A Knight to Remember Page 6

  Even as she acknowledged her patient’s rashness, she recognized the frustration gleaming in his eyes, as well as his despair. He clearly struggled with the emotions raging inside of him; bartering to be untied was one element of his existence over which he had control. Moreover, in truth, he couldn’t stay bound to the bed forever. At some point, he would have to be freed.

  As though sensing her thoughts, he said softly, “I will not harm you. I have no desire to hurt you, milady.”

  Even now, despite his grip on her hair, he wasn’t hurting her, merely exerting enough pressure to hold her firm. “I will have your word that you will not harm me or anyone else within my keep,” she insisted, not breaking his stare.

  “You have it.”

  “Good.”

  “I will also have a vow from you.” His words were a steely rumble. “Once I am untied, you will not bind me again.”

  Misgiving trickled down her spine. With him bound, she’d felt safe tending him; he couldn’t rise from the bed, or poke at his bandages, or touch her. Once he was freed, however, he could do as he wished.

  Aislinn pressed her lips together. He’d promised he’d do her no harm. He was also badly injured and weak, and no match for her guards if she felt at all under threat.

  “You have my vow, sir,” she said.

  A faint smile tilted his lips.

  “Why are you smiling?” she asked, frowning.

  “You called me ‘sir.’”

  “What should I have called you?”

  As the words left her lips, she wished she hadn’t spoken them, for they sounded like a reminder that he couldn’t recall his own name. The anguish in his eyes sharpened before he shrugged. “At least you did not call me an arrogant fool.”

  The burning pressure on her braid eased. Aislinn straightened away from the bed and moved to the table, aware that he was keenly watching her. She picked up a pair of metal shears, returned to his bedside, and cut the leather cord tying his right wrist.

  With a groan of relief, he lifted his arm, twisted it to the left and right, and flexed his fingers. While he stretched, she skirted the bed and freed his left hand.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Aislinn nodded, then returned to the table and set down the shears.

  The bed creaked. She glanced back to see her patient pushing upright. Fabric whispered as the bed linens fell down about his hips.

  “Cease!” she cried, but he paid her no heed. Grunting, his teeth clenched, he swung his bare legs free of the sheets and over the side of the bed.

  She closed the distance between them. “What are you doing?”

  He didn’t answer. He sat with his head bowed, arms trembling, his hands flattened to the mattress. Snarled hair covered his face. Silky strands trailed across his shoulders and drew her focus down to the muscled breadth of his chest, then down to the taut planes of his belly, and farther still to the linen wadded about his loins.

  Aislinn snapped her gaze away as his body wavered from side to side. “Lie back. You are not well enough to stand.”

  “I am tired of lying abed.”

  How small she felt in front of him. He was all honed muscle, hewn as though from living stone. And yet, his strong body was unsteady, weakened from his injury.

  “Let me help you lie back,” she soothed, touching his shoulder.

  A growl rumbled in his throat. “Not yet.”

  With his head down, his attention had fixed on the fabric wound between his legs and around his hips in a makeshift loincloth. “Who in hellfire clothed me like this?”

  “One of my men. You were naked when we found you.”

  “This cloth is what babes wear. I am not a helpless infant.”

  He sounded so indignant, she fought the urge to laugh. “Of course you are not. However, we did not have any braies in the wagon. I asked that your…manly parts be covered to give you some measure of dignity.”

  He grunted. “Dignity.”

  “Aye. I will find you some braies today. I will also bring you some other garments. All right?”

  “Fine, but right now, this cloth itches like hell.”

  He shifted forward, the movement so unexpected Aislinn took several startled steps back. He set his feet on the wooden floorboards, slowly stood, and shoved his hand through his hair to push it off his face. He wavered again, as though dizzy.

  “Please.” Her voice shrilled with concern. “You might fall.”

  “This cloth has to go.” Reaching to his hips, he yanked out the tucked-in ends of the fabric and whipped it away, revealing several angry red patches on his hips. A sigh rushed from his lips as the linen fell to the floor, leaving him completely—beautifully—naked.

  She dragged her gaze away from his reddened skin. Ointment, Aislinn told herself, for those red patches—

  He careened sideways, toward the table.

  “Careful!” she cried, reaching for him. What she intended to do, what she could do to stop him from falling when he was so much bigger and heavier, she didn’t know. But, she must help him.

  Her fingers closed on his arm, and she registered warm flesh an instant before he groaned and swerved toward her. “My head,” he bit out, his fingers clutching at his brow. A groan breaking from his lips, he careened into her.

  The sheer weight of him propelled her backward, toward the stone wall. She stumbled and tried to regain her balance. He staggered, following her, clumsy step by clumsy step. Her back hit the wall, and she gasped.

  His hands landed on the wall, on either side of her. His arms shaking, but holding him steady, he hovered there, his chin resting on the top of her head. His rasped breaths stirred her hair.

  Caged within his arms, Aislinn swallowed hard. The instant she’d touched the wall, her hands had flown up and pressed to her patient’s chest, an instinctive attempt to keep him from collapsing onto her.

  For now, she was safe from him falling. There were other dangers, though. Beneath her hands, his smooth skin warmed her palms. His heart pulsed, a strong, steady beat drumming under her palm, further proof that her bold warrior was very much alive.

  She shut her eyes. Desire chased through her, heating parts of her body that had gone dormant since Matthew’s death. She hadn’t lain with any man since Matthew. Yet, trapped in this stranger’s arms, with his heat enveloping her, enticing her, she felt wondrously alive, too. The way she’d felt in Hugh’s arms many years ago.

  The stranger stirred, his chin sliding against the crown of her head, his caress akin to affection bestowed by a big, contented feline. Saints above, but she wanted to slide her arms around his waist, to lean forward and lay her cheek against the expanse of his chest. She ached to touch him. However, he was her patient. His wellbeing, indeed his life, was entrusted to her. How foolish she’d be to act upon her desire only to find out he didn’t feel the same way.

  And yet, even as the sinful thoughts continued to whisper in her mind, she sensed a change in his breathing. ’Twas no longer rasped or strained, but steady, just like his heartbeat. A sense of anticipation marked each of his breaths, as though he had perceived her desire and was assessing.

  Waiting…

  * * *

  Aislinn’s hair was like sleek, shimmering silk under his chin. He’d known ’twould be so from the moment he’d first wakened and seen her standing at the table, awash in sunlight. He’d confirmed it when he’d captured the glossy end of her braid. Closing his eyes, he savored again the softness of her tresses against his skin and drew in a breath sweetened with her rose and almond oil fragrance. He silently groaned with the pleasure.

  While he’d lain bound to the bed, he’d yearned to be this close—near enough to touch, smell, and taste this woman who intrigued him far more than he’d ever anticipated. He’d longed to have his hands free to plunge into her loosened hair, to hold her head steady, to devour her mouth with kisses that would make her sigh, moan, and mayhap even weep. He couldn’t remember what kind of lover he’d been, but didn’t doubt
he had the skills to thoroughly pleasure a woman.

  He shuddered as her hands shifted on his chest, a tentative brush of her fingertips across skin acutely aware of her every movement and quivering breath. Just that slight shift in position made the heat in his body burn brighter, hotter.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  “For the moment,” he answered softly. He prayed she didn’t move her hands lower. ’Twould not be wise. Parts of his body were far too eager for her touch.

  “Are you still dizzy?” She shivered, her rush of breath tickling his sensitized skin. “Should I—?”

  “You have already done enough.”

  She was silent a moment, as though pondering his reply. She didn’t try to push him away, though, or duck beneath his outstretched arms. From what he was sensing, she didn’t want to run at all. She, too, seemed to be waiting.

  Did she want him to kiss her? What would she do if he did?

  He lifted one of his hands from the stone wall, leaving the other to support himself, for his legs weren’t entirely steady. His fingers skimmed her shoulder, trailed across the embroidered pattern on her gown, and she made a tiny sound in her throat—not quite a moan of encouragement, but not a protest, either. His fingers slid higher, up the softness of her throat, up to her chin. With gentle fingers, he nudged her face up.

  Their gazes met. Her lashes flickered, veiling the glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes. That hint of vulnerability, though, made his heart twist in his chest.

  He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted only to kiss her witless.

  Words of reassurance formed on his tongue. Yet, he didn’t want to talk. He wanted to feel, to taste, to tempt… He bent his head and pressed his lips to hers.

  A muffled sound broke from her, a sound of astonishment and pleasure. He swept his lips gently over hers, coaxing, savoring. Taste me, his mouth told her. Trust me.

  A cry warbled from her lips, and then her mouth moved under his. She kissed him back, matching the ravenous rhythm he set. Faster. Faster still. Her hungry mouth glided against his as though they were meant to be together. As though they’d kissed before. As though they’d loved each other before.

  And yet, she’d said they weren’t lovers or married.

  Her fingers on his chest curled inward. Her tongue slid past his lips and brushed his. Ah, God. He shuddered at the ensuing flare of heat, at his desire that was now all-consuming. He deepened their kisses, showing her the fierceness of his need for her, and she sighed against his mouth.

  One more kiss, and he drew back, looking down at her upturned face. Her eyes were closed. Slowly, her lashes lifted. She looked slightly dazed, her cheeks pink.

  They weren’t lovers or married. So what was she to him?

  He was loath to break the intimacy between them, but he had to know.

  His thumb brushed her cheek. “Tell me something,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Why does kissing you feel so…right?”

  Anguish filled her gaze. He sensed her withdrawing from him, pulling her emotions in tight.

  “Please,” he murmured. “Tell me.”

  “One day, you will remember.”

  Her jaw felt taut and unyielding beneath his hand. “I hope so.” Frustration rushed from him on a rough exhalation. “Right now, I have so many unanswered questions—”

  He paused, his breath catching in his throat. The blackness shrouding his thoughts had suddenly stirred. He clamped his eyes shut. His whole body shook, for the swirling shadows taunted, came within a half-glimmer of enlightening him.

  “What is it?” Aislinn whispered.

  “My head,” he ground out. “A feeling…”

  “You need to return to bed,” she coaxed. “Come.”

  The name was suddenly there, in his mind. “Philippa.” He opened his eyes. “Do you know a woman by that name?”

  Aislinn shook her head. Sadness governed her gaze. “Mayhap she is your wife.”

  Guilt wrenched through him. If he was married, ’twas not chivalrous of him to be kissing a lady who wasn’t his spouse—and wanting to do a lot more with her than just kiss. He fought to ignore his rock-hard manhood and the wicked need still blazing inside him.

  Male voices carried from outside the chamber. Then, a woman’s laughter.

  “Gilly,” Aislinn whispered.

  He cursed under his breath. The old woman would collapse in a dead faint if she found him in this aroused state, especially while alone with her lady. Gilly might well die of moral outrage, and he did not want her death on his conscience.

  He pushed away from the wall, his arms cold, empty, as he left Aislinn standing there, her eyes huge. His head reeled. Somehow, he spun, lurched over to the table, grabbed a linen towel, and shoved it over his groin.

  “Careful!’ Aislinn gasped, her footfalls loud behind him.

  He snarled, refusing her attempts to guide him to the bed. Somehow, he managed to throw himself onto the mattress—at the last moment, grabbing the bed frame to save himself from toppling off the other side. He straightened, horrifyingly dizzy, pain pounding against his skull. He yanked the covers up over his groin.

  The door opened.

  * * *

  “Here we are.” Gilly waddled in, a large bowl in her hands and several linen cloths draped over her arm. “I brought you water and soap to wash—oh, milady. I did not realize you were here.”

  “I thought I would visit our patient.” Aislinn turned her back to Gilly and settled the stranger’s pillows more comfortably behind him. Desperate to hide her scorching blush, she walloped what she could reach of the closest feather-stuffed pillow to fluff it.

  Mischief glinted in his eyes. “A bit more fluffing, if you will.”

  “Rogue,” she muttered, softly enough that only he would hear.

  He grinned.

  While Aislinn continued to punch the pillow, Gilly rested the bowl on the end of the bed. After a moment, broken only by the thud of Aislinn’s fists, she said, “Surely that is plumped up by now.”

  “Is it?” Aislinn narrowed her eyes at the stranger.

  “Well, it could do with more—”

  Aislinn sighed.

  “—but I shall be fine.”

  “Good.” Gilly picked up the bowl again. “If you will move aside, milady, I will begin his wash.”

  Aislinn stepped away from the bedside. The flush in her cheeks had lessened somewhat, so hopefully Gilly wouldn’t notice. “He may want to wash himself.”

  “He cannot, milady. Not when his wrists are—”

  The stranger lifted his hands so they were in plain view and curled and uncurled his fingers.

  Gilly gulped. Looking at Aislinn, she said, “You untied him? Is that wise? Did you consult Tilford or anyone else before cutting the bindings?”

  “The patient and I came to an agreement. You are quite safe to approach him.”

  Gilly didn’t move.

  “If I may, I would like to use the water,” the stranger said. “Hopefully, ’tis still warm.”

  “B-but—” the older woman spluttered.

  “Let him bathe himself. He is capable.”

  His brows rose. “I am a grown man.”

  The heat in his voice brought a renewed blush to Aislinn’s cheeks. Indeed, the enormity of what she’d seen before he’d pressed the cloth over his loins proved he was most definitely not a child.

  Gilly hurried to his side, handed him the water, cloths, and soap, and darted away, as though he was an adder readying to strike.

  Rolling his eyes, he set the bowl on his lap, dipped in a cloth, and dragged it over his face.

  “A word, milady.” Before Aislinn could reply, Gilly caught her sleeve and pulled her to the corner where they’d talked in confidence before.

  “Why did you free him? What if he slips out of the room and kills the guards? He might slash our throats while we are sleeping!”

  “Gilly—”

  “Cut your throats while
you are sleeping?” Tsking, the stranger soaped his right arm. “Messy. Barbaric, too.”

  The older woman gasped.

  Aislinn glared at the stranger. “There will be no more talk of killing. You promised, sir, not to harm anyone within my castle. I shall hold you to that vow.”

  “I expected no less.” His lips curved in a hard smile. “You also made a promise to me, milady. I will hold you to that vow, as well.”

  Chapter Seven

  Aislinn lay on her side in the carved bed in the solar, the same bed she’d shared with Matthew during her nine years of married life. Light stole in through cracks in the wooden shutters at her window that were still closed against the brightening day.

  She sighed against the soft linen bedding, as she’d done so many times through the night. Sleep had been nigh impossible. Her restless body had refused to settle. Memories had tormented her, all because of the stranger’s impassioned kiss.

  How vividly she remembered his lips upon hers, and that shocking moment when he’d drawn back and rasped, “Philippa.”

  Who was she, the woman he’d remembered in name only? She meant a great deal to him, for his eyes had softened with tenderness when he’d spoken the name.

  In that instant, Aislinn’s heart, soaring from the incredible kiss, had plummeted. She’d fought hard to resurrect the mortared wall around her emotions, the numbness that had bolstered her after Hugh had left Drandwick Keep and in the anguished days afterward. The same numbness she’d relied upon to survive Matthew’s death.

  Her exhausted mind drifted. How vividly she still remembered her and Hugh’s final kiss at Drandwick Keep—the last time she’d touched him, held him, before he’d gone.

  The missive from Hugh had been delivered to her chamber. In scrawled, black letters, it had read: Meet me in the castle garden. Usual place. Important.

  Her pulse stumbled on the word “important.” The day before, when they’d stolen a quick kiss in one of the castle stairwells, he’d told her he loved her. What could be so urgent today?