Page 22 of The Falcon Laird
Lady Christian looked up at him in the candle’s glow. For a moment, Gavin saw a reflection in her eyes and felt as if he could see through the green irises to the pool of her soul. A bright, strong will burned there—and he felt a small burst of hope. He reached out to stroke her hair, curls spiraling around his fingers.
“Better,” he murmured. “Your cheeks and lips have some color. And your hair looks fine.”
“So you like sheep’s wool.” Her voice was husky and annoyed.
He laughed. “I apologize, my lady, for the remark. But not for the shearing.”
She scowled, then coughed. He heard a greater looseness in her chest.
“Sounds better,” Dominy said.
He nodded. “But she is still fevered and weak. The steam will not cure the lung ailment, but it will ease her breathing. We will repeat the treatment often. Certain herbs in water will help as well.”
“My lord, how is it you know such treatments? Herbs, too, it seems. Are you a physician?”
“Not trained as such. But I dealt often with physicians when I was in France.”
“Were you ill, my lord?”
“It was someone else. But I found that plain sense often serves better than talk of demons and bloodletting.”
“Aye, and the rest we must leave to God.” She plumped the pillows behind the girl.
“Aye,” Gavin murmured. “The rest is for God.”
Deep in thenight, Christian awoke to a spasm of coughing that wracked her body. She fought to regain her breath, then heard someone move in the darkness.
“Here,” Sir Gavin said, “sip some water. Go easy.”
He sat beside her on the edge of the bed, lifting her into his lap to pull her into the cradle of his arms. Again he held the cup to her lips. Cool water slipped down. She swallowed and rested against him. The texture of his woolen tunic was thick against her back; beneath it, he was warm and solid and comforting ashe held her. She felt a wash of gratitude for his kindness. She coughed again, this time hardly able to get her breath. Clawing at his arms, she thrashed, vying for air.
“Hush, my lady,” he murmured, touching her brow. “Jesu, you are fevered still, but less so. Be calm, now.” His tone reassured her and she relaxed slightly and rested her head on his chest.
The weakness drained her, as if her strength was slipping away. She felt a floating sensation, as if she was in a boat moored on a loose rope, drifting away in fog, sliding back. She gripped his forearms.
“I do not want to die,” she whispered.
“You will not.” She clung to him, wanting to believe him. His hands felt hot and good on her skin, enfolding her, one hand on her upper chest, one on her back. Heat kindled and radiated through her, easing her breath. She wanted to absorb the heat, strength, and support he offered. Her breath tightened, and her vision of a moored boat and thickening fog returned.
Floating away again, she crossed through the mist and stepped into a soft blur of light. Standing within it, she felt weakness subside, felt stronger, more whole. Through the light, a figure emerged, like an angel, tall and winged in pale robes. His beautiful face seemed familiar; he seemed formed of light and power. She felt fear drain away, felt a flood of peace, as if he offered respite and rescue from illness. And for a moment she felt love, warm and tangible, like a flow of water or sunshine spilling over her. Inhaling deeply, she took in that nourishing sense of comfort and peace.
She wondered, in that moment, if she had died. Glancing again at the angel, she thought she recognized Gavin’s face.I am dreaming, she thought,or I have crossed into heaven.
Dearest,the angel said.Not yet. Sail back.His hands came up and light flowed into her, a gentle force, so that she took astep back, another. She reached toward the figure, but the light faded like a thousand candleflames extinguished at once. She stepped back again, floating into darkness. Yet she felt good, lighter, at ease. Healed and alive. The illness was gone. She knew it, utterly and wholly.
Opening her eyes, blinking, she realized she sat in the little abbey chamber. Sir Gavin still held her, and his hands felt like the afterglow of the angel’s touch. But that could not be. The brief, beautiful vision was lost. She could not recapture it; the dream faded, leaving a sense of peace and clarity.
She looked at Gavin in the ordinary yellow light of a flickering candle flame. “Oh,” she said. “Oh.”
“My lady,” Gavin whispered. “Dear God, for a moment I thought you truly stopped breathing.” He laid his cheek against her head as if in relief.
She sat in his arms, head on his shoulder, sensing his heartbeat against her. Looking at him again in wonder, she saw the muted gold of his hair, his masculine beauty, the dark blue depth of his eyes. He looked beautiful to her, perfect. Yet he was just a man, large and powerful and handsome, a man with the ability to gentle his strength, to be compassionate and caring as well as stern and powerful.
When she had been trapped in the cage, her fevered delirium made her believe he was an archangel. Perhaps she had not crossed some heavenly threshold in the throes of death. Perhaps she only sat in his arms and dreamed of him. Yet she felt so much improved that it seemed almost miraculous.
Sighing, she rested against him, feeling a bright, newborn energy filling her. She had forgotten the simple joy of feeling healthy. She drew another breath, deep, clear, and delightful. Perhaps the lung ailment had not been as serious as everyone had thought; perhaps she had just passed through a crisis.
Could a dream have healed her? Or—and she gasped at the extraordinary thought—had she died? Was it possible—she had heard of mystics who described such, but she was none of that. She had been fevered, and that alone was the cause. Dream or more, it was a prayer answered, a private miracle she would keep to herself. Speaking of it might diminish it—and she could hardly tell a man she barely knew that twice, in a fevered state, she had dreamed he was an angel. Others might think her mad.
