see his tall friend arch a brow inquisitively and flash him a knowing grin as he crossed his arms. Tyr had seen him injured—and more seriously—too many times to believe that pain was behind Ranulf’s grimace. His friend recognized Ranulf’s desire to be alone and apparently was enjoying himself too much to care.
Bronwyn licked her lips, drawing his attention back to her. “When the floor fell, part of one of the beams broke off and lodged itself in your shoulder. I managed to take it out and slow the bleeding, but I am going to have to sew the wound shut and treat it. I’m afraid it will be very painful.”
Ranulf watched as she bit her bottom lip, worried at the agony she was about to inflict on him. But all he could think about was how he wanted to pull her mouth down to his and discover just what heaven tasted like.
“Do you need me to get you something to bite down on?”
Behind her, Ranulf could see Tyr cover his mouth and fight to keep from laughing aloud. The damn man was enjoying this too much.
Bronwyn poked him. “Do you?”
Ranulf blinked and refocused on what she was asking. “Do I what?” he groused.
Bronwyn issued him a scathing look, but the nursemaid was not consoled. “Maybe he isn’t right in the head,” Constance muttered, standing over him. “Do you know your own name, my lord?”
Ranulf scowled at the interfering old woman and said, “Ranulf to my friends, Lord Anscombe to my people, and Deadeye to everyone else. You choose.”
The response from both women was immediate. The one from the nursemaid was as he intended. After shooting him a withering look, the wild, gray-haired woman spun around out of his sight. Bronwyn’s expression, once tender and concern-filled, had transformed into one of exasperation. “It’s not his head that you should be worried about, Constance. After years of dealing with my sisters, I thought you would recognize obstinacy at the expense of pride,” she purred lightheartedly, giving him a wink.
Ranulf almost choked as a result. Unprepared, he started coughing, and for the first time, the pain in his shoulder rivaled the one in his head. Her anger had been stimulating and her compassion disarming, but he wasn’t sure he could handle this playful side of her without completely embarrassing himself.
“Stop moving,” Bronwyn ordered, “else you’ll start bleeding all over again and this time it will be on your own bed. Constance, would you go to my room and bring the black bag and a needle? And Tyr,” she said, keeping her focus on Ranulf and his shoulder, “take yourself out of here. Your friend does not need your type of support right now. Come back when silent smirks and dampened laughter will be welcomed.”
Unrestrained laughter filled the room. “Damn, Ranulf, the women you meet and order away. Perhaps it is I who should have been enlisting you for female help all these years,” Tyr teased and then ducked out of the room before Ranulf could retaliate.
Constance followed, leaving Ranulf and Bronwyn alone. He suddenly felt uneasy. “Where am I?”
Bronwyn stood, walked over to a large chest, and pulled out several old, worn linen shirts that could only have belonged to his cousin, the late Lord Anscombe. She grabbed one sleeve and started ripping. “We are in the Tower Keep of Hunswick and this is the bedchamber of the previous Lord Anscombe. Now, it is yours.” She pointed to the double doors across from her and to his left. “There is your day room.”
Ranulf studied her as she ripped each garment into wide strips. “And you are the daughter of Sir Laon le Breton, my single vassal.”
“My father is dead. I would have thought you had heard.”
Her voice had trembled and Ranulf felt a wave of guilt overcome him. “I did and I’m sorry, angel.”
Bronwyn stopped abruptly and captured his gaze. “Don’t call me that.”
Ranulf mentally scolded himself. The epithet had just slipped out, but her reaction to it had been severe and it had not been due to his being too personal. “Then what should I call you?”
Bronwyn licked her lips and swallowed. Then after several seconds, she took a deep breath and said faintly, “Lillabet, my lord.”
Ranulf fought to keep his face immobile. He had not met Laon’s youngest daughter, but he knew one thing for certain. The woman in front of him was not his betrothed. Why would Bronwyn say she was?
She was clearly far from comfortable with the idea of lying, but yet she had still willingly entered its treacherous domain. Ranulf was tempted to expose her falsehood, but decided not to at the last moment. Bronwyn was shaking, just slightly, as if she was nervous. Practicing deceit was completely unnatural for her. She didn’t like it. Ranulf wondered why she felt the need to lie now, with him and about her identity. The surest way not to discover the truth was to confront her. Still, he couldn’t call her by a name that wasn’t her own. “You don’t look like a Lillabet.”
Bronwyn finished ripping the linen shirt and gathered all the torn pieces into a pile. “And just what do I look like?”
“I told you. An angel, and until you give me a good reason not to call you that, I believe I shall continue.”
Bronwyn clamped her jaw tight. In truth, she was relieved. She had no intentions of staying for any length of time, but being called Lillabet would be a constant reminder of just who he was…and for whom he was intended.
A single loud knock boomed, and without waiting for an invitation, Constance marched in and handed Bronwyn a bowl, a black bag, and a needle and thread. “He won’t like it.”
“Thank you, Constance,” Bronwyn said casually, taking the items. “You don’t have to stay. But could you ask someone to send up some yarrow tea?”
Constance gave a brief nod and headed for the door. Just as she was about to step through, she looked back and gave Ranulf a contemptuous look. “If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchens. And you,” Constance directed to Ranulf, “lord or not, you hit her and there’ll be hell to pay.”
Hearing the threat, Ranulf tried to sit up and was about to order Constance back in to explain herself when Bronwyn pushed his shoulder down to keep him prone. “Just what did she mean by that? Why would I hit you?”
“Are you hurt anywhere else that I don’t know about?”
“Answer my question!”
“If you can’t tell me, I can always check,” Bronwyn said with a teasing smile as she reached out to pull back his already ripped shirt and reveal some more of his chest.
Ranulf clutched her wrist. Falling hadn’t felt good, and he knew he was bruised. Just how bad he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want her to find out either. “I thought maidens were not supposed to see a man.”
Bronwyn’s smile deepened into laughter and she moved to mix some of the contents in the black bag with the water in the bowl. “And just how do you know me to be a maiden?”
Ranulf blatantly raked his gaze over her once and then returned to meet her eyes. “I would know.”
Bronwyn scraped the edge of the bowl. “Mmm. You ever been married?”
“No,” Ranulf muttered as he watched
