Warwolfe (de Wolfe Pack Book 0)(68)
But Ghislaine didn’t stay awake long enough to suffer extended pain. Exhausted to the bone from the events of the day, the monks had given her a draught of wine with poppy powder in it to make her sleep, and sleep she did. She slept well into the morning and no one bothered to wake her up.
In fact, as she slept against the wall of the cathedral covered up by several cloaks that the knights had so thoughtfully deposited on her during the course of the night, Gaetan and his men secured all entrances into the cathedral and refused to let anyone in while she slept. They threatened anyone who tried. For that day, the priests of Evesham had to hold mass on the steps at the front of the church.
When Ghislaine finally awoke well into the morning and realized what Gaetan and his men had done, she had to admit that she was very touched. Aramis and Lance de Reyne brought her food, simple gruel and watered wine, but she slurped it down as Aramis went to check her wound. But that brought Gaetan around and he pushed Aramis aside as he checked his handiwork on her leg personally. Little did Ghislaine know that he was getting a bit of a thrill at the tender white flesh of her thigh and, Gaetan thought, so was Aramis.
There was a competition afoot.
In fact, Gaetan became somewhat territorial over her, especially around de Russe whom, he suspected, was becoming rather enamored with the woman who bested him at Westerham. He’d known Aramis for years and he’d never shown much attention towards women, considering them a necessary nuisance and nothing more. So for Aramis to show Ghislaine the concern he was, in fact, had Gaetan concerned.
It shouldn’t have, but it did.
Gaetan wasn’t entirely sure why, other than the fact his attitude towards Ghislaine was different since the arrow strike. He’d been pulled towards her from the start but now, that pull was stronger than he could control. He’d once considered taking her as his bedslave but, somehow, she was too good for that. She didn’t deserve to be relegated to a man’s bed. She was courageous, beautiful, and strong. So very strong. A woman like that deserved to be a queen.
Or the wife of a great warlord.
That thought had occurred to him while he was cleansing her wound again with wine. She flinched but she didn’t utter a sound, not like she had before. She was steeling herself to the pain, becoming accustomed to it, and the more he held that tender white thigh in his hands and tended the arrow wound, the more he admired a woman who should bear her pain so stoically. But when that word crossed his mind… wife… he’d almost dropped her leg and probably would have had de Lara not been holding the ankle to steady it.
It was a foolish notion that had startled him. He wasn’t meant to have a wife. He had three bedslaves, three children, and he didn’t need a wife. At least, those were his usual thoughts, thoughts he’d had for years. But in the same breath, it occurred to him that he had never wanted a wife because he’d never met a woman he considered worthy. What better wife to take than the sister of Edwin of Mercia, linking Norman and Saxon, cementing alliances? But he wouldn’t marry her simply for the alliance.
He would marry her because he was coming to think she was something very special, indeed.
But Ghislaine was oblivious to Gaetan’s thoughts as he checked her wound twice more that day before she went to sleep. The knights had delayed their journey for two full days to tend to the woman who had sacrificed herself for them. But the morning of the third day, they set out for Worcester through dense forests and a road that narrowed so much, at times, that they had to pass through in single file. The weather had been rainy one day, sunny the next, and as they neared the city, the temperature rose to the point where the water in the ground and in the trees turned into steam and the air became heavy with moisture. Compounded with the humidity from the river, it made the air rather uncomfortable.
The knights were sweating beneath their mail and tunics and even Ghislaine was feeling hot as the air around them turned into a steam bath. She was wearing layers of clothing and she rolled her sleeves up as much as she could, trying to find some relief from the sticky warmth. She kept wiping the sweat from her forehead but she soon came to realize that her cheeks were also very hot – unnaturally hot.
Riding behind Gaetan as they passed through a stretch of trees that, once again, had them riding single file, she touched her cheeks discreetly, realizing with dismay that she had a fever. She’d felt rather queasy all day but she has attributed it to the fact that she was taxing her body by traveling with a nasty wound to her leg. It didn’t occur to her that it was because she was beginning to run a fever.
Fear kept her silent as they continued to travel, fear of becoming a burden, of even being left behind as the knights continued on to Alary’s lair. This was her quest, too, and she didn’t want to surrender this moment of moments, when she finally felt as if she was a part of something, accepted by men she’d proven herself to. It had been a difficult and long fight, and she wasn’t about to relinquish it. She prayed fervently that the fever would be mild and that it would quickly pass. It was simply her body’s way of dealing with the poisonous humors that were inside of her as a result of the arrow wound.
God, please rid me of this fever, she prayed silently. It was a prayer she said repeatedly as they traveled beneath the bright sun, which was only compounding the problem. When the road would widen and the knights would spread out, Gaetan would end up on one side and someone else, usually de Russe, would end up on the other. She was terrified they would see how red her cheeks were so she tried to keep her head down and not speak with any of them, as much as it pained her. Gaetan was finally showing her the attention she had been hoping for and she very much wanted to show that she was receptive to it, but now she was afraid to.