“’Tis odd that he made such a request. Most warriors look forward to staying in the keep.”
Forveleth shrugged. “The knight seems a humble sort.”
A horse whinnied in the stables, another snorted. Alesone tugged her cape tighter against a chill. “I am ready for the warmth of spring.”
She grimaced. “Aye, my old bones grow weary of the cold.”
“If you wish, I can care for him,” Alesone offered. “We have been preparing herbs and treating people all day, and I see the fatigue in your eyes.”
Nay, lass. I couldna let you—”
“You have been so kind to me.” Alesone halted. “’Twould be an honor to help.”
The healer paused.
“Please,” she urged at Forveleth’s hesitation. “’Tis nay a sin to sit before the hearth when the tasks are being done. And ’twould be my pleasure.”
A tired smile touched the healer’s mouth. “I thank you.” She pointed toward a sturdy structure that rose to connect with the wall walk. “The injured knight is inside. His wounds need to be cleaned and repacked with herbs. Oh, and his name is Sir Iames.”
A trickle of unease swept Alesone. She knew a man with that name who was a scoundrel of the lowest sort, a dangerous warrior who over the years she had avoided. She dismissed the disquiet. The name was a common one.
“I will be saying an Our Father at the chapel in thanks.” The elder winked. “I wouldna want to commit a sin of laziness.” She headed toward the church.
A gust of wind had Alesone glancing up. Clouds rolling in smothered the meager warmth. Neither would she tarry. With the sun beginning to set, soon Thomas would arrive at her chamber.
Shivers of warmth danced across her skin as she thought of the hours ahead. Though he’d touched her, left her body trembling with release, this night would be the first time they would join in the most intimate of ways.
A part of her wanted to tell him that she loved him, but another part was unsure.
She laughed. Look at her mulling like a dim-witted lass, but for this moment she enjoyed her bit of foolishness. For this night and until they reached Avalon Castle, he would be hers.
“Watch yourself, lass,” a man exiting the guardhouse warned.
Startled, she stepped around the post paces before her. Heat swept her cheeks. Served her right for losing herself in a daydream. “I thank you.”
The man nodded. “Did you need something?”
“I am here to tend to Sir Iames.”
“He is on the cot near the back wall.” The warrior stepped aside, and she entered.
The lingering scent of men and leather and smoke filled the large room as her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim interior. Illuminated by two torches in wall sconces along with the flicker of flames in the hearth, numerous beds lay against the far wall in a staggered fashion.
Alesone lifted her basket and made her way toward the injured man covered with a heavy blanket. As she approached, she noticed he was shivering. God in heaven, after his brave deed, please dinna let him have come down with a fever.
At his side, she set down the basket. “I am Alesone, and I will be tending to you.”
“A…” The knight coughed. “An older woman was here earlier,” he grumbled.
She began sorting through the herbs for the chamomile. “’Twas Forveleth; she is the healer at Dair Castle.” She lifted the blanket and began unwinding a bandage. “I will be cleaning your wounds and—”
The man turned. In the shimmer of firelight he came into clear view.
Her chest constricted. Sir Iames!
Through the wash of pain, satisfaction settled on the fierce knight’s face.
Alesone gasped. “They said you were…”
