LITMIR.BIZ

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it and took a long swallow, then held it out to Padrig.

      When Padrig shook his head, Rafe slid home the stopper and climbed out of the pit.

      Padrig scrambled up to join him. “I was repeating one of the lies Hugh told me about Lady Alys,” he said, not bothering to hide his disgust. “He did his best to make her sound nigh brainless whenever he spoke of her.”

      Rafe snorted. “Hugh is an ass.” He gazed down at Alys’s face for a moment, as though weighing whether or not he should speak, then glanced at Padrig and shrugged. “I’m not surprised,” he added. “The lecherous sot has been trying—without any success whatsoever that I could see—to get under her skirts. Hasn’t quit since he came to l’Eau Clair last year. So far as I know, she’s scarce seemed aware of him at all.” He grinned. “’Tis clear to me that Lady Alys is a most discerning woman.”

      His heart suddenly lighter than it had been all night, Padrig laughed and reached out to take Alys back into his arms. “So it would appear, if she’s kept him at bay all this time.” Careful of his footing, he began to make his way over the pile of debris. “Now that you mention it, I had noticed he deems himself quite the gallant. How could I have forgotten? From what I’ve heard, there’s hardly a woman in the entire demesne he’s not tried to bed—except for Lady Gillian, of course.”

      “Do you think he’s got that much sense?” Rafe asked with barely suppressed amusement. He tucked the flask into his tunic, picked up the candle and caught up with Padrig, grabbing Alys’s sodden cloak as he passed by the spot where Padrig had tossed it earlier and flinging it over his shoulder.

      “Sense—nay?” Padrig sidestepped down the side of the mound and waited for Rafe. “Self-preservation? Perhaps. ’Twould be more than his life is worth to anger Lord Rannulf.”

      “Or Lady Gillian, given her ability with a blade,” Rafe added reverently. “She could defend herself right well, I’d wager.”

      “Indeed,” Padrig agreed.

      Though he doubted Rafe had any notion just how skilled with weapons the women of that family were.

      Lord knew, he would never forget the sight of his cousin, Lady Catrin—who was Lady Gillian’s cousin, as well—wielding his sword, standing alone against several outlaws after she’d tricked him into leaving for help…

      So that he could live to fight another day, she’d told him later.

      Padrig shook off the memories and cradled Alys a little closer in his arms. She remained motionless and silent, but from the sound of her breathing, she’d settled into sleep, not a swoon, thankfully.

      They picked their way toward the shelter, even the meager light from Rafe’s candle a help as they wended through the mess of toppled trees and uprooted brush littering their path.

      “Lady Alys spurned Hugh’s advances, then?” Padrig asked, finding himself surprisingly eager to turn the conversation back to the woman in his arms.

      “Aye—several times in public, so rumor has it. Truth to tell, I doubt anyone would expect any different.” Rafe frowned. “She’s always seemed a shy little lass. Talks more with the older men, ones who’ve been around since before Lady Gillian and Lord Rannulf wed. Strange, that. Could be she likes ’em well-seasoned—”

      Suddenly he stopped and grinned. “Did you show any interest in Lady Alys?”

      Padrig paused, as well. “I asked Hugh about her, nothing more than that,” he replied, trying to think back to the discussion. Had he asked about any other women? He couldn’t recall.

      Rafe clapped him on the shoulder. “With Hugh, it wouldn’t take more than that. In his eyes, he’s God’s own gift to womanhood—and every other man is his competition. Aye, you got him worried, and he tried to distract you from paying her any notice.”

      “Worried? About what?” Padrig asked, completely baffled.

      “That you’d ruin his chances, of course. A strong, handsome fellow such as yourself, newly returned from foreign climes, rumored to be a bruising fighter—”

      Padrig snorted and started moving again, but Rafe kept on talking even as he kept up.

      “—I can see why he’d be concerned. He’s not really as successful with women as he likes to claim.”

      “There’s a surprise,” Padrig muttered under his breath, eliciting a nod from Rafe.

      “So how can he compete with you, a mysterious warrior the ladies are waiting to discover?”

      “Mayhap it isn’t only Hugh who is a fool,” Padrig scoffed. “By Christ, how did you come up with such nonsense?”

      Rafe laughed. “’Tis none of my making! I heard some o’ Lady Gillian’s young ladies talking about you. Including Lady Alys,” he said, his grin widening. “Could be that Hugh heard them, as well—they were making no effort to be quiet.”

      By the saints! Padrig felt a flush of embarrassment heat his face. Given the speed with which gossip usually spread throughout l’Eau Clair, ’twas nigh a miracle that he’d heard naught of this before now.

      Yet he couldn’t help but be amazed by the thought that a group of women—noble ladies, no less—had found him worthy of discussion.

      And what should that matter to him? Despite the fact that he had several noble relatives, he himself sat far lower in rank. He was a landless knight, nothing more. Clearly some misunderstanding had occurred, for in the ordinary way of things, he’d hardly have a slew of ladies in pursuit of him.

      No matter how “mysterious” they found him to be, he thought with a rueful smile.

      Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what Alys—Lady Alys, he reminded himself lest he get too full of himself—what had she thought? What, if anything, had she added to the discussion?

      Rafe stopped; Padrig did as well, noting that while they’d been involved in their most peculiar discussion, they’d made it to the shelter. Rafe had paused just outside the makeshift hut.

      In the eerie glow of the candle, Rafe’s knowing expression shone all too clear. He moved closer. “Wouldn’t you like to know what Lady Alys—”

      “Nay,” Padrig cut him off, ignoring the intense desire to hear what Rafe was obviously eager to share.

      “Sir Padrig—” he goaded, “—I did hear her, you know.”

      “No,” Padrig said flatly.

      Rafe turned away from the shelter and faced Padrig, his manner more serious. “I’ve seen how you look at her, milord… Jesu, if you could only see how you look at her now.”

      When had Rafe turned into the devil, to taunt and test a man nigh beyond endurance?

      He’d not give in, no matter how strong the temptation.

      “Enough,” he growled. Turning from the other man, he tucked Alys more firmly against his chest and ducked to enter the hut.

      Chapter Eight

      Sheer anger—at himself, at their situation, at God Himself—lent Padrig energy enough to carry him through the remaining hours of the seemingly endless night. Shortly after he and Rafe had brought Lady Alys to the hut, Jock and Peter carried in the last two of the missing men—both badly injured by the storm, and chilled to the bone by the weather besides.

      Their party now numbered eleven: four unharmed; four badly hurt, including Marie; and three, including Lady Alys, whose injuries fell somewhere in between.

      Once they’d gathered everyone together in the shelter, Padrig, Rafe, Jock and Peter did what they could for their battered comrades. With Padrig tending to the women—an awkward experience he’d rather not repeat any time soon—they got everyone out of their sodden clothing and bundled them up in whatever dry cloth they could

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