Dragon's Daughter
Sean scowled as the stranger passed an agitated hand across his brow. “Why have you brought him here?”
Rowena shrugged again, meeting his green gaze with surprise. “To minister to him, of course. Where else would he be taken?”
“Why, anywhere. To our cottage. To…”
Rowena felt her brow crease with puzzlement as she looked to Hagar, who was frowning. Clearly this notion hadn’t come from her. “Why would I have him taken to your cottage when everything I need to treat him is right here?”
Sean’s scowl deepened. “You must see that this man cannot stay here with you.”
“Others have done so.”
He took an exasperated breath. “Those others were known to you and us. This man is a complete stranger. He could—”
Rowena laughed in spite of her irritation with his overprotective manner. They had been struggling over things like this ever since they were children, Sean telling her she could not climb trees and the like, Rowena ignoring his every directive. “And pray, what could he do? The man cannot even raise his hand to wipe his own brow, let alone harm me in some way.” She recalled just how strong he had been in that one moment when he had grabbed her wrist, but she would be much more careful to keep him from waking to that degree until he showed some signs of improvement.
Nonetheless, she did not meet Sean’s gaze as she said, “You can see the state he is in. I have given him medicaments to quiet him and will continue to do so.”
“He could awaken fully at any time.”
Rowena said, “I will certainly keep that in mind, and should he awaken with the intent to do me harm, I shall hie myself off to your cottage with all haste.”
Sean placed his hands on his lean hips. “Ye canna stay here alone with a strange man, Rowena. I forbid it.”
Rowena frowned, feeling a shaft of rebellion race through her. She knew he wished only the best for her, but she would not allow him, nor anyone else to dictate to her.
She placed her hands on her own hips. “What say you, Sean?”
He glared at her even as chagrin registered in his eyes. “Now, Rowena, I did not mean to sound so…I am only…”
She raised her chin. “And have a care that you do not. Now be off with you so that I might get on with my own business here.”
“Rowena…” His tone was cajoling now, but she would have none of it.
“Go on, I said. You may stop ’round in the morning if you are truly concerned for my safety.” Though her determination to do as she would was still clear, the edge was now gone from her voice. ’Twas impossible to remain vexed at Sean for long. They knew one another far too well. Although she had never had a brother, if she had he would have been just like Sean, bright and handsome and protective.
The fact that she had no brothers, no sisters, no family of any sort besides her mother, made her hold Sean all the more dear. She didn’t even know her father’s name, having been told that it was for the best. Even on the day she had died her mother had refused to utter his name.
Telling herself that such thoughts could gain her nothing, Rowena watched as her friend moved to the door with obvious reluctance. Yet he said no more, glancing back over his shoulder only once before making his exit.
Rowena then turned to Hagar, who had also watched her son leave the cottage. The older woman suddenly cast a sympathetic, yet distracted glance at her and said, “Is there anything I might do?”
Rowena shook her head. “There is nothing to do but wait.” And suddenly she found herself confiding in her friend about those troubling ravings. “He has come around more fully, rambling wildly about dragons and dead babes. I fear his head injury may indeed have left the man addled.”
Slowly Hagar came forward, placing a covered container on the table, her dear face fearful. “Those do sound like the ravings of a madman. ’Haps Sean is right in this. The stranger could be dangerous, Rowena.”
“Pray do not worry. I have given him sufficient mandrake as well as other sleeping herbs. He will not waken.”
The older woman shook her head, glancing to the door through which her son had gone. “Sean and I…we love ye, lass. And only wish for ye to be safe.”
Rowena noted the odd catch in Hagar’s voice as she spoke of Sean’s and her own love. Rowena was more moved by this concern coming from Hagar, who had sought to guide her only in the gentlest ways, than she had been by Sean’s demands. Perhaps she should take heed here. Her mother had always told her to be wary of strangers. Heretofore there had been no reason for wariness, as she had never come into such close contact with a total stranger. But she should not allow her stubbornness to make her forget her mother’s advice.
Rowena took a deep breath. “I will have a care. But truly, I do not feel there is cause to worry for the next few hours. As I said, I have given more than sufficient of the sleeping potions to keep him docile. In this state he would be near impossible to move, and it would be unfair to call out those who have already sought their beds to aid us.”
Hagar watched her for a long, silent moment, then nodded, indicating the container on the table. “I’ve brought ye this broth, and will be back when the sun rises.”
Rowena bowed her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you. I am grateful for your care.”
Hagar left the cottage without further conversation.
Rowena sighed. Since her mother died she had spent much time alone. Though she loved the villagers who had taken her and her mother in, she was also fond of her solitude.
She glanced back toward the bed. She tried to tell herself that the sick man would give her little trouble, but knew it was not true. Although she had decided that she would not allow herself to care about the outcome of his illness, she did indeed care. Again she told herself it was because of those who might await him.
It was with a decided determination to think of something besides the sadness engendered by this thought that she began to make herself a pallet on the floor near the fire. She did not mind so very much, as she had also slept there in the last few weeks of her mother’s wasting illness.
The task was too soon completed, as well as her other preparations for sleep. Cocking her head, she listened for any stirrings from the bed. There was nothing but the sound of the man’s deep breathing, which seemed to have grown somewhat raspy.
Rising, she went to peer down at him by the light of her candle. Though his face was very pale and drawn, that was no change from before. His forehead was cool to her touch.
The sound of his breathing had definitely changed. Determinedly she told herself not to become alarmed, for it could be caused by nothing more than a dry throat. When she fetched and spooned a bit of cool water into his mouth, the harshness did seem to improve somewhat.
Slowly she sank down on the bench beside the table and took a bit of the rich broth Hagar had placed there. Although it had grown cold, the flavorful liquid was welcome.
Several times Rowena reached up to rub her eyes, which felt gritty and tired. It had been a long and wearisome day.
Once the cup was empty she rose and went to her pallet. There was no telling what tomorrow might bring, and she would be well served to try to get some sleep.
She knew not how long she had actually been asleep when she opened her eyes again. Wondering what could have wakened her, she became aware of the fact that the man’s breathing was ragged again. That soft raspiness seemed to have grown harsher, shallower. Frowning, she rose and moved to look down at him.
That handsome face was flushed with heat, and though he slept on, he moved his head restlessly from side to side.
Rowena put her hand to his forehead. It was hot—too hot.
Chapter Two
Fever.
Rowena quickly went to the fire and put the water back on to heat. Because of the likely inflammation in his lungs, she made a mixture of horehound and honey. Then she placed a combination of sorrel and marigold into her mixing bowl to treat the fever. While she waited for the water to heat, she fetched a shallow wooden bowl, filled it with cool water and removed a soft clean cloth from the chest beside the foot of the bed.
Then she stepped toward the bed, placed the bowl upon the narrow table and dipped the cloth into it. When she’d wrung out the cloth, she hesitated, her gaze fixed on his face, handsome in spite of the illness that had robbed it of color and animation. She should not have told Hagar to go.
With a sigh of impatience, Rowena told herself that this was completely foolish. She had performed this very task more times than she could count. To hesitate with this man was madness. He was nothing to her, and utterly unaware of her at any rate.
Her suspicion that he might be a noble, a man who came from the world of her father, made him no different from any other man who lay ill in her care.
Nonetheless, she took a deep breath as she smoothed the cloth slowly across that wide brow, her fingers brushing the thick, dark brown hair Hagar had washed. The stranger stirred slightly and Rowena stiffened. But he did not open those blue eyes and she forced herself to relax.
Yet as she ran the cool cloth over his high cheekbones and lean jaw, she found herself thinking that this man was the most handsome she had ever seen. There was a deep strength to his face that was belied by that one look she had had of his blue eyes, eyes that had seemed so surprisingly gentle. That gentleness was echoed in the softness of his mouth, which was now parted as he took in quick, shallow breaths.
Suddenly she realized that though this man was a stranger, completely unknown to her, she wanted to know him. To know something of the world he came from, the world of her father. It was a world she and her mother had lived in, at least for a time.
She wanted to know why the stranger had come to Ashcroft, and whence he would be going when he left.
Her mother had told her that the nobles valued their lands above aught else. But the look in his eyes when he had spoken of the unknown Rosalind…
If there was a Rosalind. What if it was all mad ravings?
Frustrated with her own whirling thoughts, Rowena drew the bench close to the bed and set about her task with renewed purpose. She grew increasingly aware of the intimacy of their situation. She was touching this man in a way she would never dream of doing if he were well, learning the smooth contours of his face in a way she did not even know her own. Gently she bathed the corded column of his throat, his powerful shoulders, wondering at the sheer masculinity of him, and feeling a more intense awareness of her own femininity.
When he groaned and tossed the coverlet from his chest, her gaze went to that wide expanse, which glistened with perspiration.
Her own breathing seemed more shallow, her chest tight. Although she knew it would help to cool him were she to bathe him there as well, Rowena dared not do so.
Thus she put all of her attention and energy into doing what she could—working on without ceasing, yet never growing less conscious of him as a man, even when her heavy lids sagged with exhaustion…
Rowena lifted her head from her arm, realizing she had fallen asleep. A low groan came from the bed beside her.
Instantly her gaze went to her patient’s face. The light from the fire was dim but she could see the beads of perspiration on his upper lip. He groaned again, his head rolling on the pillow.
Hurriedly she dipped the cloth into the cool water and wiped it across his brow. The moment it touched him he sighed, raising his hand to rub his throat, though it was clear he had not regained consciousness.
Again she wet the cloth, this time applying it to his lean jaw.
Without warning, his eyes flew open and he grabbed her, pulling her against the burning heat of his chest. “Rosalind…must find her…”
Instantly Rowena leaned back, but in his fever her resistance only seemed to fuel his determination to hold her. His arms were like iron bands, pressing her to him, to the heat and strength of his body, the body she had not dared to touch.
From somewhere there came a response in her own body, a hardening of the peaks of her breasts that shocked her even as a shaft of inexplicable pleasure raced through her blood.
Then, just as suddenly as he had taken hold of her, she was released and he fell back, unconscious once more. Quickly she crossed her arms over her aching breasts, her gaze focusing on the smooth tanned skin of the stranger’s chest as she wondered how touching it could have brought such a reaction from her.
She looked into his face. He was oblivious to her.
Of course he was. He had never thought of her at all. It was this unknown Rosalind who consumed him to the point that worry for her had fought its way up through the depths of his illness.
Rowena could only wonder in horror that she would react to this man as she had. All she could do to soothe herself was remember that when his health returned he would not recall this event. She would be wise to forget it as well.
She raked a hand through her hair, looking toward the shuttered window. How long until sunrise? No matter how long, or how ill he became, she was not going to touch that man again, not alone here in the darkness.
Rowena still had not done so when Hagar arrived, accompanied by Sean, not long after sunrise. Rowena found it hard to meet the older woman’s gaze, and even harder to meet Sean’s as she opened the door and moved back to the table, where she made a show of tidying up the things she had left out during the night.
Sean, who was garbed for fishing in a short tunic and heavy woolen hose, hesitated in the doorway as Hagar came forward, removing her cloak. He spoke carefully, and Rowena knew that he was thinking of their unpleasant exchange of the previous evening. “Good morrow, Rowena.”
She nodded without looking at him, less irritated with him than herself, given her confused feelings about the stranger. In spite of this she spoke with bravado. “Good morrow. As you can see I am quite whole.”
She felt him stiffen.
Hagar seemed to be unaware of their discomfort or else chose to ignore it. “So how went the night?”
Feeling her friend’s attention upon her as he, too, listened for her reply, Rowena bent to put more wood upon the fire. “It was long. He has developed a fever.”
The older woman went to the bed and reached out to place her worn hand upon the stranger’s brow. “Ah, ’tis not good. You could have come for me.”
Placing a pot of water on to heat, Rowena said, “Why would I wake you, good Hagar, when you needed your sleep? I did well enough on my own, and methinks he has cooled somewhat from the worst of it.”
Never would she admit how difficult tending him had been, for she could not understand why herself. Now, in the light of day, she felt utterly foolish for reacting to the man as she had.
Hagar sighed. “Well, enough then.”
Rowena was conscious of Sean continuing to study her. She looked up at him, forcing herself to meet his gaze. ’Twas her own predicament and no other’s if she had gone a little mad in her reactions to this stranger. She spoke in what was a surprisingly normal tone. “Will the men not be waiting for you?”
He nodded jerkily, and she felt a stab of sympathy at his obvious dejection.
Affection for him made her add, “I would not take it amiss should you come by at the end of your day. If you are not too tired.”
A hopeful glimmer lit his eyes. “Then you are not still angry with me?”
She shook her head. “I could not remain so. You are my brother.”
A strange expression passed over his face, immediately replaced by relief. And then she had no more time to think of Sean, for Hagar said, “’Tis good you’ve decided to cease your squabbling, but we have other concerns to occupy us now. Methinks the man’s fever may be increasing again.”
Rowena barely noted Sean’s departure as she moved forward to touch the sick man’s heated brow. She felt a new wave of anxiety. Clearly the worst was not over.
While Rowena brewed more of her potions, the older woman set to tending their patient by unspoken consent. Thus it went over the next day and into the night. No more did Rowena stay alone with the stranger as fever raged through his body.
If Hagar found it odd that Rowena would suddenly be eager for her assistance, she made no remark on it. Rowena could only be grateful, for there was no explanation she was willing to voice aloud.
Sir Christian Greatham, heir to his father’s title and lands, opened his eyes and looked at the low, wood-beamed ceiling overhead with confusion. Where was he?
He sat up, taking in the fact that he was lying in what appeared to be a wide platform bed barely long enough to contain his full length. A woolen curtain separated it from the main chamber, but it had been drawn back. His gaze scanned the small but scrupulously tidy interior of a one-room cottage.
Where was he, indeed?
And how had he come to be here?
The throbbing in his head made him reach up. He was not surprised to discover that the pain seemed to originate with the lump he found, although he had no memory of how it had come to be there.
The last thing he recalled was riding his stallion along the edge of the cliffs. It had been full dark, and he had known the path was treacherous, but he had been determined to keep going, certain that he had nearly reached the end of his journey.
According to what he had learned when he stopped at a village near the English border, his destination could not be far ahead. The locals had shown open curiosity at his interest in finding Ashcroft, telling him that he would find little of interest there, naught but a tiny fishing village. From them he had also discovered why it was so little known, for it lay on the point of a narrow peninsula that was near impossible to reach from the inland side, due to the mountainous terrain and constantly swollen rivers. His informants clearly felt that the trouble of reaching Ashcroft, coupled with the lack of any noteworthy object at the end of such a journey, made the going nonsensical.
But Christian had a reason. A reason compelling enough to make him overlook any hardship.
Rosalind. The Dragon’s daughter.
Once he reached Ashcroft he might discover if the fantastic tale told to him by a dying knight had any merit. That Rosalind might still be alive he could not fully credit, but he had to know.
Unfortunately, the delays he had encountered in finding the village where Sir Jack had said he would find her had left Christian incautious in his determination to reach it.
He had been told that the best route, the one that lay along the shore, was hardly better than the inland route. That it was barely traversable even in daylight. He had been driven by the knowledge that he had already been gone five weeks, three more than he had assured his sister he would be gone when he had left Bransbury. He had refused to tell even her where he was going because of his sworn word to the dying Jack. The more people who knew of Rosalind’s possible existence, the more danger there was of her uncle, the present earl of Dragonwick, finding out before her safety could be guaranteed.
Again Christian rubbed his head. His last memory was of his horse rearing up, as a huge wave seemed to rise from out of nowhere. How he had come from that windswept shore to this bed was as much a mystery as where here might be.
Christian slid forward and swung his legs over the side of the bed. In spite of the increased pounding this caused in his head, he realized as he did so that he was completely nude.
At the same time he noted the sounds of someone stirring across the room. He followed the rustlings, and came up short as a woman rose from a pallet on the floor beside the fire.
The first thing he noticed was her hair, a fiery auburn that drew the eye as it hung about her in wildly tousled disarray. The second thing he noted was her long, lithe figure in a flowing gown of white. The third thing, and the one that gave him pause, was a pair of eyes so rich a green he could hardly credit their reality, for they were the color of newly grown moss. Darkly lashed, they had an almond shape that made them even more unusual.
So transfixed was he by those eyes that it was a moment before he realized the expression in them was decidedly apprehensive. He pulled the coverlet about his waist, aware that her slender body was poised as if ready to take flight. He spoke quickly, surprised at the dry and raspy sound of his own voice. “Pray do not fear me.”
She raised her head, her eyes now filled with bravado. “I am not afraid, sir.”
He tried to hold that gaze, but felt a wave of dizziness overtake him. It was with regret that he felt himself sink back on the bed. “That is quite wise of you, for I seem to be too weak to do you ill did I wish to.”
Immediately her face softened in concern. “You have been very ill.” In spite of her change of tone he noted that she remained where she stood.
He rubbed a hand over his face. “How long have I been here?”
“Four days.”
Shock drew him upright. “Four days? But how…?”
His father needed him at Bransbury. Only Christian’s determination to settle the debt to his former foster father could have taken him away, now that he realized his error in staying away for so very long. He must return!
She took a step closer. “One of the village lads found you unconscious on the beach. I…you were brought here so that I could care for you.”
His mind teemed with questions, yet his confusion only served to make the weakness in his body more pronounced. “I recall nothing beyond riding along a rocky and narrow track wedged between a high cliff and a rolling sea.”
She took another step closer. “Then you did not wash ashore from a ship.”
He looked at her. “Nay, I was mounted, trying to find my way to a particular village. A place called Ashcroft.”
“You have arrived at your destination. Well, near enough. My cottage lies in the wood nearby.”
He took a deep breath. “This is Ashcroft?” She nodded and he felt hope growing inside him, for if he had found the village…
She spoke slowly, watching him with those amazing green eyes. There was an intensity in them that surprised him. “Why have you come here?”
He wished that he did not feel so very tired, so weak, so conscious of her mesmerizing loveliness. He sighed. “I am searching for someone. A young woman.”
She bit her full lower lip. “Rosalind?”
He jerked, alert again. “Aye, but how would you know that? Do you know her?”
She shook her head quickly, seeming uneasy at his vehemence. “Nay, I know nothing of a Rosalind. I…you said her name when you were ill. You spoke of Dragons and dead babes. I thought you might be quite mad.”
Disappointment added to Christian’s utter exhaustion as he sighed. “I assure you that I am not mad.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I want to…” He could not quite focus his mind on what it was he did want.
The next thing he knew he felt cool, gentle hands upon his brow. Her soft, husky voice murmured, “Do not worry over anything now. Lie still. There will be time enough for what you wish to do. All will be well.”
He could not summon the energy to explain that he was needed at Bransbury…that he must…
It was full light when Christian once again opened his eyes, instantly recalling the events of the night. He sat up, glad for the strength that seemed to be returning to his body. Even as he thought this, his gaze searched for the young woman he had spoken to before.
She was there beside the fire, as she had been the previous night. This time she was garbed for the day in a woolen gown of deep forest-green.
There was guarded tension in that slender form, as there had been the previous time they’d spoken, but there was no fear in her captivating green eyes. She spoke evenly. “Good morrow, sir.”