Rose back to deal with the woman, but dismissed the idea once again, refusing to consider his reasons too carefully. Cracking his knuckles, he turned back to her.
The cloak had stiffened in the salty mist, but he managed to peel it away, leaving part of it underneath her. She had scrapes and bruises all over. Using a cloth to brush the dried sand from her flesh, Bart forced himself to ignore the lush fullness of her body as he touched her.
She continued to tremble, so he worked quickly. She moaned again and tried to shift away from Bartholomew’s touch, but was too weak to manage it. He finally turned her to her side, folded the sand-filled cloak and sheet under her, then lay her on her back again and pulled it out the other side.
He covered her with the bedclothes just as a tap sounded upon the door. Tearing his gaze away from the unconscious woman, Bart went to answer it.
“Bartie?” Eleanor said as she stepped into the room. “Is the lady going to be all right?”
Bartholomew couldn’t help but ruffle his little sister’s bright red hair. She was the only one who could get away with calling him “Bartie.”
“I don’t know, Ellie,” he said, following her to the woman’s bed. “She’s badly hurt.”
Eleanor touched the woman’s hair. She frowned and pulled her lower lip between her teeth. “Will she die up here in Mama’s tower?” she asked, looking up at her elder brother.
Bart clenched his jaw. He hadn’t given that possibility a thought, never considering how it would affect his brothers and sisters. “Nay, little goose,” he said. “She’ll not die in Norwyck Keep if I have aught to say about it.”
Eleanor looked back at the lady. Her gaze was thoughtful, wistful. “She is very pretty,” the child said. “Will she wake up soon?”
“Ellie, I have no more answers for you,” he said as he raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. He’d seen men injured like this during the campaign in Scotland. Some of them never awakened at all, and the thought of this lady’s certain death did not settle well with him. “Run along and find Sir Walter for me. Have him send for the healer in the village.”
“She’s starting to move a bit more,” Alice Hoget said, placing a cool poultice on the survivor woman’s head. Night had fallen, and a terrible storm with it, yet the victim remained unconscious. How long could this go on? How long would it be necessary for her to remain at Norwyck?
“What do you think?” Bartholomew asked. An odd restlessness possessed him. He paced the length of the room while Alice examined the woman and did what she could, which was frighteningly little.
“What I think is that she took a blow to the head and was thrown overboard,” Alice said in her frank manner. “’Tis a wonder she made it to the beach alive. She’s lucky she didn’t drown.”
Bartholomew scowled and resumed his pacing. ’Twould have been better if he’d let her die out there on the beach. Less trouble for him. And no doubt less trouble for the woman whose wounds would likely kill her, anyway.
Yet he hadn’t been able to abandon her to the elements. Even though he no longer had any fondness for women, the thought of leaving her on the beach had never even crossed his mind.
“What I mean is—will she recover?”
“No bones broke, only a rap on the head.” The old healer picked up the lamp, then lifted the unconscious woman’s eyelids. “Look,” she said. “The blacks of her eyes shrink with the light. It means she’ll be coming out of it soon.”
“How do you know that?” Bartholomew asked.
“Experience,” she replied as she gathered her things together. “Seen plenty of people knocked senseless. ’Tis not unusual for a body to remain in this state for a day or more.”
“You mean she could stay this way for more than a day?”
“Aye, m’lord,” Alice said. “Though this one’s showing signs of coming ’round.”
Bart scowled at Alice, then turned his sour expression on the woman in the bed. Alice ignored him as she collected her things and shuffled out of the chamber, leaving Bartholomew alone with the stranger…and his dismal thoughts.
He ceased his pacing and sat on a chair near the bed. The sooner the woman came to her senses, the better, he thought. Then he would send her on her way to wherever she’d been going when her ship had gone down. Likely she’d been en route to one of the southern harbors, but had been blown off course by the storm. That very thing had often been known to happen, though the ships did not usually sink.
Bart picked up one of her hands. The nails were nicely shaped, and the skin was soft. This woman could be naught but a lady with hands like these. Her face was finely shaped, too, and Bart was certain that someone would soon come looking for her.
The sudden, distant clanging of the church bell had him on his feet in an instant. ’Twas not time for services, and there was only one other reason for the bell to ring: the village was under attack.
Without another glance at the unconscious woman, Bart left the chamber and fairly flew down the steps. On the first landing, he met a footman who’d been sent to summon him.
“My lord, Armstrong men are raiding the village!”
“Go out to the stable and see that my squire has my armor and horse ready,” Bart said as they quickly descended to the main hall together. “I’ll be there directly.”
Eleanor sat tearfully at the great table in the hall, with John’s arm around her. Kathryn stood stoically near the fireplace. Henry, thrusting his chest out, approached Bartholomew as he crossed the hall. “I’m coming with you,” he said.
“Nay,” Bart replied. His brothers should have been sent out to foster at a neighboring estate, but circumstances in recent years had prevented it. Therefore, their training was lacking. He would not send the boys out to battle until they were ready. “Stay here and defend the keep and your sisters. The servants will look to you for direction.”
“But, Bart—”
“That is my final word, Hal,” he said, as he crossed the great hall toward the main door. He stopped short when he reached it, and turned back to his younger brother. “I intend to bring back the head of Lachann Armstrong. Make sure there’s a stout pike in the courtyard to put it on.”
Chapter Two
Lightning slashed across the sky and thunder crashed all ’round them. Only the whoreson Armstrongs would mount an attack in this kind of weather. They’d managed to torch a few cottages and rout half a herd of cattle into the hills before Bartholomew and his knights met the attack, with a ferocity that quickly had the Armstrongs retreating to their own land.
Trudging through a heavy downpour, Bart’s men chased the Scots across hills and muddy dales, but the cowardly Armstrongs managed to melt away into their hidey-holes. Bart had had enough of battles to last a lifetime, and he wished the Armstrong would desist with his warring ways.
Yet, ever since William’s death, the Scottish laird had made it his personal mission to destroy Norwyck. Bart assumed ’twas
