upright with his face close to hers. He eased his left arm about her waist, holding tightly to support himself and tried to do the same with his right arm, but there was no strength in it. Lucy slipped her hands inside the front of the jerkin, acutely aware that her hands were running across the contours of his chest. He drew a breath as her fingers slipped across the bare flesh at his neck. He looked at her with an expression of hunger, tilting his head to one side and parting his lips as if he was preparing to kiss her once more. She hastily bent her head to better look at what she was doing, conscious of the heat rising to her face.
‘You haven’t asked my name, Lucy Carew,’ he breathed as she pushed the jerkin over his shoulder.
‘I don’t care to know it,’ she answered.
Together they contrived to remove the jerkin, easing one arm out, then twisting the fabric until it slid over the arrow. Once or twice it caught, jerking the shaft slightly. Each time it happened the man gave a guttural growl deep in his throat, the fingers of his left hand tightening on Lucy’s waist. Now he was left with only a wool tunic.
‘Cut it off,’ he whispered, closing his eyes. ‘I have others and I fear I cannot sit any longer.’
His grip on Lucy’s waist slackened and she eased him back on the bed. Lucy made a long cut from the neck past the arrow and down to the hem of the tunic. She did the same along both sleeves and hacked away at the fabric until he lay naked to the waist. Lucy concentrated her gaze on his blood-encrusted wound. She didn’t want to think what would happen when Thomas tried to remove the arrow. The idea of her own involvement made her stomach heave.
The man was sweating yet shivering violently, his chest rising with each uneven breath he drew. Removing the jerkin must have caused him agony, but beyond the growling he had made no complaint throughout. Gently Lucy pulled the blanket up to his neck, easing it over the arrow. His eyelids flickered, but did not open. He smiled and for the first time it was neither leering nor mocking and Lucy’s lips curved in response. She reached for the second bottle—the one containing the spirits he had demanded—and lifted it to his lips.
His eyes opened and he frowned, blinking to focus on her.
‘When Thomas returns...’ He sighed and fell silent. He appeared to have lapsed once more into unconsciousness, or perhaps the amount of wine he had consumed had sent him into a stupor.
Lucy stood anxiously by the bed, waiting for the footfall on the stairs. Where would Thomas have concealed two horses? The barn where she brewed her ale would be too small, but she hoped he had not tried to force the door.
The room was silent so when Robbie stirred in his cot and gave a whimper it sounded as loud as a cockcrow at dawn. She glanced at the man in the bed to see if he had heard, but he showed no signs that he was aware of anything.
She crept to the cradle and patted her son’s head, smoothing down the dark curls and pressing a cool finger against the red spot on his cheek where his latest tooth was growing through. He opened one eye, yawned and closed it again, rolling on to his front with his mouth drooping open. Lucy knelt by his side and watched as he settled back into sleep, overwhelmed by the love that consumed her. Robbie would never know the crisis that had played out while he slept.
An intense annoyance at Thomas filled Lucy’s entire being. He had left four years before with no plans beyond intending to seek his fortune as a soldier. There had been no word and no way of contacting him. Now he had returned with no explanation, bringing chaos with him. With luck he would leave again as soon as possible.
Thomas burst into the room, slamming the door back against the wall.
‘Sir Roger, I am back.’
Slowly Lucy turned and stared at the man on the bed, recalling the fine clothing she had cut from him and the imperious manner in which he had commanded her, as if he was used to giving orders. Her stomach tightened with dread as she remembered the assault she had made on him. Cold sweat crept down her spine at the thought of what his retribution might be against the commoner who had dared oppose his attentions.
She had no time to dwell further on the revelation because the door slamming and Thomas’s voice had woken Robbie, who gave a high-pitched, wordless wail. He pushed himself up, his tiny hands gripping the edge of the cradle as he attempted his recently discovered trick of climbing out and making his way to Lucy’s bed half-asleep.
‘A child?’ Sir Roger roused himself, craning his head to follow the sound.
‘My son.’
‘You have a son? Where is his father?’ Thomas looked at Lucy, his eyes wide with astonishment and outrage. ‘You said you were alone here.’
Lucy lifted her chin and glared at the men. She had done enough explaining and apologising since Robbie’s birth almost two years previously and the shame that had once weighed heavy on her shoulders had dulled into a low throb in her belly. Nobleman or not, she had no intention of justifying her son’s existence to a stranger. Come to that, Thomas could wait for his explanation, too.
‘He doesn’t have a father,’ she replied curtly. ‘I am alone.’
‘Good, I want no disturbance,’ Sir Roger grunted from the bed. Thomas merely glared at her, scandalised.
Lucy picked up Robbie from the cradle and hugged him tightly to her breast, making soothing noises.
‘Put the brat down and come over here,’ Sir Roger instructed loudly. ‘You’re going to help Thomas before I become fully sober.’
Lucy kissed Robbie’s forehead. He beat his fists against her shoulder and screamed louder, making his displeasure at being awoken known.
‘Let me soothe him first,’ Lucy said, jiggling up and down rhythmically.
‘This is more important than his temper,’ Sir Roger growled. ‘I’m stuck through with an arrow and every moment wasted puts me one step closer to the grave!’
Arguably he was right, but Lucy bridled at his tone when the child was distressed.
‘He isn’t in a temper. He’s been woken from sleep and his room is full of strangers who are shouting. He’s confused and probably scared. On top of that he’s cutting teeth.’ She hugged him tighter and realised her hands were trembling. Robbie might be scared, but he was not alone in that. Now that something familiar from her life had intruded on the evening’s dreamlike events, she was most definitely frightened.
‘The quicker you put him back, the quieter he’ll be,’ Sir Roger insisted.
Lucy walked to the bed, still rocking Robbie against her chest, and stared down at him.
‘You clearly know nothing about children.’
‘Nor do I want to,’ he retorted with distaste, eyeing Robbie’s red face.
‘It will be easier to lay him down if he’s sleepy and calm,’ Lucy insisted. ‘Otherwise he’ll scream for hours and be clambering half-asleep into your bed a dozen times during the night.’
Sir Roger looked horrified at the prospect. Lucy glared back until he grimaced.
‘The dove has become a crow! Or perhaps an eagle defending her young. Do what you need to, but be speedy. And give me that bottle back. I need to dull the pain. Thomas, are you ready?’
