The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

“No,” Radulf answered his squire. “My lady offered to do so,” and he nodded in Lily’s direction.

She tried to make herself smaller on the bed. Dressing a knight’s wounds was the province of a lady, but Lily was wary of touching that warm skin.

“Did you search Vorgen’s stronghold, lord?”

“Aye. Empty.”

“So there was no battle, my lord?” Stephen sounded disappointed.

Radulf gave a snort of disgust. “No, there was not.” He flexed his shoulder, easing the ache.

“So the she-devil is still free?” Stephen looked uneasy at the idea of anyone defying his lord.

“She is. There would be less bloodshed if she yielded now instead of cooking up more plots, but it matters not. I will have her sooner or later.”

Lily bit her lip, cold fear crawling over her skin. What if he were to find out that the woman he held safe in his tent was the very woman he sought? Surely he would kill her?

“Women are weak creatures, meant to be confined,” Stephen was saying knowledgeably, more like a swaggering knave than an untried boy. “’Tis not right they should be allowed the freedom to lead men and make war. ’Tis not right they should cause such pandemonium about the land!”

“Calm yourself, boy.”

Radulf was laughing, Lily could tell by his voice. How could Radulf, the bloody warrior, the putter-down of rebellions, be laughing? The men Lily had recently known in her life did not laugh very often, and when they did their humor was coarse and violent. This Radulf was a puzzle, and Lily could no longer keep still. She opened her eyes and sat up.

Stephen, facing her, frowned and glanced quickly at his lord. Radulf turned, the goblet in his hand and dying laughter in his eyes. Lily’s breath slipped out of her open mouth.

The church last night had been dark, the light poor. Although she had had an impression of size and strength, and a sensation of dangerous dark eyes and a sensuous mouth, she had not really seen him. Now Lily saw Radulf as he truly was, and her heart tumbled over and over, like a small water wheel in a raging millpond.

Why did his face stir her so? It was by no means handsome in the usual way, not at all like the blond perfection of Hew. Radulf’s nose had been broken and was a little crooked, and there was a deep scar that ran across one cheekbone and up into his hairline, just missing his left eye. Strong and masculine, it was the face of a man who had lived and seen much. His eyes, dark and deep set, were watchful and older than his years. And his mouth…Lily felt weak at the thought of pressing her own against it, of feeling those full lips moving over hers.

Her thoughts careering out of control, Lily’s gaze flew wildly to Radulf’s as she wondered whether he could read her mind. And then, horrified, whether he would need to. Surely women threw themselves at him every moment of every day? Such a man must be a honeypot for all womankind. With a mixture of uneasy fascination and horrified expectation, Lily watched Radulf approach her.

An angry spark flared in eyes that had a moment before been laughing and warm, and there was a hint of cruelty in the curl of his lips. He looked cross—had he discovered the truth already? No, if he knew the truth he would be furious. Lily held her breath as Radulf came to a halt beside the bed.

“You do well to fear me, lady,” he said in his deepest, most menacing voice. “You are the lamb to my wolf. I could tear out your throat.”

Lily gazed up at him, her eyes held prisoner by his. Oh yes, this was indeed her feared enemy, just as she had always imagined him. The terror of the north, the King’s bloody Sword! A shudder of fright ran through her body…and then faded. Lily’s frozen mind thawed and began to work. Why, if Radulf was so alarming, if his face was as hard and cold as his sword, was the expression in his eyes so achingly weary? As if his own infamy were a burden he could hardly bear.

“I am not afraid of you.” Lily heard the quiet certainty in her voice.

Surprise flickered in those dark depths. Slowly the cruel smile faded and became genuine. “No, lady?” He shrugged, winced, and dropped his deep voice to a husky rumble. “Then methinks you are very foolish. Everyone is afraid of me.” Radulf held her gaze a heartbeat longer before turning away, back toward Stephen. His next words were offhand, a deceptively negligent challenge. “However, if you speak the truth, and are brave enough, you may tend my wounds. Stephen usually does so, but his hands are more used to the serving of meat than the repairing of it.”

Radulf turned again to look at her, while Stephen appeared suitably shamefaced.

Lily slowly rose to her feet, smoothing the red gown where it had wrinkled over her hips. She could not help but notice how Radulf’s eyes followed her movements, their expression reminding her of a hungry wolf suddenly confronted by a plump lamb. Lily trembled as she used the same analogy as he, but in a very different context. She could not mistake such a look, and her need for self-preservation should send her fleeing from Radulf, and yet…

Lily raised her chin.

He was watching her keenly, searchingly, and her proud gesture made him smile. He bowed his head to hide it, but Lily saw the tug at the corners of his mouth.

Did he find her so amusing? Briefly, anger flared within her, but she could not afford to be angry.

“You do not frighten me, my lord Radulf,” she repeated firmly, “though for some reason you try. Besides, you forget, I am in your debt.”

“My debt?” If he had forgotten the circumstances of their meeting, she had not.

“For granting me your protection.”

“A damsel in distress,” he murmured, and once again amusement warmed his eyes. Lily waited patiently while he catalogued her features as thoroughly as before. She was not nearly as calm as she pretended. Inside she was asking herself what she hoped to accomplish by her acceptance of his challenge. His trust? Or was there more to it—some secret reason that made her heart flutter and her body weak? Perhaps tending him was just an excuse to touch that hard body and let her thoughts linger on impossible dreams.