The Heart of the Phoenix (35 page)

He pressed the folded fabric more firmly against the still-bleeding wound, then struggled to hold her steady as he rose. He’d waited too long; the fire danced all around except for a path straight ahead. Toward the river. No choice remained.

“Evie love, we’re going into the water. Don’t fear, I have you secure.”

No answer. He glanced down to find she’d lost consciousness again. And the blood had soaked through the pad.

Stephen hadn’t felt this panic, this frantic thunder of his heart, since that earlier day, when he’d been too late.

This time would be different.

He clutched her in his arms, then eased her over a shoulder, knowing her injury would press against his muscles and slow the blood flow. Knowing he’d cause her more pain. Knowing it couldn’t be helped.

“I’m sorry, love. I’m sorry,” he muttered. Strange he hadn’t entered the river, yet moisture covered his cheeks.

If only he could take the pain from her. Take the dagger gash upon himself. She was gentleness, kindness, beauty. She didn’t deserve the ugliness of life. If God spared her, Stephen vowed to protect her, give her comfort and love.

He needed to get Evie to a healer. Better yet, Macsen should be here. He knew how to tend dagger wounds. Steadying her with one arm on her back, the other against the backs of her legs, he headed toward to a side of the dock protruding over the river. Flames seared, hissed, growled behind him. Once more he threw a searching glance over his shoulder.

“Macsen,” he roared. Where the hell was his lieutenant? He should have been right behind. The sudden anger prodded him on. The heat from the blaze sent scorching fingers along his skin. No choice remained.

Pressing Evie tight, he sucked in a breath and stepped into the air.

The force of cold water tore the breath from his lungs. Shifting the grip on her, he pushed off when his feet hit bottom, and they surged to the surface. It was a short surge.

Stephen wanted to laugh in joy. At this point near the dock, the Thames wasn’t so deep. He muttered a prayer of thanks and kicked through the water.

The shock of the entry had jolted Evie awake but instead of flailing as most would, she remained still as he worked his way toward shore.

The fire had drawn sailors and some nearby soldiers to the river banks with buckets, tubs, whatever they found handy to carry water. A pair of them waded out to help Stephen. Dripping, he struggled through the mud at the water’s edge, slogging toward a drier space.

“I’ll take the lady,” one of the erstwhile rescuers offered.

Stephen merely shook his head. The man shrugged and backed off, but Stephen managed, “She’s injured. A blanket?”

The helper disappeared toward the street where inn customers had poured outside to watch and to help.

Stephen lowered her to her feet, then urged her to lie down. “Just for a moment.” His men had to arrive soon.

Harsh red of the now-extensive fire, mingled with weak light of the breaking dawn, showed Evie pale, her colorless lips traced in blue. Christ and all his Saints. Worse than he thought.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I never told you I love you,” he murmured. “Foolish wench.”

“Not wench,” came a weak whisper. “Stephen? Am I dying?”

“No. Never.”

Her hand moved to her stomach. “He stabbed me.” She gave a weak tug to one of his hands and he leaned closer.

“I love you.” The words were so faint, he hardly heard them. “I feared to tell you. Before. Just know. If I don’t see you again.” With a sigh, her breathing eased.

An anguished howl tore from low in his chest, from the depth of his heart. Ignoring the injury, he clutched her tight. She couldn’t die. He wouldn’t let her.

At last Stephen saw familiar figures racing along the path. “Here,” he rasped, staggering forward.

Never had his band of hard, determined mercenaries looked more like avenging angels as when they spied Evie drooping bloody and unconscious in his arms.

Stephen rested his forehead against her dripping hair. And for the first time in years, he thanked God.

Evie was on fire. Not everywhere, just her side. Her arms and legs refused to budge. She couldn’t summon the energy to open her eyes. Yet she sensed no fear, no terror that usually came with the dream.

This wasn’t the dream. But there was a blaze. Had been a blaze. Behind closed lids, she detected no brightness. An acrid odor rode her indrawn breath, and for an instant her body stiffened. The tightening of muscles sent a muffled groan rattling up her throat. Her raw, burning throat.

Instantly, strong arms enfolded her. Warm lips dotted light kisses along the side of her face, and a raspy voice murmured in her ear.

“It’s all right, love. You’re safe. I have you.”

She knew that voice. Stephen. He’d keep her secure. Her muscles eased, and darkness claimed her.

The next time awareness came, the fire in her side still burned. But she wasn’t as warm as before; she remembered awakening earlier. She inhaled. The acrid odor wafted to her again. This time she recognized the smell. Burnt hair. Hers?

With what seemed like tremendous effort, she lifted her eyelids. Pale light oozed between the sections of wooden shutters guarding a window on the wall closest to the bed. She recognized her chamber in the house Henry had let.

Her hand had been captured in someone’s loose grip. She eased her head around. A man sat in a chair at the side of her bed, his neck canted at what looked like an uncomfortable angle. One arm lay along the edge of the mattress, and his fingers tucked around hers.

Stephen.

He’d been there when she awoke the first time. He’d held her, made her believe she was safe.

She must have moved or made a sound, because his eyes flew open.

“You’re awake.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “How do you feel?”

Her mind struggled with that simple question. She wasn’t quite certain she felt anything, except for the blaze roaring in her side. And the pain in her head. Perhaps that pain caused her muzzied mind, because she couldn’t seem to think.

Stephen shook his head. “That was a stupid question. Just rest. The king’s own physician guarantees you’ll be fine.”

She’d be fine. That was it. She’d been hurt. In the fire.

When he pulled back, she gasped. Bruises bloomed across his cheeks and forehead. One eye was swollen nearly shut. What looked like a cut ran in a blood-encrusted line along one jaw.

“How—?” She’d meant to ask how he’d been injured, but just that quickly, she remembered.

She remembered Lord Fulk dragging her to a ship bound for France, Stephen finding them, the fight on the quay. The fire. The terrifying fire of her dreams, when she couldn’t get to Stephen, when he disappeared into the inferno to stop Fulk.

But he’d found her. She recalled being so tired, lying against a wooden crate. Tired because Fulk had stabbed her.

Evie’s hand flew to her side and collided with thick padding, secured with a strip of linen wrapped around her body. So low. The bandage extended to the top of her leg. She ran her fingers over the edges of the pad. A bad place for a woman to be injured.

Stephen grabbed her hand and drew it away. “You’ve been stitched, and the physician says you’ll have a lovely scar. But no serious damage was done.”

She tried to speak again but could manage only a single word, “Where—” before she coughed.

He pressed a cup to her lips, and she swallowed the liquid. She sputtered. Nasty tasting stuff.

“Drink. The smoke you breathed irritated your throat. The soreness will go away.”

Bitter taste or not, the potion soothed. The pain became a distant irritation. Evie relaxed. She wanted to put her arms around Stephen, draw him close, thank him, love him. But she was so tired.

With what seemed to be monumental effort, she whispered, “Lie here. Hold me.”

The mattress dipped, and his strong, comforting arms eased around her shoulders. Her cheek rested against a rough fabric; beneath her ear sounded a steady thud. His heart.

She breathed out and nuzzled into his chest.

****

Stephen held Evie, careful not to touch her injured side or jostle her awake. She needed to sleep. Rest would help her to heal. He resisted the urge to cough, his own smoke-ravaged throat dry and raspy. In a moment, he would rise. Nearly time for Kate or Henry to arrive, anyway.

He needed to speak with Macsen and Geoffrey. The three days since the fire and Lord Fulk’s death had been filled with meetings, testimony, documents to sign. And audiences with the king. Another of which loomed today.

King John had not been pleased with that battle on the banks of the Thames. Disagreement between two of his strong supporters did not show to advantage before those landholders who had yet to concede his right to rule.

The first meeting with John had left Stephen unsure of his future. The king refused to believe d’Ambrosie capable of the charges brought against him, even in light of his attempted flight. John had grudgingly agreed to allow his advisors to examine all documents the Brotherhood had gathered. Thank God William Marshal was in England. He and Hubert Walter could be depended upon for an honest investigation.

If John allowed the two a part in the process.

A scrape in the corridor outside the bedchamber alerted Stephen to visitors. Sure enough, the door slid open to admit both Kate and Henry. Careful not to jostle his sweet burden, Stephen withdrew his arms and stood.

Kate rushed to the bedside while Henry waited for his report.

“She awoke earlier.” Stephen kept his voice low. The pain draught Evie had drunk would likely keep her from being disturbed, but he took no chances. “Her mind was clear, but her damaged throat kept her from speaking. And she seemed quite concerned for her injury. I told her what the physician said, but…”

Henry nodded, lips compressed. “Kate seemed worried about the location of the knife wound, too. Feared it might interfere with her child-bearing.” He didn’t seem to mind speaking of a strictly woman’s concern, but at a time like this, the usual strictures didn’t matter worth a damn. Henry loved his sister. God knew, Stephen did, as well.

“It makes no difference,” Stephen said. “Not to me. I’ll make sure it doesn’t matter to her.
If
—” He turned to look at the still figure on the bed. “If it happens we’re not blessed with children.”

A liquid warmth spread through him, and he realized how much he meant the words. Of course, he wanted children. A son to teach all the lessons he’d learned so hard. A daughter with the bright-eyed determination of her mother.

But more than any of those, he wanted Evie. He wanted his little shadow at his side for the rest of his life. If he didn’t have her, nothing down the path of his years would mean a thing.

Clearing his throat, Henry crossed his arms. And leveled a gaze.

Stephen looked at the floor, then at his friend. This wasn’t exactly the way to secure a brother’s blessing. “I want to marry her.”

Henry’s brow lowered. “About time you got around to asking. If that can be called asking.” Then he smiled and gripped Stephen’s arm. “Thank God.”

“We’ll have to wait until she’s recovered,” Stephen said. “I know she’ll want her family around her, and I’d like my father to be there.”

“I wouldn’t advise making plans just yet.” Henry’s tone deepened. “John’s decision could be a problem. Now, your men are waiting belowstairs.”

Macsen and Geoffrey stood outside the receiving chamber at the foot of the steps. Geoffrey’s injuries were fading, although one large cut boasted a crusted covering.

“The others will be along shortly,” Macsen said. “But we wanted to warn you. They voted last night to disband. They’ve decided to return to St. Anselm to gather their possessions.”

Geoffrey extended his hand. “I will go with them, my brother. I must carry word to Hasra and our other members that the Dragon has been destroyed. It will mean a new future for them all.”

Stephen opened his mouth to speak, but words refused to come. The mission that had bound them—completed. Of course the Brotherhood would change. But with Evie’s wound and his own fate hanging these past days, he’d given little thought to the others.

The sudden realization he might never see many of the men again left a void in his chest. His friends. His fellow warriors. But they had their own lives to continue.

“Certainly they must go,” he managed. “If they choose to do so. Geoffrey? You also?” An odd fullness lodged at the base of his throat. “My brother. I will miss you.”

Geoffrey chuckled. “But I did not say I would not return, yes? A few matters to dispense, here and there. Who knows when I will sail into your so-fine home once more? Riverton, is it not called? I will speak with you again before I leave, but now I have a duty to perform.”

Stephen pinned Macsen with a stare once Geoffrey left. “And you, my friend?”

The blond knight crossed his arms on his chest. “I haven’t decided. Now that I won’t need to guard your back, I may take to the road as a juggling act.”

He threw up an arm and laughed as Stephen directed a mock punch his way. “I hoped you might need another man at your holding.”

His simple words halted Stephen’s jesting swing. Macsen had no family, no home to which he might return. Just a future serving another, unless he won land or fortune in some way.

“You will always have a place with me.” Stephen’s tone left no doubt of his sincerity. “I’d hoped you might consider acting as captain of the guard. For now.”

He didn’t want to raise hope prematurely, but old Sir Guy held a manor a short half-day’s ride from Riverton. He had no heirs, and he was of an age with Sir Clifford, Stephen’s father. The place would need a firm hand, once his father’s friend died. Macsen would be perfect for the job.

Macsen’s answer was buried under the noise of the rest of the Brotherhood trooping in the door. Time enough to seal the agreement later. Now he needed to say goodbye to these men who had come to mean so much to him. And to remind them they always had a home, wherever fate allowed him to settle.

****