Once Upon a Winter's Eve (Spindle Cove #1.5)(4)

Merciful God. A miracle. She understood him. She touched him. This was a gift he did not deserve.

Nothing had gone as it should. So many stupid mistakes. Fool. Jackass. Azen gomek. His superiors would be displeased. If he even survived to see them again, they might make him wish he’d died.

But she was here. And she was dressed in green silk and touching his face. This was heaven, for the moment.

A red coat appeared in his vision. The one they called Rycliff. Clearly the lord, or the commander, or something of both. This Rycliff took him by the collar and barked questions. First in English, then in French.

He could only answer in Breton. “Corentin Morvan eo ma anv. Me a zo un tamm peizant.” My name is Corentin Morvan. I am a humble farmhand.

Rycliff released him, then traded remarks with the angel in green silk.

Another woman claimed his attention. This one had hair of flame, and freckles dusted like cinders across her cheeks. She didn’t bother speaking in English or French, but instead pantomimed with expansive motions. He might have found this amusing, were he in less pain.

They were going to move him, he gathered. His head would be bandaged.

He nodded his understanding.

Good, good. Let it be so.

He couldn’t go anywhere in this condition. And she would save him the unpleasant task of doing it himself.

He clasped his angel’s hand tight as the men carried him into another room. He found himself settled on a long, upholstered bench close to a fire. The sudden flare of warmth made him shiver harder.

He knew he ought to be planning. His mind should never be idle in such a situation. At the very least, he should be scanning the room for potential weapons and his fastest route of escape.

But he was too cold. Too gripped by pain. Too lost in the blue of her eyes. Too enslaved by the tenderness of her fingertips. This hour of his life must be lived in small increments. One tiny action after another.

His heart gave a soft thump in his chest.

His lungs drew a painful breath.

He gripped her pale, soft hand as if it were his only hold on consciousness. Perhaps it was. Enough pride remained to him that he did not want to faint in front of a pretty girl.

A blanket draped his body. Heavy. Warm. Hands turned him onto to his side. Somewhere beneath the upholstery, an unyielding spar of wood dug against his ribs.

Something sharp gouged his scalp. He winced and swore.

The flame-haired woman spoke words in English as she unstoppered a small glass vial. His heart rate quickened. He suspected he would not enjoy the contents of that vial.

He was right.

She turned his head. Liquid fire poured over his raw, open wound, and pain ripped through his pounding skull. The edges of his vision went black.

They meant to torture him, perhaps. But he would not break.

“Corentin Morvan eo ma anv,” he growled, beginning the standard litany. My name is Corentin Morvan. I am a humble farmhand. I know nothing. Nothing. I swear on the Virgin this is true. Pain wrenched the words from his throat and pushed them through the sieve of his clenched teeth.

When he’d mastered his breath, he looked up at his angel in green silk. Worry drew fine lines across her brow. Her blue eyes were wells of concern.

But still she touched him, so softly. So gently.

A true mercy, after all he’d done.

A needle tugged through his scalp. This time, he took no note of the pain. There would be time enough later for the pain. He concentrated on her sweet caress instead.

Leaning close, she whispered something in his ear. He could not respond, but he could enjoy the orange blossom fragrance of her hair. There was lace edging her dress. He counted its scallops and points, treasuring each one.

God, how he longed to touch her. She was so close, so lovely. It had been so long. He wanted to reach out and skim his chilled, callused fingertip over that lacy border and the creamy perfection of her collarbone.

A dozen armed soldiers hovered about, ready to gut him in moments, should he dare. Even so, the idea tempted. One stolen caress might have been worth his life.

But there were other lives at stake. Lives more important and worthy than the life of Corentin Morvan, a humble farmhand. So he closed his eyes and pushed temptation away.

When the stitching was finished, the flame-haired woman put away her vials and implements. She spoke with the officer. Plans were being made. Men were being dispatched.

The girl in emerald silk nodded as someone handed her a pair of gloves. Fine gloves of soft leather, lined with fur. Gloves meant for wearing in the cold.

Which meant she was leaving. They would part him from his angel.

No.

Mustering what remained of his strength, he threw an arm about her waist and flung his head in her lap. She startled and froze, but she did not recoil. Cool silk teased against his cheek, and beneath it he felt the warmth of her skin.

“Only her,” he muttered in Breton. “No one but her. She alone understands. You cannot take her from me.”

And then he made a true ass of himself.

He fainted dead away.

“He’s collapsed,” Susanna said. “From the pain, most likely.”

Violet gulped, staring at the man so indecently sprawled face-down in her lap. She could view the stitches Susanna had used to mend his injury. They were neat work, but the wound was ugly. A ragged, red gash carved through his dark brown hair.

Lord Rycliff moved toward her. “I’ll get him off you.”