Burr, and damned if she wouldn’t do everything in her power to keep it that way. “Yell.” She shook her head, laughing at him. “It was my own idea to go.”

Silence fell like death into the room.

“Was me own company so hideous then, lass?”

She stared at him. He had a face like a belligerent gargoyle, but even now, battered and beaten, she wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch it. Damn her and her foolish weaknesses. Would she never learn that she was meant to fend for herself? There were no knights in shining silver. Not for her.

“If you remember,” she said. “You were no company a’tall.”

“I vowed to return.”

“When?” she whispered. “After you had saved MacTavish a thousand times more?”

“He’s me laird. ’Tis me place to look out for him.”

“Aye,” she agreed, and nodded slowly. “And ’tis mine to look out for none but myself.”

“Then get yourself gone,” he snarled, and nodded to-
ward the door where Poke had retreated. “Afore ’tis too late.”

There was such passion in his face, such intensity. Why? Was it for her? But it didn’t matter. It couldn’t.

“It’s already too late,” she murmured.

“Nay.” He gritted, his brows beetled. “’Tis not. Not if ye wish to go. I’ll see you safely away.”

She snorted. “And how, Viking, do you think you’d manage that?”

“The same way I come in.”

She almost cried at the harsh sting of the memory, of seeing him beaten and bloodied. “Look at yourself, Viking,” she hissed. “The way in all but got you killed.”

“But it didn’t, lass.”

“Because I stopped them.” Her eyes were burning and her throat felt tight. “But I won’t do it again, old man. Not for the likes of you.”

“Ye think I’m asking for your help?”

“No. I think you far too foolish for that. I think you too damned proud. You believe there is naught that can stop you. Not broken bones or gaping wounds or battered…” Her voice cracked. He was watching her, his swollen face stern, his icy eyes solemn. She stared back, barely able to draw a breath. Only a fool would fall in love with this man. Only a damned fool.

“I’m not so weak as ye think, lass,” he rumbled, and despite everything, his hand felt strong when he reached out and took hold of her arm. “Neither am I deluded. If I say I can do a thing, I can do it.”

She watched his earnest face, and against her wishes, hope raised its dark head. Maybe he was right. He was no callow youth, no dreamy-headed lad imagining his own strength. He’d been through hell and back again.

She glanced rapidly toward the door, and he must have
guessed her thoughts, for he spoke immediately, his tone deep and harsh.

“I’ll see ye far from here, lass. That I promise.”