Redeeming The Rogue Knight - Elisabeth Hobbes Mills & Boon Historical

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sweat pooling in her lower back at the sight of the weapon. ‘I’m the only one here.’

      Except for Robbie. A throb of anxiety welled inside her as she thought of her son lying peacefully in his cot in the room above. A son whose uncle did not know of his existence.

      ‘Thomas, what is happening?’ she hissed. ‘You left four years ago. Why are you here and who is this?’

      ‘I’ve been in France, fighting with the Northern Company.’

      Lucy gaped. ‘A mercenary? You?’

      ‘Why are you here?’ Thomas asked. ‘Where is Father and why is the inn in darkness so early?’

      Lucy dropped her head. When Thomas had lived here the inn was always busy and open late. Now was not the time to explain why it had changed so greatly. ‘I came back...to nurse Father. Thomas, Father died almost a year ago,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t know how to contact you.’

      Thomas shook his head, his eyes filling with grief.

      ‘No! Oh, bad tidings, Sister.’

      Lucy’s heart twisted. This was not the way a son should learn such news. Thomas would regret their father’s passing more than she did. But then Thomas had never suffered the consequences of having disappointed him as greatly as Lucy had.

      The man groaned. Thomas glanced at him. ‘Tell me more later, but now we need to take him upstairs to a bed.’

      Lucy took a step back, shaking her head. Not to the floor where Robbie slept in peace, blissfully unaware of the drama happening beneath him. She barred the way, finally revealing her poker and brandishing it like a sword.

      ‘Come, little dove,’ the injured man slurred, grinning crookedly. ‘Be sensible and we all might live.’

      Lurching forward unexpectedly, he raised his left arm and knocked it out of her hand. He staggered, as if this had taken the last of his strength, and fell forward towards her. Instinctively Lucy reached her arms out to catch him, her hands sliding beneath his armpits. She stepped backwards and found herself wedged between him and the wall, his weight crushing her. She yelped in pain as something sharp scratched her left shoulder through her thick wool dress. She looked down to see the head of an arrow protruding from the man’s right shoulder.

      ‘He’s really hurt!’ she exclaimed.

      ‘Don’t let me die unmourned, dove,’ the man slurred, his voice deep and husky.

      Before Lucy could think how to reply he had reached his left arm to the back of her head, tilted it back and covered her lips with his.

       Chapter Two

      The kiss took Lucy by surprise, the rough beard scratching at her cheek and lips teasingly, sending shivers through her. His mouth enclosed hers, his lips firm and his tongue seeking hers with a fierceness that left her weak. Her mind emptied as desire lurched in her belly and without intending to she was kissing him back. If he could kiss like this when close to death, what would his touch be like when at full strength?

      She came to her senses almost immediately and jerked her head away. His mouth followed, greedily seeking her out again, and his good hand slid from her neck down her body, fumbling at her breast.

      A kiss she could tolerate, but the groping was too much. Outrage surged inside Lucy and now she had her wits about her. He was not the first of her customers who had tried to force attentions on her and was likely not to be the last. Injured or not made no difference. She twisted her leg until it was between his and brought her knee sharply upward.

      The man gave a whimper of pain and crumpled on to her, his eyes rolling back in his head. He went limp and Lucy realised, aghast, that he was close to passing out. Her hand shifted against his back and touched feathers. The fletch of the arrow was sticking out. Guilt swept over her that she had done such a thing to a wounded man. She bit her remorse down. She had not asked for her home to be invaded, or to be kissed. He had brought it on himself.

      She supported him as best as she could, but he was a tall man and broad with it, and was crushing the breath from her as she leaned against the wall. Even by the feeble light of the fire, the man looked as pale as a wraith with a waxy sheen to his brow. His hair was matted to his cheeks. He must have bled from his wound, but against the darkness of his cloak it was impossible to tell.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, reaching to brush the hair from his face. His forehead was cold to the touch and her fingers came away damp with his sweat. He opened his eyes.

      ‘Do you have wine? Anything stronger?’ he moaned.

      ‘Enough of this!’ Thomas cried. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, reminding Lucy he had always been as prudish as a monk when it came to shows of physical affection. ‘Get him upstairs before you do him any more harm. We may not have much time.’

      He pulled the injured man off Lucy. Lucy ran to get the lantern, thrusting the poker back into the fire where she could find it later if needed.

      ‘Bring wine,’ the injured man growled.

      Lucy ran to the counter where the flagons and cups were stored and found what he had requested. Carrying a bottle in each hand and the lantern hooked over her arm, she followed as her brother half dragged the injured man up the narrow staircase.

      The first floor was low ceilinged and dark. Lucy’s room took one half of the space, though it was filled with all manner of boxes and piles of unused or unusable objects she could not bear to throw away. The second room contained pallets for travellers who wished to spend the night, but until the better weather arrived the frames were piled up and the straw mattresses wrapped in oilcloth as prevention against vermin. It was this room that Lucy intended to take the two men into, but Thomas entered the bedroom that had once been their father’s and where Lucy now slept. She opened her mouth to protest, but decided it was better to make no arguments and hope that Thomas would explain before long.

      Robbie’s cradle was pushed into the far corner and he slept silently, mercifully not stirring as they entered. Lucy did not dare look directly at him, fearing she would alert the men to his existence, but they were more intent on reaching Lucy’s bed beneath the small window.

      ‘Lay me down and give me a drink,’ the injured man mumbled. He appeared to be drifting in and out of consciousness. Lucy wondered how much blood he had lost.

      They lowered him on to the bed, pushing the blankets to one side and edging him over so that his shoulder was hanging over the furthest edge of the frame with the fletch of the arrow free from the mattress. Thomas pulled the injured man’s boots off and placed them at the side of the bed. Lucy held out the bottle of wine and he tipped it back, drinking deeply until it was half-empty. He put it on the floor and fumbled with his left hand to unclasp the buckle of his cloak. His fingers were clumsy and he let loose a string of expletives.

      ‘Help me get this off,’ he commanded.

      Thomas began to fumble at his neck, but the man pushed his hand aside.

      ‘Not you, Thomas. You go tend to the horses. Dove, you can do it.’

      Lucy knelt by the bed and tried to do as he asked, but when she attempted to ease the cloak from his back, it stuck fast around the shaft of the arrow. The man gave a gasp of pain as she tugged. Lucy let go, realising the arrow had gone through all the layers of clothing. Something moved in the corner of her eye. Thomas was pointing a dagger at her face. His hand shook and the expression of fear in his eyes made him almost unrecognisable.

      ‘Cut it free,’ Thomas said, pushing the dagger into her hand. ‘Remove all the clothing you can. When I return, we remove the arrow.’

      ‘Where are you going?’ she asked, alarmed at the prospect of being left alone with the man who had earlier appeared intent on violating her. The word we did not give her any comfort, either.

      ‘You heard what

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