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The Quest. Lyn Stone
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The lad readily obeyed, wearing the smug expression of one who had divined all the answers necessary when no one else present was wise enough to do so.
“You seem much better, sir,” Iana observed, desperate to change the topic of their discussion. “How fares the wound?”
He lightly touched the wrapping, which remained free of new blood. “Painful, but healing, no doubt. I feel much stronger after sleeping for so long. Again, I thank you for your care and for agreeing to accompany us.”
She measured out the oats into her metal pan and added water to soak them soft. “I shall need more than the silver as reward for tending you on your journey,” she dared tell him.
His narrowed eyes warned her against greed, though she did not think what she would ask counted as that.
“I will require employment in this new place. You must speak for my skills with this lord of Baincroft who is your brother.”
“In all truth, we have no blood tie, save that we share a half sister. Our widowed parents wed when we were but lads. So we have a bond forged early that is as unbreakable as true kinship. Robert will make a home for you and the babe at Baincroft if that is your wish.”
If they could only reach the other side of Scotland, all would be well, Iana thought. Newell would never think to look for her so far afield. But the chain’s rich links would not last forever. “I must have your promise of this work, sir, for I shall have no other means of income once the silver you gave me has been used up.”
He looked offended that she would demand his word. “I give you my vow that I will ask my brother to make a place for you. However, he might already have a healer in residence. If so, I do swear that I will provide for you myself.”
“For what services?” she asked, sorely afraid she could guess. His brother was a lord, which meant he must be the younger, making his way as best he could fighting for the French. Such a one would not hand out his hard-earned coin in charity any more than she would whore for it.
Everand growled a suggestive chuckle. Apparently, the thought of her working on her back had occurred to him as well, but the knight’s hand on the lad’s arm cut short whatever he might have said.
“Whatever services you choose to bestow,” Sir Henri answered. “Have I offered by any look, word or deed to besmirch your honor?”
Iana would not be put off by his lofty indignation. Men, noble or ignoble, were not to be trusted. “Nay, I’ll grant that you have not.”
She flicked an accusing glance toward Everand, who certainly had done so. He had the grace to lower his impudent gaze as she continued, “However, you are in no shape to offer me insult at the moment. How am I to know what you might expect of me once you are hale? I should make clear at the outset that I will be beholden to no man, be he gentleman or rogue. Find me work, sir, of an honest nature or I shall be obliged to call you knave to all, and ’twill be your fine honor besmirched, not my own!”
She immediately saw she had pricked his anger to a rolling boil, damn her quick tongue. Now he would want to be quit of her for certain. Desperate, she attempted to sweeten his temper. “I beg you do not take offense, sir…Henri. A woman with no defender must needs use what means she has to enforce—”
“Cease this foolish prattle!” he barked. “I have no designs upon your person, lady. And I can see you are a lady. Or were at one time. Rest assured, you have nothing to fear from me.”
“And the cub?” She nodded toward Everand. The lad’s fair head jerked up, and he glared at her in disbelief that she would even think to fear his advances. Or mayhaps he was simply offended that she had called him cub.
She noted the quiver of Henri’s lips, as though he had squelched a sudden burst of laughter. In an instant, he had schooled his features into a mask of solemnity. “Everand will not offer you abuse. My son does as I bid him do.”
“Son?” she and Everand asked in unison.
“Son,” Henri repeated, looking directly at the lad. “I have told you I would call you mine. You wear my signet. Why do you question me?”
“Well, you are not going to die now.” The lad’s voice cracked, betraying his uncertainty.
“So much the better. You’ll not be orphaned twice in the space of a year.”
Evarand cleared his throat and sat straighter, twisting the gold signet ring he wore on his middle finger. “I am unused to it is all. My apologies, sir…Father.”
“Accepted. Now give this lady your promise to protect her body and her virtue, so she will not suspect you of plotting evil deeds against her.”
Everand turned to Iana and scrambled up so that he knelt before her. “I so promise. You have naught to fear, lady.”
“My eternal gratitude, Everand,” she replied formally, struck by the silliness of his gesture. He was so small, she could flatten him with a slap if he dared to touch her, which she was certain he would never do in any case.
“That’s settled then,” Everand announced, scooting back to sit beside Sir Henri. The lad shrugged and grabbed another handful of the berries as he added in a deep, gravelly voice, “I never care to sport with unwilling wenches, anyway.”
Henri collapsed in a fit of coughing and Iana laughed outright. Everand chewed his berries and smiled.
It boded well, she thought, that fate had sent her these two. In truth, she had no fear of the knight. She could outrun him easily in his condition, and probably even after he had recovered. He was of such tall stature, she doubted he would prove very agile. The lad, she liked immensely, impertinent as he was. He was scarcely old enough or big enough to offer any true threat.
Though she admittedly found Henri handsome and possessed of a quick wit, Iana had no intention of granting him any favors, now or in future.
That devil’s minion, James Duncan, had soundly cured her of wishing to cohabit with a man for any reason, be it lawful matrimony or otherwise.
Now there was no need to worry. She had decided. She was free forever of any man’s will.
Chapter Three
Henri spent the afternoon alternately testing his strength and resting from the effort. His fever had abated that morning, only to return at nightfall.
The lady Iana did not seem overly concerned about that, but still dosed him as she had the night before.
Though he had many questions about her life in the village and why she was there, he did not ask them. Nor did he demand to know the paternity of the child. If it were her bastard, that would explain why she had lost favor with her own family and that of her dead husband. That certainly would be cause for her banishment and her mean existence. Henri did not want to know of it, he told himself. He did not wish to think of her as less than a lady.
She had saved him and he owed her his kind regard, despite anything dishonorable she might have done.
He could not fault her care of him in any way, for she was most solicitous. At times, too much so to suit him.
“I detest this bark,” he complained, popping a piece into his mouth when she insisted.
“Willow cools you and also reduces pain,” Iana explained. “I do swear ’tis nothing short of wondrous how quickly you are mending.”
He had to admit he felt better than he had since the ship sank. “What else have you to make me well again?”
“Tomorrow I hope to find yarrow to ease the soreness.” She handed him a wooden cup filled with water. “Drink this when you’ve finished with the bark. Then go to sleep.”