Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel

29

YOU’VE EARNED IT

HUGH EYED THE cup that Nessa passed him, his gaze wary. “What’s in that?”

Nessa’s mouth quirked. “I once told a man in a similar situation to ye that it’s best not to ask such questions.” She held the cup to him, waiting until he took it. “Best ye don’t know. Just drink up.”

Hugh frowned yet relented, lifting the cup to his lips and taking a tentative sip. “Christ’s bones,” he muttered. “It tastes awful.”

“And it’ll do ye good. Go on … drink.”

Watching Hugh do as bid, Nessa considered that the knight was definitely feeling better. Men only tended to make a fuss about such things when they were no longer rubbing shoulders with death. Five days had passed since the skirmish, and with each passing morning, he appeared stronger.

Hugh emptied the cup before muttering another oath under his breath. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, Nessa … but I swear these drafts you make me taste like horse shit.”

Nessa laughed. “And ye are familiar with that taste, are ye?”

He grumbled something, yet his eyes twinkled.

Warmth spread through Nessa at the sight of mirth on his face. Hugh had been so forbidding of late, she’d forgotten his dry sense of humor and the banter they’d once shared.

Smiling, she took Hugh’s now empty cup from him. “Now, are ye going to let me check yer wounds without complaining?”

He pulled a face. “Yes, I’ll behave myself … go ahead.”

“Good lad,” Nessa quipped. She helped him into a sitting position and then started to unwrap the bandages. “Ye’ll heal a lot faster if ye do as ye are told.”

Hugh snorted a laugh before wincing. Although his injuries were healing well, they still pained him.

Removing the bandage, Nessa inspected the wound to his back—out of the two of them, this was the one that had threatened his life. But it was healing well, a scab now forming. He’d been lucky, for the crossbow bolt had narrowly missed piercing a lung.

Rubbing ointment carefully onto the injury, she then wound a fresh bandage around Hugh’s naked torso. Then Nessa moved down to his leg. Her brow furrowed as she examined the wound.

The bolt had ripped a hole in the muscle of his thigh, and although the injury appeared healthy enough, thanks to her ministrations, she worried it would leave lasting damage.

“Any reason for the frown?” Hugh asked.

Nessa glanced up, cursing herself for letting her concern show so clearly. “Ye are going to walk with a limp from now on,” she murmured.

Hugh’s eyes shadowed. “How bad will it be?”

Nessa held his gaze. She didn’t have an answer for that.

“Will I be able to ride?”

She nodded.

“And fight?”

“Perhaps,” she said cautiously.

Silence stretched out between them. Hugh’s light mood had vanished. His handsome face had turned to stone, and his gaze was shadowed.

Watching him, Nessa understood. Fighting was his life, and as commander of the English army, he couldn’t show the slightest weakness.

“It’s still early days,” Nessa said eventually, seeking to reassure him. “Every man heals differently.”

He met her gaze then, the harsh look on his face softening. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said, his tone gentle now. “That I’m only alive to grumble about my lot because of you, Nessa. You’ve saved my life, not once, but twice.”

Their gazes held.

He’d heard her whispers that night, the words straight from her heart. But neither of them had spoken of it in the aftermath. Perhaps because they both knew it was hopeless to fight the truth and pointless discussing it.

They were from vastly different worlds, and soon—if Hugh allowed it—she would return to hers. Neither of them had fanciful characters; they were both realists. Nonetheless, it didn’t ease the ache deep in Nessa’s chest whenever she dwelled on the fact that she’d have to leave him.

Ever since Hugh had awoken from his life-threatening injuries, he’d softened toward her. Nessa hadn’t worn shackles on her wrists since then.

“Ready for supper?” Thomas entered the pavilion then, carrying a heavily laden tray. As he neared the table, Nessa caught the whiff of mutton stew.

“Aye,” Hugh replied gruffly, tearing his attention from Nessa. “And if you both help me, maybe I can even sit up at the table this eve.”

Thomas and Nessa did as bid, helping to lift him under each arm, and a short while later, Hugh sat gingerly eating his supper. Nessa had taken her place opposite, watching him closely. His healing was still in the early stages; she wouldn’t be able to rest properly until he was able to stand without assistance and walk again.

Her mood shadowed then as she reached for some bread.

She hadn’t wanted to be so brutally honest with Hugh, yet that wound on his thigh was serious enough to lame him permanently.

They both knew the truth of it, even though neither voiced it aloud.

Hugh de Burgh’s military career was drawing to an end.

A week later, Hugh stood before the king, trying to ignore the dull ache in his upper back and thigh.

Nearly two weeks had passed since the day of that fateful attack—since Robert le Breton and many others had died under the hail of Scottish crossbow bolts. Hugh could walk, yet as Nessa had warned, he had a terrible limp and needed the assistance of a cane at present. However, he’d deliberately left his stick back in his pavilion.

He had to appear strong and fit before the king.

“You’ve served me well over the years, Hugh,” Edward said, pouring them both goblets of wine. The two men were alone in the reception area of the king’s pavilion. Outdoors the sun was setting in a blaze of red and gold over the smoky, dirty camp.

Over the past days, Hugh had noted a change in mood amongst his countrymen. Whenever he’d ventured outdoors, leaning on his cane for support, he’d seen the grim expressions on the soldiers. Even Nicholas Harrington looked uncharacteristically serious these days. With Robert dead and Hugh recovering from his injuries, the responsibility for the siege had passed to him.

He’d visited Hugh the evening before and given him a report over tankards of ale. Things weren’t progressing well for them. Stirling still held. More stone from a nearby quarry had been hauled in for missiles. Every day, Greek Fire, stone, and lead flew at the walls of the fortress, yet although the great curtain walls of the castle were now blackened, they showed no sign of crumbling.

Nicholas’s report had left Hugh on edge. He was anxious to recover, so he could help bring Stirling under English control once more.

And yet, as he stood there, his gaze taking in the king’s unusually solemn face, he knew this was not to be a conversation about siege tactics or replenishing their rapidly dwindling food and weaponry supplies.

The king’s first words had warned Hugh that this exchange was to be far more personal.

“No man has ever shown me such loyalty,” Edward continued, handing Hugh a goblet.

“You are my king,” Hugh replied. “I would lay down my life for you.”

Edward quirked a greying brow. “And you almost did.” He inclined his head. “If it hadn’t been for that comely Scottish healer you keep, you’d be lying six feet deep in Scottish soil.” His gaze shadowed. “Like Robert.”

They fell silent then. It was hard to believe that Robert le Breton was gone. Hugh kept expecting the knight to stride into his tent, a flagon of wine in one hand and a bag of knucklebones in the other, the small crucifix he wore about his neck glinting. “Time for a game … I’ve thrashed Nicholas this eve, and now it’s your turn.”

“We’ve lost many good men over the years,” Hugh murmured. Suddenly, the weight of all those losses pressed down upon his shoulders. Most of the time, he pushed the memories of all the friends that had fallen aside, yet today he felt every one of them.

The king nodded, and then his gaze raked down over Hugh. “You’re as strong as a mountain, Hugh.” He then gave a rueful shake of his head. “I can’t believe you’re actually standing here before me after the blood you lost.” Edward’s expression became solemn once more. “But you aren’t infallible … and it’s time for you to step down.”

Hugh’s breathing hitched. The way the conversation was going, he’d sensed something of this nature was coming.

“The siege goes ill,” he said, stubbornness rising within him. “You need me.”

The king shook his head. “You know as well as I that an injured man is more of a hindrance than a help.”

“I’ll heal,” Hugh muttered.

Edward huffed a laugh. “Aye, you will. But you’ll do it back at Grosmont Castle. Go home, Hugh … get to know your son, wed that comely Scottish healer of yours, have a family, and look after my borders.” Their gazes fused then. “You’ve earned it.”

Hugh was still reeling when he stepped from the king’s pavilion.

The last of the sun’s rays stained the western skies, the crenelated walls and towers of Stirling Castle silhouetted against it.

But the sunset was fading now, just like Hugh’s career.

Heaving in a deep breath, he walked forward a few paces and halted, letting his gaze sweep around him. A pall of wood smoke—from the hundreds of hearths that dotted the camp—hung over the tents. As always at this hour, the camp was a hive of activity. In addition to the knights and men-at-arms that made up the fighting force, the army had a large number of craftsmen, including carpenters, masons, and laborers. Clanging and banging drifted through the warm dusk air, for the craftsmen were erecting two more trebuchets after the siege weapons had taken a hammering from the defenders.

Four days before, the Scots had tried to set Le Berefry on fire. Nicholas had assured Hugh that the damage was only minor—yet it was another frustrating sign of their lack of progress. And then, just two days earlier, the Scots had conducted another night raid on the camp. There had been a few since the siege began. However, this one had caused more damage than the others. The attackers had killed a number of sentries and set fire to the perimeter fences, before slashing their way through the first rings of tents. They hadn’t gotten any further, yet the night raid had put the camp on edge.

Hugh’s attention went then to the large wooden viewing platform, erected just behind the inner perimeter. Edward wanted a safe vantage point for the queen and her ladies to have an uninterrupted view of the siege. However, the platform was empty at this time of day.

Swiveling, Hugh then gazed upon Stirling Castle itself. Smoke trailed from the walls, and the air still held the familiar throat-searing reek of Greek Fire.

All of this was as familiar to him as the beating of his own heart. But he was being forced to give it all up. What would he do with himself if he wasn’t campaigning for the glory of England?

The fine hair on the back of Hugh’s neck prickled then. He was being watched. He shifted his gaze from the castle to where a flaxen-haired woman stood on the other side of the perimeter.

Lamia Delamare. Hugh hadn’t seen her in a while, since before he’d fallen in battle. After she’d invited him to her pavilion, he’d done his best to avoid her.

The lady-in-waiting held his gaze for a few instants longer. She then favored him with an enigmatic smile before turning and disappearing into the shadows.

Hugh watched her go before shaking his head. She was an odd woman, Lamia Delamare—almost as strange as Nessa.

Nessa.

She’d nursed him back to health and had hardly left his side over the past fortnight. He’d long ceased shackling her wrists, which meant she could have likely escaped, had she truly wanted.

And yet she’d stayed. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe she’d forgotten her old life or the cause that had brought her into his life. All the same, her whispered words that night after she’d saved his life had broken down the barriers between them. They’d fallen into an easy rapport over the past days, but there had been no talk of the future, and Thomas’s presence prevented them from broaching more sensitive topics.

And yet the weight of all those unsaid words hung between them, creating tension that grew with each passing day.

Hugh’s chest constricted. The king had told him to go home, to Grosmont and his family. And although the shock of being dismissed from service still made it hurt to breathe, a latent excitement now kindled in the pit of his belly.

Home.

He imagined riding over the forested hills toward the Grosmont, the stone keep rising against the sky. Thomas would return with him, of course. The lad was sworn in his service for a while yet. But there was someone else he wanted at his side.

Someone he now couldn’t imagine his future without.