Bart scowled at Alice, then turned his sour expression on the woman in the bed. Alice ignored him as she collected her things and shuffled out of the chamber, leaving Bartholomew alone with the stranger…and his dismal thoughts.
He ceased his pacing and sat on a chair near the bed. The sooner the woman came to her senses, the better, he thought. Then he would send her on her way to wherever she’d been going when her ship had gone down. Likely she’d been en route to one of the southern harbors, but had been blown off course by the storm. That very thing had often been known to happen, though the ships did not usually sink.
Bart picked up one of her hands. The nails were nicely shaped, and the skin was soft. This woman could be naught but a lady with hands like these. Her face was finely shaped, too, and Bart was certain that someone would soon come looking for her.
The sudden, distant clanging of the church bell had him on his feet in an instant. ’Twas not time for services, and there was only one other reason for the bell to ring: the village was under attack.
Without another glance at the unconscious woman, Bart left the chamber and fairly flew down the steps. On the first landing, he met a footman who’d been sent to summon him.
“My lord, Armstrong men are raiding the village!”
“Go out to the stable and see that my squire has my armor and horse ready,” Bart said as they quickly descended to the main hall together. “I’ll be there directly.”
Eleanor sat tearfully at the great table in the hall, with John’s arm around her. Kathryn stood stoically near the fireplace. Henry, thrusting his chest out, approached Bartholomew as he crossed the hall. “I’m coming with you,” he said.
“Nay,” Bart replied. His brothers should have been sent out to foster at a neighboring estate, but circumstances in recent years had prevented it. Therefore, their training was lacking. He would not send the boys out to battle until they were ready. “Stay here and defend the keep and your sisters. The servants will look to you for direction.”
“But, Bart—”
“That is my final word, Hal,” he said, as he crossed the great hall toward the main door. He stopped short when he reached it, and turned back to his younger brother. “I intend to bring back the head of Lachann Armstrong. Make sure there’s a stout pike in the courtyard to put it on.”
Chapter Two
Lightning slashed across the sky and thunder crashed all ’round them. Only the whoreson Armstrongs would mount an attack in this kind of weather. They’d managed to torch a few cottages and rout half a herd of cattle into the hills before Bartholomew and his knights met the attack, with a ferocity that quickly had the Armstrongs retreating to their own land.
Trudging through a heavy downpour, Bart’s men chased the Scots across hills and muddy dales, but the cowardly Armstrongs managed to melt away into their hidey-holes. Bart had had enough of battles to last a lifetime, and he wished the Armstrong would desist with his warring ways.
Yet, ever since William’s death, the Scottish laird had made it his personal mission to destroy Norwyck. Bart assumed ’twas to pay for his and William’s part in the recent Scottish wars.
To Bart’s supreme disappointment, the Scots disappeared entirely by dawn. Bartholomew had no choice but to turn back without his enemy’s head, though he’d managed to cut down a goodly number of the raiding Scots.
He had not given a thought to the woman in the east tower, but as he dismounted before the stone steps of the keep, he wondered in passing if she had awakened yet from her stupor.
The light in the chamber was dim, but that did not account for her blurred vision. Naught was clear, not even her hand when she studied it up close. What was wrong? What had happened to her eyes?
“Oh my!” someone cried. “You’re awake!”
English. The woman had spoken English, and for some reason, the sound was strange and unfamiliar. Yet she understood the words.
“Would you like a sip of water?” the woman asked, leaning over her. She was able to make out light hair and a dark gown, but the facial features were unclear.
She nodded and accepted help in drinking from a mug.
“I’ll just go and tell Lord Norwyck that you’ve come ’round,” the servant said.
“L-Lord…Norwyck?” she queried, trying out the English words.
“Aye,” the voice replied. “You’re in the keep at Norwyck Castle. Lord Norwyck himself carried you here from the beach.”
“Norwyck…carried me?” She swallowed dryly and furrowed her brows, only to wince at the pain it caused. Naught made sense to her. Norwyck. Norwyck Keep. ’Twas wholly unfamiliar.
“Aye, he did. When you washed up on shore.” The servant was suddenly gone, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
They were surprisingly vacant.
She could not think why she’d have “washed up” on a shore. She had been…Where?
Her stomach did a flip when she realized that she could not remember anything specific. There were faces, and strange places, but she could not name any of them. Her memory was gone, and her sight was poor. What was she to do?
Panic seized her. Her heart pounded and her breathing became erratic. She could not even remember her own name! She did not know where she’d come from, or how she had gotten here.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she felt a wave of nausea nearly overcome her. Even so, she could not lie here and wait for someone to take care of her. ’Twas not in her nature to be so passive, though how she could be certain of that, she did not know. It just did not seem right to remain abed and wait for answers.
Light-headedness made her falter, but she moved away from the bed in spite of it. She was bruised and sore all over, with a knot at the side of her forehead and a gash along her shinbone. At least these seemed to be the worst of her injuries. The hazy vision alarmed her, too, but she had no way of knowing whether she’d always had poor eyesight. She doubted it, since it seemed so strange to her.
Almost as disturbing as her injuries was that she was naked. She was fully and completely exposed, and there did not seem to be any clothing within reach. Squinting, she extended her arms to feel for any objects in her path, nearly tripping over a chair in her attempt to reach what she thought was a gown draped over a chair.
’Twas just a woolen shawl.
The sudden sound of footsteps and voices came to her, and she knew she could not make it back to the bed quickly without tumbling over something. She grabbed the shawl and held it up before her just as the door opened.
Bart stopped in his tracks at the entrance of the tower room, holding back his brothers and Eleanor, who had come to see the wounded woman.
“Go back down, and I’ll come and get you when…er, when I…” He swallowed.
“Come on, Bart,” Henry said, pushing at his brother’s back. “Let us through.”
“Nay,” he replied, frowning as the woman stood gazing at him blankly. Her body was partially covered by the wool shawl that usually rested upon the back of one of the chairs, leaving most of her body bared to his view.
Awake, she was exquisite. His eyes raked over her, from the delicate bones at her shoulders to the swell of her barely concealed breasts, then down to hips that were not entirely covered by the shawl, to sweetly dimpled knees and slender ankles.
His siblings shoved him from behind. When he finally found his voice, he ordered them away. “Go! Go and…and I’ll be down shortly.” He turned and slammed the door, barring it, and ignoring the pounding that came from the other side.
’Twas