Stolen Heiress. Joanna Makepeace

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СКАЧАТЬ now she saw he was incredibly handsome, in a bold, inviting way.

      He was laughing, his long lips curling back from white, even teeth, despite the pain he must be feeling, and she felt sudden irritation for the manner of raillery in which he greeted her.

      ‘An angel of mercy. By the sweet Virgin, you are welcome, mistress.’

      ‘You had better sit down on the ground again and let me examine your leg,’ she said curtly. ‘By the look of you, you’ll collapse very soon if you don’t.’

      The older serving-wench who had come up behind them with her basin and ewer of water came into the barn now to join her mistress, impatiently pushing aside the importunate movements of the second, smaller man-at-arms who had jostled her good-humouredly and much too familiarly for her liking.

      ‘You,’ she said, icily, ‘can make yourself useful, which I think is rare. Idle fellows, all of you, unless you be killing and looting and bothering females who want no truck with you. We’ll want a shirt to tear for bandaging, a clean one, mind. Get on with you. My Mistress’ll not want to be here all night.’

      The sergeant nodded his approval of the errand and the man, still grinning, despite the tongue lashing, sidled off to find what was wanted.

      Clare had knelt beside the injured man and bent to look more closely at the blood-soaked hose. He lowered his head to follow her gaze and his hand brushed against hers as she touched experimentally the stiffening wool. She snatched her hand away almost instantly and his merry laugh rang out again.

      ‘Faith, mistress, you’ve not hurt me yet. I can stand the touch of such fair hands.’

      She gritted her teeth. ‘I am in no mood for mockery, sir,’ she reproved him. ‘My brother lies dead in the great hall.’

      ‘And mine and my father in the ruins of ours,’ he responded quietly, and there was no glimmer of humour now in the grave tones.

      She looked up at him sharply and his mouth tightened, the laughter lines quirking his lips, fading. She saw now that he was not, indeed, as classically handsome as she had first thought. The attractiveness of the countenance lay rather in the openness and pleasant joviality of demeanour.

      His mouth was long and generous, though now held tightly as he considered the ruin of family and home. A very slight scar at one corner marred the beauty of form, though Clare thought, when he smiled, as she guessed he did often, that that slight deformity would quirk up those mobile lips becomingly.

      His eyes glittered in the uncertain glow of the brand and were startlingly blue, flecked with greenish lights. Clare possessed a lump of turquoise her father had bought for her once at Leicester Fair, which he had had enclosed in gold for her and which now hung from the end of a favourite girdle. The colour of those eyes of his were like the changing hue of the stone, now glinting steely and hard, narrowed in considered grief for those he had lost.

      His nose was dominating and the small bump on the bridge which spoilt its line spoke of some blow he had possibly received from an opponent in a bout of fisticuffs. He was square jawed, the chin deep split in a dimpled cleft. Yes, Clare thought, women would find this man overwhelmingly attractive and men, too, would admire the manly clean lines of that face and the rangy, hard-muscled strength of that tall form.

      ‘I am sorry for your loss, sir,’ she said softly, and instantly he smiled again, though she thought it more wintry this time, less winning.

      He gave the slightest of shrugs. ‘Men have often said war is hell,’ he said briefly, ‘though I would not describe this attack as war, merely an unprovoked raid which had unfortunate consequences for all concerned.’

      She realised he was totally unarmed, dressed in a shirt of homespun linsey woolsey and a leathern jerkin over grey woollen hose. Clearly the Devane household had not expected an attack and had been seated comfortably by their own hearths when the alarm had been sounded by their watchman on the gatehouse. Probably this man, Robert Devane, had only recently returned from a ride or inspection of the manor land, for he was wearing riding boots. Her own brother and uncle had been well armoured and prepared, in breastplates and gorgets over padded gambesons.

      She gave the faintest of sighs and felt Sir Gilbert’s sergeant move restlessly behind her. The man was clearly impatient for her to complete her task so that he might lock up his valuable prisoner for the night, confident of his safe keeping until the morning. Sir Gilbert, she knew, was not the man to overlook any negligence in his subordinates. The man her maid had despatched had come back now with a patched but clean shirt of homespun and the woman hastily snatched it from his grasp.

      Clare turned to the sergeant behind her. ‘We shall be quite safe with this man, since I know you will keep a close guard outside. I shall need more room for my work. Leave us, please.’

      The man was obviously unwilling. He pursed his lips uncertainly, having received careful instructions from Sir Gilbert to keep a careful watch on his niece but her hard stare was insistent that he obey her and she could come to no harm surely with his men so near, ready to be summoned instantly, should she have need of them. He grimaced in disapproval but made her a respectful nod and withdrew.

      The turquoise eyes of the prisoner danced in amusement. ‘You appear to have a way with underlings, mistress. Did you, perhaps, wish to be alone with me?’

      She darted him a glance of withering scorn. ‘I cannot imagine, sir, why you should think I might have such a purpose. I never enjoy the company of piratical scum, for such I hear you are. As I explained to my sergeant, I need room for my task. Now, let us get on with it without delay.’

      He had slid back into a sitting position against the wall now and was regarding her coolly.

      ‘So you have received instructions to patch me up fairly, so Sir Gilbert can hang me tomorrow in full view of his men, without fear of being accused of having his men forced to half carry me to the gallows.’

      She said evenly, ‘I understand you are to be conveyed to Coventry when you are fit to travel, sir. There will be no unlawful trial here. The King himself will decide your fate after a fair hearing.’

      ‘And that she-wolf Margaret will determine the way of it.’ His blue eyes had narrowed again. She noted he had long curling lashes tipped with gold like a maid’s.

      With the maid’s help she withdrew his left riding boot.

      She was bending close now over the injured limb, seated upon the ground before him, her box of unguents and medical requirements opened before her, and her maid was pouring water into the basin.

      Clare took the small pair of scissors that hung at her belt and were used normally for her embroidery, to cut open the bloodstained wool of his hose and reveal the gaping wound, long and deep, clearly made by a sword thrust. It ran from the knee slantwise almost to the ankle and she made a little moue of concern at the sight of it.

      ‘I’m afraid this will hurt, but I think it should be stitched.’

      Again he gave that half-rueful shrug which she took to be permission to proceed and she motioned her servant forward. He made no sound while she washed and cleansed the wound, nor did he comment when she took her sharpest and finest steel needle and finest linen thread and made ready to draw the puckered edges together. First she had cleansed the wound thoroughly with a herbal infusion and rubbed in tansy ointment.

      His lips tightened as he leaned back against the wall and she glanced СКАЧАТЬ