Briana. Ruth Langan
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to the wrong cause?
The thought of his loss brought an ache so deep, so painful, it nearly cut off his breath.
Aye. He’d paid. And he’d learned. But that didn’t mean he’d given up hope. It just meant he’d mastered the art of patience. For a while longer he would bide his time and get his father’s affairs in order. And then he would leave this sad land, with its sad memories, and try to make a life somewhere. Anywhere. As long as he would no longer have to remember the past with all its bitterness.
“Good even, my lord. Mistress Malloy has kept a meal on the fire for you.”
Keane shrugged out of his heavy cloak and shook the rain from his hair. “I’ve no appetite, Vinson. Bring me a tankard.” He started toward the stairs, favoring his left leg. He only gave in to the pain when he was too tired to fight it. At the moment, he was on the verge of exhaustion. “I’ll be in my chambers.”
“Aye, my lord.” The old servant cleared his throat and Keane paused, knowing there was something important Vinson needed to say. It was always the same. When the old man needed to speak, he first had to clear his throat and prepare himself for the task.
“Perhaps, my lord, you could step into the chambers next to yours on your way.”
Keane gave a sigh of impatience. The events of the day had dragged him to the depths, and all he wanted was to wash away the bitter taste with ale. “I’m sure there’s a good reason?”
“Aye, my lord.” The old man carefully hung the damp cloak on a hook, then picked up a tray on which rested a decanter and a silver tankard. He climbed the stairs behind his master.
At the upper hallway Keane gave a fleeting glance at the door to his chambers, then resolutely moved past it to tear open a second door. Inside a serving wench looked up from the figure in the bed, then stepped aside to make room for the master.
“Ah. The lad.” Keane walked to the bedside. “With all that transpired this day, I’d nearly forgotten about him. I see he survived, Vinson.”
“Aye, my lord. But…” Vinson cleared his throat again.
Keane waited, a little less patiently.
“The lad isn’t. A lad, I mean. He’s a…lass, my lord.”
Keane turned. The old man was actually blushing. Carrick House had been, after all, a male bastion for a quarter of a century. Except for the serving wenches, and a housekeeper who had been in residence since Keane’s father was a lad, there had been no females under this roof.
“I’d managed to wash away most of the mud and blood from his…her face. But when I cut away his…her cloak, I…” Vinson swallowed. “I summoned young Cora to see to her.”
Keane took a closer look at the figure in the bed. Several thicknesses of bed linens hid the shape of her body, but he could recall no hint of womanly curves beneath the shapeless robes she’d been wearing on the field of battle. Now that the face was washed, it was obvious that the features were decidedly feminine. A small, upturned nose. High cheekbones. Perfectly sculpted lips. The hair had been cut so close to the head, it was little more than a cap of tight red curls.
“A natural enough mistake. What do you make of it, Vinson?”
“Cora found this around the lass’s neck.” The old man held up a small cross, tied to a simple cord. “A nun, I’d say.”
Keane nodded as understanding flooded his tired mind. “Aye. Of course. That would explain the simple garb and shorn hair. But what of the lads with her?”
The old servant shrugged. “I haven’t fathomed that, my lord. We can only hope that the lass will live long enough to tell us.”
“How does she fare?”
The old man and the young servant exchanged glances. “The wounds are extreme. The one to the shoulder is festering. The one to the chest left her barely clinging to life. The sword passed clear through, missing her heart. She hovers between this world and the next. If her heart and her will to live are strong enough…” The old man shrugged. “The next day or two will tell the tale.”
Keane nodded, then turned toward the door. “You’ll wake me if she grows weaker.”
“Aye, my lord.” The serving wench returned to her bedside vigil, while Keane and Vinson took their leave.
In his chambers, Keane strode to the fireplace and stared into the flames.
Vinson filled a tankard and handed it to him. “Will I fetch you some food now, my lord?”
Keane shook his head. “Nay. The morrow will be soon enough. Take your rest, Vinson.”
“Aye, my lord.” The old man seemed eager to escape to his bed. Nearly disrobing a young female had left him badly shaken.
When he was gone, Keane drained the tankard in one long swallow. Then, after prying off his boots and removing his tunic, he refilled the tankard and drank more slowly, all the while staring into the flames.
He thought about the lass in the next room, hovering between life and death. She’d barely had time to live. If Vinson was correct, what few years she’d had were lived in the shelter of a cloister. No time to laugh, to play. He frowned. No time to know the love of a good man, nor the joy of children.
A pretty enough face. No visible scars, though heaven knew, most scars were carefully hidden. Weren’t his own? Still, he wondered what it was that drove young women to seek the seclusion of an abbey. Were they really there to serve God? Or were they hiding from the world?
No matter. This one appeared young and innocent. Why was it always the innocent who must pay for the sins of arrogance committed by those in power?
He walked to the bedside table and picked up the framed miniature, studying once again the face of the one who held his heart. There were times, like this moment, when the pain was too deep, the sense of loss too painful to bear. But he had done the right thing. The only thing. Yet, if that be true, why did he feel like such a failure?
Suddenly overwhelmed by sadness and frustration, he hurled the tankard against the wall. With a string of oaths he dropped onto his back on his bed and passed a hand over his eyes.
Would there ever be an end to the misery? Or would he be forced to watch helplessly as all those he loved were forced to pay for his mistakes?
Dear God, he was weary. So weary. He prayed sleep would visit him. Else, he would be forced to fight his demons until dawn chased the darkness away.
“My lord.”
Keane awoke instantly and found himself bathed in sweat. The demons, it would seem, were especially vile this night.
“Aye, Vinson. What is it?”
The old man stood beside the bed, holding aloft a candle. His robe had been hastily tossed over a nightshirt, his silver hair sticking out at odd angles. “The wench, Cora, summoned me. She feels the lass is at death’s door.”
Keane sprang from his bed. Without taking time for a tunic or boots he led the way to the room next door.
The young servant straightened when the lord entered the room. In her hand was a square of linen, which she had been wringing out in a basin of water.
“Oh, my lord,” she whispered. “The lass is slipping away.”
Keane touched a hand to the lass’s forehead and pulled it away with a jerk. “Her flesh is on fire.”
“Aye. I can no longer bring down the fever, my lord.”
He studied the still, pale figure in the bed, seeing another’s face in his mind. How tragic that so many innocents were lost in battles not of their making.
“I’ve done all I can, my lord. But I fear we’ve lost her.”
Perhaps