“Stop moving,” Bronwyn ordered, “else you’ll start bleeding all over again and this time it will be on your own bed. Constance, would you go to my room and bring the black bag and a needle? And Tyr,” she said, keeping her focus on Ranulf and his shoulder, “take yourself out of here. Your friend does not need your type of support right now. Come back when silent smirks and dampened laughter will be welcomed.”
Unrestrained laughter filled the room. “Damn, Ranulf, the women you meet and order away. Perhaps it is I who should have been enlisting you for female help all these years,” Tyr teased and then ducked out of the room before Ranulf could retaliate.
Constance followed, leaving Ranulf and Bronwyn alone. He suddenly felt uneasy. “Where am I?”
Bronwyn stood, walked over to a large chest, and pulled out several old, worn linen shirts that could only have belonged to his cousin, the late Lord Anscombe. She grabbed one sleeve and started ripping. “We are in the Tower Keep of Hunswick and this is the bedchamber of the previous Lord Anscombe. Now, it is yours.” She pointed to the double doors across from her and to his left. “There is your day room.”
Ranulf studied her as she ripped each garment into wide strips. “And you are the daughter of Sir Laon le Breton, my single vassal.”
“My father is dead. I would have thought you had heard.”
Her voice had trembled and Ranulf felt a wave of guilt overcome him. “I did and I’m sorry, angel.”
Bronwyn stopped abruptly and captured his gaze. “Don’t call me that.”
Ranulf mentally scolded himself. The epithet had just slipped out, but her reaction to it had been severe and it had not been due to his being too personal. “Then what should I call you?”
Bronwyn licked her lips and swallowed. Then after several seconds, she took a deep breath and said faintly, “Lillabet, my lord.”
Ranulf fought to keep his face immobile. He had not met Laon’s youngest daughter, but he knew one thing for certain. The woman in front of him was not his betrothed. Why would Bronwyn say she was?
She was clearly far from comfortable with the idea of lying, but yet she had still willingly entered its treacherous domain. Ranulf was tempted to expose her falsehood, but decided not to at the last moment. Bronwyn was shaking, just slightly, as if she was nervous. Practicing deceit was completely unnatural for her. She didn’t like it. Ranulf wondered why she felt the need to lie now, with him and about her identity. The surest way not to discover the truth was to confront her. Still, he couldn’t call her by a name that wasn’t her own. “You don’t look like a Lillabet.”
Bronwyn finished ripping the linen shirt and gathered all the torn pieces into a pile. “And just what do I look like?”
“I told you. An angel, and until you give me a good reason not to call you that, I believe I shall continue.”
Bronwyn clamped her jaw tight. In truth, she was relieved. She had no intentions of staying for any length of time, but being called Lillabet would be a constant reminder of just who he was…and for whom he was intended.
A single loud knock boomed, and without waiting for an invitation, Constance marched in and handed Bronwyn a bowl, a black bag, and a needle and thread. “He won’t like it.”
“Thank you, Constance,” Bronwyn said casually, taking the items. “You don’t have to stay. But could you ask someone to send up some yarrow tea?”
Constance gave a brief nod and headed for the door. Just as she was about to step through, she looked back and gave Ranulf a contemptuous look. “If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchens. And you,” Constance directed to Ranulf, “lord or not, you hit her and there’ll be hell to pay.”
Hearing the threat, Ranulf tried to sit up and was about to order Constance back in to explain herself when Bronwyn pushed his shoulder down to keep him prone. “Just what did she mean by that? Why would I hit you?”
“Are you hurt anywhere else that I don’t know about?”
“Answer my question!”
“If you can’t tell me, I can always check,” Bronwyn said with a teasing smile as she reached out to pull back his already ripped shirt and reveal some more of his chest.
Ranulf clutched her wrist. Falling hadn’t felt good, and he knew he was bruised. Just how bad he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want her to find out either. “I thought maidens were not supposed to see a man.”
Bronwyn’s smile deepened into laughter and she moved to mix some of the contents in the black bag with the water in the bowl. “And just how do you know me to be a maiden?”
Ranulf blatantly raked his gaze over her once and then returned to meet her eyes. “I would know.”
Bronwyn scraped the edge of the bowl. “Mmm. You ever been married?”
“No,” Ranulf muttered as he watched her spread the nasty olive green-and-brown paste on a strip of cloth.
“Someone claimed your heart?”
“No,” came his sharp reply. Suddenly, he realized why she was pretending to be Lillabet. She was doing it to protect her sister…from him. Bronwyn wasn’t different. She was like the rest, just a little better at hiding it. “I’ve been busy doing other things with my life and haven’t the time or inclination to spend energy wooing a silly female.”
Only the disappearance of her smile indicated that Bronwyn had heard him and the bitterness in his voice. Picking up the needle and the cloth, she came to sit down beside him. “First I am going to sew that wound up. It is going to hurt. Normally I would give you some ale, but it might not be wise with an impending fever.”
Her playful banter in both expression and tone had vanished. His harsh words were the cause and it bothered him. “I don’t have a fever,” he countered, reminding himself that she was duplicitous not only in nature but in identity.
“Not yet, maybe, but with this wound, you will have one.” Bronwyn reached out to pull back the opening to his shirt and hesitated when his hand covered hers. “Do you need some wood to bite down on?”
“Do you?” he demanded, knowing that a deep puncture wound could be unsightly, but nothing compared to the burned scarred flesh that surrounded it.
“No, my lord. I’m not afraid, and I promise, I have seen worse.”
The seriousness behind her words could not be faked and Ranulf released his grip, understanding at last just why this woman could be so unperturbed with his appearance. He had been drenched in the obvious since the moment Bronwyn had first looked at him with her steadfast gaze, seeing his mottled skin and missing eye. She had to have seen something—something far worse than his injuries—to be so unaffected. And if that was true, the sight had to have been grisly, far too grisly for a lady.
Freed, Bronwyn bent over him and started cutting away the material around his flesh. “Once I’m done here, I’ll apply that poultice, which I warn you, can be very painful, but it will help with the bleeding and accelerate healing. Unless the fever takes too strong of a hold, you will live.”
Ranulf shook his head. “I don’t get fevers.”
“We’ll see,” Bronwyn murmured as she dipped a clean cloth into some water and started to cleanse the wound. Then she picked up the needle and asked, “Are you ready?”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, don’t worry about Constance if you do hit me. There’s a good chance you will and I won’t hold it against you. I’ll know it was just the pain.”
Ranulf’s mouth twisted with pride. “I’ve been injured before and I’ve managed not to hit anyone.”
“If you say so,” Bronwyn replied.
Ranulf felt the painful