It took all her energy to simply carry on a conversation and try not to shake as if she were about to fall apart.
“If you’ll help me, milord,” she began, holding out her left hand to Sir Padrig. “I’d like—”
All of a sudden she could feel her chest tightening, her breath coming in short, hard gasps, her heart thundering until she thought ’twould burst. She tried to bring her right hand up to her throat to ease the tightening noose of muscles choking off her air, instead setting off a wave of agony as her arm remained limp at her side.
“Alys!” His voice sharp, his touch firm, reassuring, Padrig caught hold of her by the waist and hauled her up from where she had slumped against the wall of the pit.
She heard Padrig telling Rafe, “You needn’t have tried so hard to get her to drink more whiskey. All you needed to do was talk her into insensibility!”
Then sight and sound faded away.
“Jesu, what a stubborn wench,” Rafe muttered. “Not a bad thing, I suppose—”
“Unless you’re trying to work around her stubbornness,” Padrig pointed out. “Then no, ’tis not good.” He tugged at the blanket and wrapped it around Alys, careful not to jostle her. “And given that we don’t know how long our good fortune will last this time, we shouldn’t waste another moment.” He hoisted her up in his arms and got to his feet. “Let’s go.”
“You don’t think she’ll awaken again anytime soon, do you?” Rafe asked.
Padrig settled Alys more comfortably in his grasp. “Who knows? I wouldn’t count on her remaining quiet for long, though.” He gazed unseeing out of the pit for a moment, then shook his head. “‘A quiet wench, though ’tis doubtful she’s any sense at all rattling around her pretty head,’” he muttered to himself, transferring Alys up into Rafe’s arms. “Not bloody likely.”
“Milord?”
Padrig made a sound of disgust and bent to retrieve his dagger, slipping it into its sheath and adjusting the strap tied about his thigh. “You’d think I’d know better by now than to believe a word that pompous twit Hugh de Tremont says.”
“What are you talking about?” Rafe asked. Picking up the flask, he uncorked it and took a long swallow, then held it out to Padrig.
When Padrig shook his head, Rafe slid home the stopper and climbed out of the pit.
Padrig scrambled up to join him. “I was repeating one of the lies Hugh told me about Lady Alys,” he said, not bothering to hide his disgust. “He did his best to make her sound nigh brainless whenever he spoke of her.”
Rafe snorted. “Hugh is an ass.” He gazed down at Alys’s face for a moment, as though weighing whether or not he should speak, then glanced at Padrig and shrugged. “I’m not surprised,” he added. “The lecherous sot has been trying—without any success whatsoever that I could see—to get under her skirts. Hasn’t quit since he came to l’Eau Clair last year. So far as I know, she’s scarce seemed aware of him at all.” He grinned. “’Tis clear to me that Lady Alys is a most discerning woman.”
His heart suddenly lighter than it had been all night, Padrig laughed and reached out to take Alys back into his arms. “So it would appear, if she’s kept him at bay all this time.” Careful of his footing, he began to make his way over the pile of debris. “Now that you mention it, I had noticed he deems himself quite the gallant. How could I have forgotten? From what I’ve heard, there’s hardly a woman in the entire demesne he’s not tried to bed—except for Lady Gillian, of course.”
“Do you think he’s got that much sense?” Rafe asked with barely suppressed amusement. He tucked the flask into his tunic, picked up the candle and caught up with Padrig, grabbing Alys’s sodden cloak as he passed by the spot where Padrig had tossed it earlier and flinging it over his shoulder.
“Sense—nay?” Padrig sidestepped down the side of the mound and waited for Rafe. “Self-preservation? Perhaps. ’Twould be more than his life is worth to anger Lord Rannulf.”
“Or Lady Gillian, given her ability with a blade,” Rafe added reverently. “She could defend herself right well, I’d wager.”
“Indeed,” Padrig agreed.
Though he doubted Rafe had any notion just how skilled with weapons the women of that family were.
Lord knew, he would never forget the sight of his cousin, Lady Catrin—who was Lady Gillian’s cousin, as well—wielding his sword, standing alone against several outlaws after she’d tricked him into leaving for help…
So that he could live to fight another day, she’d told him later.
Padrig shook off the memories and cradled Alys a little closer in his arms. She remained motionless and silent, but from the sound of her breathing, she’d settled into sleep, not a swoon, thankfully.
They picked their way toward the shelter, even the meager light from Rafe’s candle a help as they wended through the mess of toppled trees and uprooted brush littering their path.
“Lady Alys spurned Hugh’s advances, then?” Padrig asked, finding himself surprisingly eager to turn the conversation back to the woman in his arms.
“Aye—several times in public, so rumor has it. Truth to tell, I doubt anyone would expect any different.” Rafe frowned. “She’s always seemed a shy little lass. Talks more with the older men, ones who’ve been around since before Lady Gillian and Lord Rannulf wed. Strange, that. Could be she likes ’em well-seasoned—”
Suddenly he stopped and grinned. “Did you show any interest in Lady Alys?”
Padrig paused, as well. “I asked Hugh about her, nothing more than that,” he replied, trying to think back to the discussion. Had he asked about any other women? He couldn’t recall.
Rafe clapped him on the shoulder. “With Hugh, it wouldn’t take more than that. In his eyes, he’s God’s own gift to womanhood—and every other man is his competition. Aye, you got him worried, and he tried to distract you from paying her any notice.”
“Worried? About what?” Padrig asked, completely baffled.
“That you’d ruin his chances, of course. A strong, handsome fellow such as yourself, newly returned from foreign climes, rumored to be a bruising fighter—”
Padrig snorted and started moving again, but Rafe kept on talking even as he kept up.
“—I can see why he’d be concerned. He’s not really as successful with women as he likes to claim.”
“There’s a surprise,” Padrig muttered under his breath, eliciting a nod from Rafe.
“So how can he compete with you, a mysterious warrior the ladies are waiting to discover?”
“Mayhap it isn’t only Hugh who is a fool,” Padrig scoffed. “By Christ, how did you come up with such nonsense?”
Rafe laughed. “’Tis none of my making! I heard some o’ Lady Gillian’s young ladies talking about you. Including Lady Alys,” he said, his grin widening. “Could be that Hugh heard them, as well—they were
