Page 21 of The Falcon Laird
“Aye.” Dominy padded quickly away.
He rested a hand on Christian’s slight shoulder, and slid his hand down her arm to encircle her wrist. He swore softly. Thegirl was naught but bones and skin. She had been near starved to death in the cage. He marveled that she was alive at all. She must be very strong of will, for her body could have little physical strength left.
A spasm of coughing grabbed her. Gavin slid his fingers under the mass of her hair to rub her back. He could have counted each of her ribs. Her body felt frail, small, and hot beneath his hands. As her breathing calmed a bit, he picked up the damp cloth that lay on the wooden chest and held it to her cheek, drew it her throat. When the cloth became overwarm, he laid it aside, frowning.
Once again Gavin wished he had inherited the depth of his mother’s ability, the Celtic gift that ran like a vein of gold through his mother’s kin. They were descended from a sainted healer, generations back, and the gift had come down through several to reach Gavin’s mother. By the time Jehanne died in his arms, he was convinced that he did not possess the rare blessing of generations of Celtic blood. He might resemble his mother but did not share her talent.
Lady Christian was severely ill, he could see that, and all he could do was apply common sense and comfort. He had made a husband’s promise to her in the sanctity of a church, but expected she might die soon. Yet his commitment to her deepened as he had watched her struggle. He could see she had a strong will, but her body was fragile. He would do what he could for her; he had learned some practical treatments with Jehanne. No matter what, he would stay as long as she needed him.
Later, he woke,having dozed lightly while seated near her bed. As Lady Christian stirred and began coughing, he shifted to sit beside her, picking up a cup of water, bringing it to her lips.
“Slowly,” he murmured when she sipped thirstily. Her eyes were bright and she shivered. He knew her fever was rising. Hetugged the blankets higher and dipped his fingers into the water to ease some of the drops over her temples to help cool her body. Then he stroked the cloth over her brow again.
“The priests here know much of heaven and hell, but perhaps not enough treatment. Mint water will do little to bring down the fever.” He frowned, knowing the fever must be lowered. Immersion in a tepid bath could help, but he was not sure a tub was readily available here. The January winds whining through the shutter cracks made a chill too risky.
“Ah,” he whispered to himself. “There is something else that might help.” He wrapped the woolen blankets snugly around her, then lifted her to his lap. She leaned against him, her weight slight. With one hand, he freed ivory-handled dagger sheathed at his belt. The lady squeaked hoarsely as he brought the gleaming blade near. Then he realized she expected a bloodletting, but he only gathered her thick curls in one hand.
The blade rasped faintly as it sliced into her hair and long tresses fell like spirals of black silk. She cried out in dismay as he cut and reached up a hand that he gently pushed away. Soft, short locks soon emerged under his fingers. Gavin bobbed her hair like a man’s, the only way he knew how to manage it, shorn straight and simple at the level of her jaw. She gasped and stared up at him without protest now.
“I am sorry, my lady,” he said as he brushed drifts of hair off the bed. He ran a hand through her curls. “Your hair was like a blanket, heating you overmuch. This will help your body to cool better.”
“But I am cold now,” she said hoarsely.
He tucked the blanket around her and set her back against the pillows. “Fever chills. The shorter hair will help, I promise.”
She huffed, and Gavin smiled a little, glad to see some spirit in her. He dipped his fingers into the water to soothe them over her brow, over her fine-cut cheekbones, down her throatto her sharp little collarbones. A few drops ran down into the shadowed valley between her breasts.
She tried to pull away but had little strength. He applied water to the back of her neck, newly bared. “Hush, do not struggle so. I have put my knife away. I am defenseless.”
She shrugged a shoulder in a display of disdain, her silence icy.
“At the risk of displeasing you again,” he said, “I insist that tomorrow you swallow Brother Richard’s herbal infusions and whatever food Dominy brings. You need medicines and nourishment.” He lifted the water cup. “Drink.”
She tipped her jaw indignantly, showing she cared little for his opinion, but sipped the water.
Footsteps sounded outside, and Dominy entered the room holding a flaming candle and a stack of white cloths. The monk who came in behind her carried a kettle of steaming water.
“Set it just there,” Gavin directed, pointing to the chest beside the bed. The monk set down the iron pot, glanced nervously toward the bed, where Gavin sat holding a naked woman who was covered only by a blanket, and hastily left the chamber.
“What did you do to her?” Dominy gasped, holding the candle high. She looked accusingly at Gavin, and then at the carpet of dark hair on the floor.
“It was necessary,” he said. “She had a great deal of hair,” he admitted.
“She looks like a skinny boy!” Dominy said. Christian made a small, unhappy squeak. “Such beautiful curls—”
“That would have adorned her dead body,” Gavin said bluntly. “This will help the fever. She is better off without that mantle of black sheep’s wool.”
Dominy set the candle aside, muttering to herself as she swept away the shorn hair. “Why did ye want hot water? A bath? They’ve no tub here.”
“Not a bath,” Gavin answered. “Bring the kettle closer, and drape the linens here. Just so.” Seated at the edge of the bed, he gathered the blankets around Christian and helped her sit up.
“Steaming water under a tent will help coughs and chest ailments. Lean forward.” He pushed her head and shoulders forward gently as Dominy draped a linen sheet over the girl’s head to catch the whorls of steam.
“Just for a bit, breathe it in,” Gavin told the lady. With his hands partly inside the linen tenting, he felt the hot, moist air as Lady Christian inhaled. She rested her arm over his and shifted. As she did, her lightweight gown ran up and the blanket slipped, so that his fingers touched her smooth, bare skin. Suddenly he was much too aware that only a thin woolen blanket separated them.
She leaned forward to breathe in the steam and the blanket slipped further. Hot mist, soft flesh beneath his hands, shared body heat—all felt mellow, relaxing, yet soon edged toward something risky as his body began to respond. Clearing his throat, he shifted away. Lifting the linen cloth, he felt a refreshing draft of cool air enter the makeshift tent.
“Enough, my lady,” he said. “It will help. You should not get overheated.” Nor should he. Helping her to lie back, he moved away as Dominy stepped forward to tuck the blankets around her again.
