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That day, Jemma grew up, just a bit.

*

Jordan was sleeping by the time William went to her rooms. It was late in the afternoon and the smells of dinner were wafting in the air through the bailey, making the dogs whine.

Paris was still there, as was Jemma. Deinwald and Michael stood vigilant watch in the hall, and William dismissed them from the duty as he entered the chambers. Paris greeted him in the antechamber.

“How is she?” William fired at him.

“She sleeps,” he was told. “Byron gave her poppy for the pain and it knocked her out cold. Tell me what you have found out. Michael and Deinwald said you found the would-be assassin.”

William proceeded to brief him on everything they had discovered and everything he suspected. It was not a pretty tale. When he had finished, Paris did not look the least bit surprised.

“I always knew the girl was a petty little bitch but I never believed her to be a murderess,” Paris said quietly.

William nodded, feeling his fatigue catch up with him. It had been a long day. “I must see Jordan now,” he said, moving past his second. “We will discuss the strategy of what to do about it later. But for now… I need to see Jordan.”

He proceeded into the next room. In the dark and warm bedchamber, Jemma was seated in a chair next to the bed, a piece of needlework in her hands. She glanced up at William.

“Sir knight,” she greeted him.

Had he not been so concerned with Jordan he would have done a double-take at Jemma’s sweetly polite tone. He leaned over the bed, putting his palm on her forehead, her cheek.

“No fever,” he whispered. His gaze lingered on Jordan’s sleeping face a moment before glancing at Jemma. “You are excused for dinner, Lady Jemma. I shall take the watch now.”

Jemma stood up. “I am not hungry, truly. I would rather stay.”

He looked at her sharply but saw she was not arguing, simply stating her preference.

“You have been here all day,” he said, not unkindly. “Go and take some nourishment, then you may return.”

“If you will allow me to escort you, my lady.” It was Paris from the doorway.

Jemma looked indecisive for a moment before slowly setting her work down and moving for the door. When Paris offered her his arm with a standoffish look, as if he expected her to slap him, she made a face at him and snatched his elbow firmly.

“I willna bite, ye silly goat,” she snapped.

Paris smiled; he liked the banter they had developed. In fact, he quite relished sharpening his skills against her formidable insults.

“Ah, that is the Lady Jemma I have grown to know,” he said approvingly. He laughed when she screwed her face up.

When they were gone William bolted the door and went back to Jordan’s bed, collapsing slowly into the chair Jemma had occupied. His eyes never left Jordan’s pale, sleeping face.

Suddenly, it hit him all at once; the arrow, the attempt at her life, the blood, his fear… everything. He closed his eyes as if to block out the surge of emotions that welled within him, his eyes stinging with what he knew to be tears. He could not remember when he had last wept but he knew the pang to be the beginnings.

Her hand lay limply by her side. He collected it reverently into his big fists, holding it up against his forehead as if he were praying over her. He squeezed his eyes shut, drawing strength from her warmth, her pulse. She was alive, thank God, and he was relieved to his soul. ’Twas a frightening thing to come so close to losing something he loved so completely, that it left him shaken.

He felt weak, like a frightened little boy. He was torn between being angry for the scare and so damn thankful for her safety that he was prepared to do a lifetime of penance for it.

He hated Analiese with a passion he had never known. His natural urge was to seek vengeance, but his common sense ruled his mind. And, under no circumstances, was Jordan to know who had made the attempt on her life. He raised his head, staring at her sleeping face and putting her hand to his lips. God, he loved her.

She twitched and rolled her head, her eyes slowly opening. They rolled back in her head a couple of times, indicative of the potency of Byron’s poppy potion before she was able to focus long enough to see him sitting there, looking at her.

“English,” she whispered, concerned. “Why are ye crying?”

He hadn’t realized he had been. Then he felt a drop hit his flesh as he held her hand to his lips and realized that he had been crying the whole time he had been sitting there.

“Because I could have lost you,” he whispered hoarsely. He didn’t know what else to say.