Norwyck's Lady. Margo Maguire
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beautiful,” Eleanor said with awe.
“You won’t be falling in love with her as you did Felicia, will you?” Kathryn demanded, with arms crossed over her bony chest. She was a delicate child whose world had been shaken by William’s and Felicia’s deaths.
Bart scowled and let out a puff of air in derision, dismissing his sisters’ words. He hadn’t the slightest interest in the woman’s appearance, nor would he fall in love with her. Not in this century at least. He was through with women.
The earldom would pass to Henry, the elder of the twins, and through him, to his sons.
Refusing to look too closely at the woman in his arms, Bart stood abruptly and made his way toward the main staircase, with his sisters and brothers following. He reached the first landing as two maids stepped out of the stairwell leading to the east tower.
“The tower room is ready, my lord,” one said.
“Naught else would do, my lord,” said the other, a widow named Rose, whom Bart remembered for her patience with his sisters. “The lower chambers are not yet fit for more guests.”
The bishop of Alnwick and his large entourage had just left Norwyck, and the usual guest chambers were not ready for further use.
Bartholomew said not a word, but followed Rose, whose candle lit the way up a circular stone staircase to the most beautiful chamber in the keep. ’Twas the place most favored by Bart’s stepmother, a circular room with four tall, peaked windows, one facing each direction. The children liked coming up here, so the maids always kept it fresh.
When Bart entered, he saw that a basin of clean water had been placed upon the stand near the bed. The bed curtains were pushed aside and the blankets pulled down. A long linen sheet lay on top, presumably to be discarded once his filthy cloak was removed from the woman’s body. Then she would be naked again.
He gritted his teeth and turned to his siblings. “Everyone out. Now.”
They protested, but did his bidding anyway, grumbling as they closed the chamber door behind them. Bart set his burden carefully down on the bed. He should have had Rose stay to help him, but neglected to call her back when she quit the room with his siblings.
He picked up one of the candles and lit a lamp near the bed. Then he turned to look at this woman survivor.
Her hair was nearly dry now, a matted and snarled mass of a lighter brown than it had seemed before. As he pushed it away from her face, his mouth went dry.
Dark eyelashes formed thick crescents over high cheekbones. Her nose was straight and her mouth wide, with full lips slightly parted. Her neatly dimpled chin came to a delicate point over the elegant lines of her neck. Her skin was perfection, smooth and fine.
She winced and made a small noise, then moved one hand fitfully. Unable to keep himself from touching her again, he smoothed the hair away from her forehead and saw that a large purple lump had formed at the side, with a deep, bloody gash cut through it.
’Twas no wonder she was unconscious. The blow that had caused this wound had to have been monstrous. He dipped a clean cloth in the basin of water and began to cleanse the cut, stroking gently, mindful that the slightest touch would cause her pain.
She moaned and turned away, though she remained unconscious. Bart continued washing. He believed the gash should be stitched, but he could not help but think of the terrible scar that would result. The wound was closed and dry for now. Mayhap if she remained quiet, it could be left alone.
Bart hesitated to open the cloak that covered her, having already glimpsed what lay beneath. He was not about to subject himself to the kind of reaction the sight of her naked body would bring. Yet he did not want her exposed to anyone else—not even Rose.
The woman began to tremble, and Bart cursed. He had no choice but to get her out of that cloak and under the blankets. He had to warm her.
Delaying the inevitable, he stepped away from the bed and lit the fire that had been laid, fanning it until it flamed cozily, throwing its warmth into the room. Briefly, Bartholomew considered calling Rose back to deal with the woman, but dismissed the idea once again, refusing to consider his reasons too carefully. Cracking his knuckles, he turned back to her.
The cloak had stiffened in the salty mist, but he managed to peel it away, leaving part of it underneath her. She had scrapes and bruises all over. Using a cloth to brush the dried sand from her flesh, Bart forced himself to ignore the lush fullness of her body as he touched her.
She continued to tremble, so he worked quickly. She moaned again and tried to shift away from Bartholomew’s touch, but was too weak to manage it. He finally turned her to her side, folded the sand-filled cloak and sheet under her, then lay her on her back again and pulled it out the other side.
He covered her with the bedclothes just as a tap sounded upon the door. Tearing his gaze away from the unconscious woman, Bart went to answer it.
“Bartie?” Eleanor said as she stepped into the room. “Is the lady going to be all right?”
Bartholomew couldn’t help but ruffle his little sister’s bright red hair. She was the only one who could get away with calling him “Bartie.”
“I don’t know, Ellie,” he said, following her to the woman’s bed. “She’s badly hurt.”
Eleanor touched the woman’s hair. She frowned and pulled her lower lip between her teeth. “Will she die up here in Mama’s tower?” she asked, looking up at her elder brother.
Bart clenched his jaw. He hadn’t given that possibility a thought, never considering how it would affect his brothers and sisters. “Nay, little goose,” he said. “She’ll not die in Norwyck Keep if I have aught to say about it.”
Eleanor looked back at the lady. Her gaze was thoughtful, wistful. “She is very pretty,” the child said. “Will she wake up soon?”
“Ellie, I have no more answers for you,” he said as he raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. He’d seen men injured like this during the campaign in Scotland. Some of them never awakened at all, and the thought of this lady’s certain death did not settle well with him. “Run along and find Sir Walter for me. Have him send for the healer in the village.”
“She’s starting to move a bit more,” Alice Hoget said, placing a cool poultice on the survivor woman’s head. Night had fallen, and a terrible storm with it, yet the victim remained unconscious. How long could this go on? How long would it be necessary for her to remain at Norwyck?
“What do you think?” Bartholomew asked. An odd restlessness possessed him. He paced the length of the room while Alice examined the woman and did what she could, which was frighteningly little.
“What I think is that she took a blow to the head and was thrown overboard,” Alice said in her frank manner. “’Tis a wonder she made it to the beach alive. She’s lucky she didn’t drown.”
Bartholomew scowled and resumed his pacing. ’Twould have been better if he’d let her die out there on the beach. Less trouble for him. And no doubt less trouble for the woman whose wounds would likely kill her, anyway.
Yet he hadn’t been able to abandon her to the elements. Even though he no longer had any fondness for women, the thought of leaving her on the beach had never even crossed his mind.
“What I mean is—will she recover?”
“No bones broke, only a rap on the head.” The old healer picked up the lamp, then lifted the unconscious woman’s eyelids. “Look,” she said. “The blacks of her eyes shrink with the light. It means she’ll be coming out of it soon.”
“How do you know that?” Bartholomew asked.
“Experience,” she replied as she gathered her things together. “Seen plenty of people knocked senseless. ’Tis not unusual for a body to remain in this state for a day or more.”
“You