A Knight to Remember Page 3

  Disappointment sifted through her as she counted the money. Not as much as she’d hoped. But she was in no position to argue. She didn’t want to deal with a moneylender, and Erwin had been very kind since Matthew’s death. Moreover, she had a fair amount of credit available now, which would be especially useful in the harsh winter months.

  “Also,” Erwin said, “ye mentioned needin’ a carpenter last time ye visited. I know a good one I can recommend; ’e’s a friend of me oldest son. We might be able ta work out an agreement using yer credit, if ye wish?”

  “I do.”

  “Fine. I will tell him ta visit the castle ta discuss the work ta be done.”

  “Thank you.” She scooped up the coins and dropped them into her coin purse, while the shopkeeper lifted the box of pewter items and set it on the floor behind the counter.

  Glancing out the window one last time, she saw that the men were gone. “Do you think those two will be back next week?”

  “They might.” With a grimace, Erwin added, “I ’ope not.”

  Chapter Three

  He woke to a vicious headache. Holy Blessed Mother of God. A demon was kicking stones around inside his skull. And that smell… Like he’d been rolling around in an herb garden.

  Grimacing, he cracked his eyelids open. Sunshine hit his face. The light streamed in through an open window, its wooden shutters pushed wide to let in the day. His dry, gritty eyes stung like hellfire. He shut his eyelids partway and realized in the same instant that he was propped up, leaning back against something soft. Pillows?

  He tried to turn his head to the left to better see his surroundings. Pain slammed through him, and he groaned. His stomach churned. Bile flooded the back of his mouth. He’d better stay still, or he was going to vomit.

  He looked at the window again, and alarm tingled through his body. The view outside wasn’t familiar. Nor did he recognize the whitewashed walls of the chamber—what he could see of it—or the trestle table running along the wall, close to the bed.

  Ointment pots, bowls, and strips of linen that looked like bandages covered the table. They were all items used to care for someone who was ill or…wounded.

  His alarm spiked. Where in hellfire was he?

  What had happened to him?

  Sweat dampened his brow. On instinct, he lifted his right hand to wipe it away.

  His hand was caught. Squinting, he looked down at his wrist to find he was bound to the bed. An iron ring had been bolted to the wooden bed frame, and his bond was tied to it, allowing him only a slight range of movement. His left hand also was tied.

  Panic raced through his veins like a slug of hot mead. He was restrained like a prisoner. Held captive for a reason and purpose he didn’t know. His memories were blank, a dark blur of nothingness, giving not a glimmer of insight.

  Hell, that didn’t seem right. He should remember something.

  His jaw clenched. Fear threatened to choke him, but he fought it down. Losing his wits would get him nowhere. He had to find out who had taken him hostage, why, and what was expected before he’d be released. His captors obviously wanted him alive; they wouldn’t have bothered to treat his injuries otherwise.

  Judging by the large bruise on his right forearm and the other aches and pains throughout his body, he’d suffered more than a wallop to the head. How he longed to scratch his belly, right where the sheet touched his skin.

  A creaking sound carried from the opposite side of the chamber. A draft gusted across his bare torso. Someone had stepped inside.

  Closing his eyes, he forced himself to lie still, to appear as though he was sleeping.

  He would find out what had happened to him—one way or another.

  The door shut with a click, and then he heard the whisper of fabric and footsteps. A hint of scent, a feminine blend of roses and almond oil, drifted to him. A woman.

  She wasn’t the red-haired one he vaguely remembered. That one had smelled of pungent herbs.

  As the woman walked past, he breathed in deeper. Her fragrance was tantalizing enough to cause a stirring in his groin. A damned inconvenient stirring.

  He clenched his jaw harder.

  She paused at the table, and he heard a thud, the sound of her setting down a heavy object. An earthenware bowl, mayhap? He wanted—nay, an emotion stronger than want—to open his eyes and look at her. He wanted her to be young and lovely, this caretaker of his.

  Was she also his captor? Had she brought him here and ordered him bound to the bed? Anger hummed at the fringes of his growing interest. He did not wish to be held prisoner, especially by a woman.

  As she shifted items on the table, busy with a task, he dared to open his eyes a little. She stood in profile, her body limned by sunlight, allowing him to study her features—a slender nose, strong cheekbones tinged a delicate pink, a lush mouth. Her light-brown hair was drawn back in a shiny braid tied at the end with a dark blue ribbon. The elegant plait accented the graceful column of her neck and fell to her lower back.

  She was of moderate height. He guessed that if she stood before him, the top of her head would reach just above his chin. Her slender figure was nicely defined by the twilight-blue woolen gown that was of plain design, but well made. This lovely healer obviously earned a good income.

  Indeed, she was more than lovely. She was a stunning beauty.

  At that moment, she glanced at the bed. She looked right at him—and he was caught. He opened his eyes all the way, taking in the full beauty of her, her eyes so blue they reminded him of the sky on a cloudless, icy spring morning. Her mouth, ripe for kissing, had fallen open when she’d realized he was awake. Now, she pressed her lips together. She seemed uncertain whether to be upset that he’d feigned being asleep or to brush off her annoyance and talk to him.

  “Who are you?” he asked, broaching the silence between them. His voice sounded dry and hoarse.

  “I am a friend.” She smiled, revealing straight, white teeth. “You are safe here.”

  Her voice was warm, light, a voice he liked just by its cadence, but not one he recognized. Or did he? A glimmer of acknowledgment skimmed the edges of his consciousness, but swiftly vanished as his mind shifted to the significance of her words. Safe, she’d said. Yet, he was tied to the bed.

  Was she a friend? Or was she his enemy?

  He must keep her talking, charm her, and find out for certain.

  “Where is here?” He tried again to turn his head to see the rest of the chamber. Stabbing pain raced through his skull, and he stilled, closing his eyes against a violent wave of dizziness and nausea.

  “You are at Pendersley Keep,” she said. “Please, do not try to move. You have a bad head wound.”

  “So I gathered.” He groaned, hating to sound weak, but the pain was almost unbearable. “What happened to me?”

  “You do not remember?”

  A plea wove through her words, as if she hoped he did know what had befallen him. He fought the agony in his skull and struggled to recall even one small detail.

  His mind was as blank as an unmarked wax tablet.

  He was about to shake his head, but at the last moment recalled ’twould not be a good idea. “Nay, I do not remember,” he said, disappointment heavy in his voice.

  “Try,” she urged. Again, a plea. Now, it shone in her eyes.

  Eyes that beautiful he’d never forget.

  “I have,” he ground out. “My mind is…” He tried to lift his right hand to gesture, but remembered again that he was restrained. His frustration merged into a flare of anger. “While I may not have my memories, I do know that friends do not tie each other to a bed.”

  A flush stained her cheeks. “True, but—”

  “Unless, of course, ’tis some wicked form of seduction—”

  “What? Nay—”

  “—and in that case,” he said with a grin, “you have me completely at your mercy, love.”

  Her flush deepened. He continued to stare at her, watching the color intensify bef
ore she looked away and straightened the edge of the sheet by his hip—an edge that did not need straightening.

  “Ah. So I was right about the seduction,” he persisted. “Go on, then. Lift the sheets covering my loins while you are down there.”

  Her hands flew away as though she’d been burned. “Enough,” she snapped, her eyes gleaming.

  “All right. I will stop tormenting you. However, I meant what I said about friends not tying each other. I ask that you tell me the truth.”

  She slid a loose strand of hair back behind her left ear. Her hand trembled. A twinge of remorse nagged at him, but he shoved the inconvenient emotion away. This woman held him prisoner, and he was going to know why.

  “The truth,” she said evenly, “is that we have no idea who you are.”

  “We?”

  “Myself, the folk living in this castle, even the people I asked in the village. You could well be a lord. Or, you could be a ruthless murderer, a criminal wanted by the king’s men.” Her gaze, astonishingly direct, locked with his. “Until I have some answers, tying you seemed safest for everyone.”

  “Really,” he muttered.

  “Especially me,” she added, “since I am caring for you.”

  She feared for her own safety. He hated that she was afraid of him, but he understood the need for self-preservation. The anger within him eased a notch. “I should be grateful to you, then, for all that you have done for me.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “At least you could be courteous.”

  He glanced away. He couldn’t remember what kind of man he really was, but part of him agreed that he hadn’t been especially nice to this woman.

  She’d moved away and was clattering items on the table. Damnation, but even those small noises echoed like stones in his head and made it ache.

  She returned to his bedside, holding an earthenware mug. “I have some tonic here to help you with the pain.”

  “Thank you.”

  A smile curved her lips.

  “At least tell me your name,” he said. “Please.”

  “Aislinn.”

  In her eyes, he saw a desperate need for him to know who she was. To remember her.

  He did ache inside, as though something important was missing.

  But as for remembering her? He didn’t.

  * * *

  Aislinn drew a calming breath and waited for the wounded man to react to her name.

  If he was Hugh, mayhap her name would glint like a flash of sunshine in his murky mind and help trigger more memories. Oh, how she hoped…

  His gaze held hers. His eyes were the most beautiful, rich shade of brown, like the outer skin of a chestnut—just like Hugh’s had been. His lashes were sinfully thick and dark, again like Hugh’s.

  Yet, unlike Hugh, this man had little creases at the corners of his eyes, worn there by the passing years. His gaze didn’t sparkle with ambition and mischief, but was unsettled and deep, and so troubled that her next breath stuck at the back of her throat and she had to swallow hard.

  His lashes lowered, as though he feared he’d let her see more of his soul than he’d wished. “Aislinn,” he repeated. From his lips, her name emerged as a low rumble, a sensual, vibrant, lovely sound that made her want to ask him to say it again. Instead, she tightened her grip on the mug, her fingers damp against the glazed pottery.

  “Aye,” she said.

  “Do I…know you?” he asked softly, his gaze returning to hers. “I mean no offense, but should your name mean something to me?”

  She managed a smile. “You may not know me.”

  Confusion crept into his eyes. “May not?”

  “We might have been friends long ago. I am not certain, though, if you are the same person, no longer a lad but a man.” A very handsome, intriguing man, her mind added.

  If her patient was Hugh, he’d worked hard to build the musculature on his upper body, for ’twas naught like the physique of the wiry young man she’d befriended.

  “I see.” The man ran his tongue over his upper lip, as though moistening parched skin. “You are not my wife, then?”

  “Nay.”

  “Nor my sister? Nor my lover?”

  She laughed, startled. “Nay.”

  A grin ticked up one corner of his mouth. “Not my lover yet, then.”

  With a wry smile, she shook her head and again offered him the tonic. He didn’t lean forward to sip from the mug, but studied her face, as if drinking in every detail of her features. The intensity of his stare made her face grow hot.

  “Please,” she said. “Drink this. Try to get some sleep.”

  “I do not want to sleep.” He scowled. “I want to find out what happened to me—and remember exactly who I am.”

  “I know,” she said gently. “Once you have healed more, there is a good chance your memories will return.”

  “All of them?”

  “The village healer believes so. She examined your wounds after we found you,” Aislinn added.

  The man was silent a moment, looking at her hands curved around the mug. “If I drink that tonic like a good lad, will you untie me?”

  He was staring at her mouth now. The heat in his eyes made the skin across her breasts tingle, a wholly unexpected reaction. Desire?

  Mercy. She hadn’t desired any man since Matthew died. With as little as she knew about her patient, such emotion was very foolish.

  “I will…consider untying you.”

  Triumph glinted in his eyes. “’Tis a better answer than ‘nay.’”

  A shiver rippled through her, making her hands a little unsteady while she brought the mug to his lips so he could drink. He didn’t comment on her shakiness, but drank all that she gave him. When done, he sighed.

  “Rest now,” she soothed.

  “Will you stay here with me?”

  “There are matters I—”

  “Please,” he rasped.

  “Are you afraid of demons under your bed?” she teased. “A grown fighter like you?”

  He chuckled, but with a tinge of sadness. “Not the ones under the bed,” he replied, his eyelids closing. “The ones I cannot remember.”

  Chapter Four

  Sitting in a high-backed chair she’d pushed close to the bed, Aislinn watched the stranger slumber. He was beautiful in a raw, untamed way, his lashes feathery and still against his skin, his stubbled jaw slack, his lips parted slightly as he drew slow, even breaths.

  She hadn’t noticed before, but a scar sliced through his left eyebrow, a wound that had almost cost him an eye. That had obviously not stopped him from fighting, though, for the muscled breadth of his torso was scattered with scars, some small and inconsequential, others pink and raised. Her gaze assessed, counted, until her focus settled on his right hand, closest to her, his wrist still securely bound.

  A flutter of excitement trailed through her as she studied his fingers, relaxed open in sleep. His hand was callused, roughened, as she expected of a warrior.

  Hugh had been right-handed. He’d had deft, wondrous hands, whether he was firing his longbow or burying his fingers into her hair, holding her still for his kiss.

  Mayhap sleep would help clear her patient’s mind, so that he’d remember who he was. How she hoped that he was Hugh. She’d never forgotten him, not one single moment that he’d been a part of her life, from the first day they’d met.

  She smiled, remembering. She’d been walking with Magdalen, another of Lord Falderston’s wards at Drandwick Keep…

  “’Tis him. The new squire,” Magdalen said, her elbow jamming into Aislinn’s side. “By the stable.”

  As they strolled toward the castle forebuilding, Aislinn stole a backward glance. Four young men stood by the stable, clearly just having come from weapons training in the tiltyards, for their faces glistened with sweat and their tunics were soaked across their chests. She recognized three of the lads, but not the fourth. The tall, lanky youth was dragging his hand through his shoulder-length brown hair.

&nb
sp; “Do not be so obvious!” Magdalen hissed. She tugged on Aislinn’s arm, jolting her into looking straight ahead again while they walked.

  “I am sorry,” Aislinn said, “but you wanted me to look.”

  “Oh, Aislinn! Is he not handsome?”

  “Aye, and—”

  “His name is Hugh.” Magdalen’s voice trembled with clandestine excitement. “Hugh Brigonne. He is Norman. I heard that his ancestors arrived on English shores along with William the Conqueror.” She sighed. “Hugh Brigonne. Does his name not sound delicious, the way it rolls off the tongue?”

  “I suppose,” Aislinn agreed, “but—”

  “Apparently, Hugh’s previous lord had had quite enough of him. Lord Falderston—not our Lord Falderston, but his lordship’s older brother—sent Hugh here because he was constantly getting into trouble.”

  Aislinn nodded while sweeping windblown hair out of her mouth. Why she needed a detailed introduction to this particular squire, she didn’t know. Yet, Magdalen, fifteen years old like herself, was her closest friend here, apart from her childhood nurse, Gilly, who’d come to Drandwick Keep to serve as Aislinn’s lady-in-waiting. Whatever Magdalen had to say, Aislinn must listen, as good friends do.

  “Hugh is seventeen and not due to inherit any of the Brigonne estates, since he has an older brother,” Magdalen went on. “However, he is very skilled with a longbow. Even better, I heard, than some of his lordship’s men who have trained for years, and—”

  “—and he loves pickled eel but cannot stand stewed cabbage?”

  Magdalen’s mouth gaped. “Well, I do not know…” She frowned. “You are teasing me.”

  “I am.” Aislinn giggled. “Honestly, Magdalen. Where did you learn so much about this Hugh?”

  “Her ladyship.” Magdalen grinned. “The other day, I was upstairs working on my embroidery. Lady Falderston went into the solar with one of the maidservants. They left the door ajar, and I heard everything they said.”