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Ironheart. Emily French
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Slowly, gracefully as the fall of a feather, she moved to the end of the tub and motioned for a leg to come out. Ignoring his muffled protest, she leaned against the tub and began lathering it, sliding one finger along a deep scar hollow above the knee. His thigh shot jagged stabs and convulsed into shivering. He tried to relax his body, to go limp.
Brenna looked down, leaned back against her heels, shoving a lock of her black hair back over one shoulder. “Won’t you even talk to me?” she said in a small voice.
“There is nothing to talk about.”
“You mean, you have nothing to say to me.”
Leon knew he had missed something there. She would not meet his eyes. She seemed strangely tense: a coiled spring. He thought that she was angry; but why should she be? She was female. There was no accounting for her moods.
“That is not at all what I meant.”
“But it is!”
Leon frowned at her, wishing he knew what had happened. One moment she had been open and friendly; the next she exuded all the fire of a woman scorned. He rolled his eyes and sat up, sighing with exasperation.
“I will not play this game.”
“I will not let you turn this back on me.” There was an edge to her voice now. “You’re the one who—”
“This is not the time—”
“Not the time? You must be joking! There is nothing more important for us to do.”
For a moment things stayed as they were, balanced on a knife’s edge of Brenna’s temper and his nerves. Then he felt the anger unwind, slowly, into a quieter disturbance. A few more breaths. “Isn’t there?”
Without warning, she poured a dipper of herb-scented water over his head. He swallowed hard, half choking, gulped air and outrage, blinked water from his eyes, and snapped two pungent words.
“Oh—you are annoyed—you have a tongue like an ox whip!” His first impulse was to upend her and apply a hand to her derriere. Then she grinned at him with disarming candor. “Forgive me, but I get carried away sometimes!”
Leon snorted and blew water from his mouth. “How dare you—” It came as a half shriek, so disgraceful that it shattered all his anger. Laughter rose to fill the void: breathless, helpless laughter that loosened all his bones and left him half choking.
Her own laughter died with his, but a smile lingered; her eyes danced. “’Tis a ritual to drown the fleas!”
“Blast your impudence!” He surged to his feet and flung hair out of his eyes in a spray of water. A shower of droplets flew in a great arc to land on her gown, the sodden fabric outlining her bosom, leaving little to his imagination. He reached for the linen she was holding, and snatched it ’round himself, splashing the floor as he stepped out.
“Perhaps it was rash—”
“Perhaps!”
“’Twas an outrageous liberty. Most men would be foaming at the mouth by now.”
Leon didn’t care. For one thing, a ragged spike of agony lanced through his skull. There was a buzzing like a swarm of bees inside his head. His vision was blurring again. He stood there, totally overwhelmed by it all.
“Oh, mercy! You are not well!” she said, and put a quick hand under his elbow to steady him as he swayed. Leon shook her off, steadying with an effort.
“It’s nothing.”
He stood there, not daring to move. Now his entire body convulsed. His flesh burned. He felt chills even in the midst of all this heat. His legs were turning to water. He tottered.
“Dizzy,” he mumbled, his voice half drowned by a peal of thunder.
Brenna caught his arm, forcefully, this time. “Don’t tax yourself! You’re wasting energy arguing.”
This time he let her lay hands on him, allowing her to draw him across the room, into the alcove that held the bed, though he would not sit. “God’s breath, woman. ’Tis but a touch of wet fever, nothing more.”
“Stuff and nonsense. That lump on your head has addled your brains.”
He let out all his breath in one huff. “Don’t fuss, woman. I’ve suffered worse blows than that charging at quintains.”
“I trust you are correct, but hardly prudent. My good sense tells me that such a blow can be fatal if there is brain damage.”
“’Tis but a bump.”
“Even a bump can be fatal.” Her voice was low, steady, unyielding.
“Would you have me dead?”
“Don’t talk so! That lump on your head has addled your wits,” Brenna blurted, then winced, as if regretting her words as soon as she had spoken them. “I—I am sorry. It is not my place to…”
“You need not apologize. I’m not offended, just tired.”
The bed was in front of him. It looked vast and inviting. And perhaps it was imprudent and tempting his own ironclad resolve to test himself against that wide-eyed expression, the full lips, the midnight cloud of curls and swell of bosom so boldly designed to entice a man. What had the scriptures said about Eve tempting Adam with forbidden fruit? But then came a bewildering thought. If Adam had been in Eden with Brenna instead of Eve, he would not have minded being cast out of Paradise, not as long as she went with him!
“I can see that you are ill, very ill.” Her reply rang out and yet was muted by the howl of the wind. “You belong in bed.”
Why not? Why not? He rubbed his forehead, and gave up any notion he might have of resistance.
“I am not well, yes—” he managed finally. The last of his coherence was fleeing. “The heat…my head—”
“Sit,” she told him now. “Easy now, take it easy.”
She let him slide from her arm to sit on the bed. Cradling his head in her hands as if it were an egg, she lowered it onto the pillow. A grunt this time from him. He sprawled on his back, squinched his eyes shut, and he was only too glad to do so, weary as he was, his body racked by violent shivers. A dry towel was placed discreetly across his loins. A hand tangled in his hair, one finger stroking across his forehead repetitiously.
“Don’t try to get up. You’ll do yourself a lasting harm.”
“Go away! Leave me alone!” he raged at her.
She did; and then he was sorry for the silence.
The hall thrummed with sound, for everyone in the hold ate in the great chamber. Fire crackled in the hearth and they all were gathered, young and old, with the warm air smelling as the hall always smelled, of wood chips and resins and leathers and furs and good cooking.
Brenna spared no glances for those who sat at the narrow trestle tables. Her attention was on the dais at the far end. Facing them all, Sir Edmund sat at the center of the high table, his sister the widowed Lady Alice at his left, his other sister the indomitable Lady Agnita at his right, thin and upright. The gray-clad priest sat elbow-to-elbow with the Lady Alice, and the harper sat with them. But many seats at the great table stayed vacant, the hall of a hold long at war, its male heirs decimated.
“Your pardon for my lateness, Grandfather.”
Sated and drowsy from rich food and drink, Sir Edmund nodded over his cup.