Page 83 of Rebellion's Fire

“I have no heirs,” she snapped. “You’re excused.”

Somewhere, some part of her was horrified that he’d turned this so suddenly and easily into banter, that she’d joined in without even noticing. Only as the faint, fugitive half smile flickered across his lips did she realize, and bit her lip with shame.

He dropped the under sheet on top of its fellow on the floor and raised his eyes to hers. “Then the heirs will be all mine.”

Her mouth opened, but no words came, so she closed it again. It didn’t matter, for she’d lost his attention again anyway. He strode to the door, opening it and calling for Eua and Sigurd.

Eua hurried first into the room, her wide eyes flickering warily between Adam and Christian.

Adam pointed at the linen. “Can you arrange fresh linen? The lady will sleep here from now on.”

“Good,” Eua managed. She fixed Christian with her eyes. “That’s good.”

“Sigurd, take the chest away, will you? Give the woman Alys whatever from it is hers and leave the chest in some corner of the hall. Have Findlaech divide up the rest.”

Eua hurried out of the chamber with the linen, and Sigurd followed, lugging the chest.

Christian stared at him. “Whois the Lady of Tirebeck?”

Again, the smile flickered on his lips but didn’t touch his eyes. “Those were my last domestic orders.”

With a shuddering breath, Christian pulled herself together. “Good,” she said, walking to the door. “Because I have wounded to see to and dinner to arrange.”

*

She didn’t seeAdam again before dinner. By then, she had attended to all the wounds she was allowed to see and had treated the soldiers of Ross and those of the king, who lined up in the hall without discrimination.

Henry’s wound was not in the most dangerous part of his thigh. Though debilitating while it healed, heal it would.

“There,” she said when she’d bandaged him and covered his modesty with a blanket. “I hope that makes you more comfortable.”

“Thank you, lady,” he said meekly. “I’m so sorry for this…grief that’s come to you.”

Grief. Surely, he didn’t mean William? Henry of all people knew how things had stood between them. And yet William and she had been companions of a sort for almost four years. No part of her life had excluded his presence, even if only to acknowledge his absence or the consideration of his reaction. That was loss, of a sort. Perhaps that was why she felt groundless, rudderless. In her more honest moments, she’d liked to imagine a life apart from William, to go where she wanted to go, do what she wished. Coming home to Tirebeck had been a compromise of that fantasy, one in which she’d hoped to live apart and yet in partnership. It might even have happened in time.

Well, now they were irrevocably apart. And it seemed she was to have no time to enjoy her freedom. From one loveless marriage to another. Dear God, Adam hadkilledWilliam! Despite ancient customs of war, could he really not see what a sin it would be for her to marry him?

Henry said hoarsely, “I’m sorry I failed you.”

“You failed no one,” she said firmly. “You must get well now, and then we’ll decide what’s best to do. It’s a new future for all of us.”

She rose quickly, summoning Felicia. “Cheer him up,” she begged, and, her duty done, she walked out of the hall, still carrying her medicine box, and went to her own little house, her grandmother’s house.

The chest containing her clothes had gone, as had her book of psalms and her few other personal items. She doubted they’d been stolen. So, he’d completed her move to the main hall. She felt too tired to fight about it. In any case, hadn’t she realized yesterday that she should never have left the chief bedchamber to William and Alys? She’d looked to her own privacy, her own comfort, before what was seemly. If she truly wanted to be lady here, she had to care.

She set her hand on the door latch and paused, flooded suddenly with the memory of Adam’s embrace in this precise spot. Out of his mind on poppy and pain and fever.

She couldn’t think of that now. It made what was to follow unbearable.

She walked out of the house and closed the door behind her. As she returned to the hall, she noticed Findlaech crouched against the wall of one of the outhouses, his shirt dragged halfway down his arm while he tried to peer at the back of his left shoulder. So absorbed was he in contemplation of whatever he found there that he seemed unaware of her approach. He winced.

Christian set down her box at his feet. “You had better let me see.”

Findlaech jumped to his feet. “Bless you, lady, it’s no more than a scratch,” he said hastily, dragging his shirt back up. It was caked in blood.

“Indulge me. I like to be useful, and I would rather you didn’t die in my house.”

Findlaech’s frown deepened as if he was about to argue. Then his face relaxed into a crooked smile. “To be honest, my lady, I thought it was a scratch. I don’t even remember it happening. Only now it hurts like—well, it hurts.” He turned his back to her and dragged down his shirt once more, revealing an ugly sword cut. At least most of the blood had dried.

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