She knelt beside the bed and edged Sir Roger’s hand down to his side until she was able to tug Robbie free. She eased him across her shoulder. The child wrapped his arms around her neck and did not stir. Sir Roger muttered and rolled his head from side to side, though his eyes remained closed. Now she had her son back, Lucy could breathe easily once more. She paused to look curiously at the man in her bed.
Sir Roger. But Sir Roger who? And of where? She had heard of no knight or lord of that name in Cheshire or Derbyshire. She had no idea where he had come from, or where he was hoping to go. He would not want to remain here long if he had slighted Lord Harpur, she knew that much. Instinctively she tightened her hold on Robbie.
‘He’ll never know he has you to thank for his life,’ she whispered against the boy’s ear.
Robbie needed his bed. Lucy, too, though where she would sleep was anyone’s guess. Not in her bed, that was for certain. She felt the beginnings of a blush around the back of her neck as she remembered Sir Roger’s hands on her body. The arm that had held her son was muscular and iron hard, the neck and chest well shaped. Robbie was not the only one whose bed was a solitary place of rest.
She eased herself to her feet and stepped away. As she did, Sir Roger gave a great gasp. His eyes snapped open and he jerked upright, clutching hold of Lucy’s skirts. He bared his teeth and snarled.
‘Run, wench, lest they take you, too!’
Biting down a scream, Lucy pulled away, but his grip was strong and he held her fast. Still holding Robbie in one arm, she could not tug her skirts free. In panic, she brought down the poker she held in her other hand, flailing at his chest to push him away. The tip was hotter than she had expected it to be and as it touched the bare skin above his heart there was a hissing, accompanied by the sickening smell of singeing hair and flesh.
Sir Roger cried out, loosening his grip on Lucy’s skirts and falling back on to the mattress. The back of the arrow landed on the bed, driving the tip forward through his body, but not fully out. Sir Roger screamed at the pain—the angry, agonised roar of a felled boar. His head lolled back as he slipped into a deep faint.
Lucy dropped the poker in horror at what she had done and backed away. In her arms, Robbie began to whimper. She kissed his damp forehead, trying to quiet her own sobs, and backed against the wall by his cot. When Robbie had settled, she eased him into his bed. She slid to the floor and hugged her knees until she stopped trembling.
Sir Roger did not move. Lucy’s assault had drained him of any remaining strength.
For now.
The room still smelled of charred flesh and Lucy’s stomach heaved. She needed to see what damage she had inflicted and tend to the wounds, but she could not trust that Sir Roger would not awaken before she had finished. Her skin crawled at the idea of him seizing her once again and she thought furiously what she should do. She clambered to her feet and ran back down the stairs, returning with a length of thin rope and a knife.
Biting her lip to stop her heart leaping from her throat, Lucy tiptoed close to the bed and knelt on shaking legs. She worked quickly, passing one end of the rope under the bedframe and wrapping it once round the leg of the bed closest to her. She securely tied the ends round each of the unconscious man’s wrists. To her relief he remained insensible throughout.
Lucy sat back on her heels and examined her handiwork. Sir Roger’s hands lay at his sides on the mattress. His bonds would cause no discomfort, but the rope was short enough that he would not be able to bring his hands together to undo the knots. If he attempted to grab her with one hand, the other would be pulled beneath the frame of the bed by the motion.
Now she finally felt safe enough to examine him, she brought the lamp close and settled by his side. Asleep he looked less fearsome, the lines on his forehead smoothed. She wondered what he would look like without the thatch of beard. She pulled the sheet down to his waist and peered at him, her fingers hovering over his body. His chest was broad and the muscles that Lucy had felt as she had undressed him were well defined beneath the soft dark hairs that covered his torso. Lucy drew her hand back, examining the wound she had inflicted. The poker’s tip had left a livid red mark on the skin above his heart. It had already begun to blister and she winced with guilt.
Lucy fetched a pitcher of water and pressed a damp strip of his torn-up tunic over the wound. Sir Roger’s eyelids flickered, but he did not wake. The arrow wound had begun to bleed, but slowly. It oozed out around the wooden shaft that now stuck further out. She wetted more strips of cloth and contrived padding around the wound. Perhaps she should remove the arrow while he was unconscious and less likely to feel pain, but the lamp was beginning to sputter, almost empty. She would have to wait until morning and Thomas’s arrival. She did not want to think what would happen if her brother was caught and never returned.
She watched until the blood stopped. There was nothing more she could do tonight, but if he died it would be from infection, not from his lifeblood ebbing away. Lucy shivered with cold, wishing she had been in bed long before now. She could not deprive her patient of the blankets in the state he was in so she leaned over and retrieved his cloak from down the side of the bed. Even cut and bloodstained it was of better quality than anything she owned herself. Wearily she dropped to the floor beside Robbie’s cot and slept on the bare boards, wrapped in the knight’s ruined cloak with the unfamiliar musky scent of man enveloping her.
* * *
Lucy woke early. Her body ached and she felt nauseous, her stomach churning after the night’s happenings. She crept to Sir Roger’s side, hoping not to awaken him, but he was still deeply asleep. So deep, in fact, that Lucy believed it must be the combination of alcohol and whatever Thomas had given him that accounted for his slumber. He could barely have shifted in the night as the blankets were precisely where she had placed them, halfway between his waist and shoulders.
Daylight edged through the gaps in the wooden shutters and in the light she could see his skin was ashen beneath the dark hair, except for the area around his bandaged wound. The flesh there was red and angry, with blood crusted around the arrow. Cautiously Lucy placed her fingers on the wound and found the flesh as hot as it was scarlet. She lifted the cloth from the burn above his heart and placed her fingers there, spreading her hand wide over the taut muscle. At her touch Sir Roger drew a rasping breath, his chest rising beneath Lucy’s hand. Her skin fluttered as his firm muscles tensed. She drew back hastily.
No man had shared her bed here and she had no expectation, nor wish, for any to do so in the future, but the unanticipated longing for this man was confusing and his kiss had been intoxicating. He was by far the finest-looking man she had encountered, but those muscles had been hardened in battle and the deep brown eyes had seen danger and death she could barely contemplate. Even half out of his mind with pain he exuded an air of danger. To imagine repeating such a thing would be akin to throwing herself into the middle of a dogfight.
Sir Roger murmured, his head tipping to one side. He half-opened his eyes and looked at Lucy, though she doubted he really saw her. His forehead creased and he gave a slight moan. Lucy reached a trembling hand and stroked her thumb tenderly across his brow. The creases vanished under her touch and he closed his eyes once more.
The cockerel crowed, his raucous interruption reminding Lucy she had other matters to attend to. Unexpected resentment rose in her—a much safer emotion than the ones imagining Sir Roger’s touch had provoked. She was too tired for the start of the day and had enough tasks to keep her busy until nightfall without having to think of Sir Roger. This was a burden she did not need. One child was enough to manage, let alone a fully-grown man.
‘You’ll have to wait, my fine lord,’ she told the sleeping man. ‘I have ale to brew and a house to keep.’
She brushed her hands down her dress, which was creased and felt grimy from being slept in. She only had two and the other was lighter cloth better suited for warmer days. It would have to do as she could not