Bride Of The Tower

She knotted the linen and used the end of it to blot away the worst of the blood besmirching the man’s face. “Back to Tuck’s Tower, of course.” Clambering to her feet, she took up the dagger and thrust it into her boot top, next to her own.

“Bring a stranger within our walls, milady?” Bart protested as he rose.

“He’s no danger to anyone in his present condition,” Julianna pointed out tartly. By the saints, would he ever cease to look upon her as a child? Her father had been gone for nigh on a year now, her mother slightly more, yet unlike most of her people, Bart continued to quietly challenge her authority to rule her lands, treating her instead as the cherished young lady of Tuck’s Tower.

Something she’d never sought to be—and had certainly never been.

Rolf, waiting patiently near the injured man’s head, motioned for Bart to help lift him, but her father’s old retainer ignored him and moved closer to Julianna. “What of later, Lady Julianna?” he asked low-voiced. “Once he’s healed? What will you do then, if he turns out to be dangerous?”

“You dare to question me, Bart—to question me here, now?” Though she kept her tone as restrained as Bart’s, she made certain he could not mistake her displeasure. “Make no mistake, we shall discuss this later.” Biting back a snarl of frustration, Julianna spun away and bent to grasp the victim’s feet. She nodded to Rolf and they lifted the man. “Now is hardly the time,” she added. “At this point, the poor fool’s more like to die here in the road.”

Though ’twas a struggle for her—the fellow was tall and solidly built—she didn’t permit herself so much as a grunt of discomfort as they carried him to her mount.

“I’ll take him with me,” she said, gratefully shifting her burden to a glowering Bart and climbing unassisted onto her mount.

It took three men, grumbling and complaining, to support the fellow and shift him into the saddle before her. Biting back a few curses of her own, Julianna fitted her arms about him to hold him more securely. His tall, lean body fit snug against her, his back to her front, making her all too aware of his muscled physique even through the layers of mail separating them.

She eased her hold a bit, making him groan and shift in her grasp and his empty scabbard bump against her leg. Tightening her hold again, she glanced about, hoping to catch a glimpse of his sword. If he survived, he’d not thank her for leaving the weapon behind in the forest.

And if he did not, ’twould be another blade to add to her own ever-dwindling arsenal. Though the thought made her feel like a grave robber, of late she’d reached the point where she could not afford to be too particular. As long as she wasn’t forced to turn outlaw…

“Rolf, find his sword and anything else that looks like it belongs to him,” she ordered. “His horse, as well, if it hasn’t run off. God willing, he’ll have need of them someday soon.”

Wheeling her mount, she led her troop along the moon-shadowed trail, doing her best to ignore the intriguing feel of the man’s weight pressing her into the saddle. She glanced down at the stranger’s face, at the strength no amount of blood and bruising could hide.

And prayed she’d not have cause to regret this night’s work.

Chapter Two

The torches along the walls of Tuck’s Tower glowed in the distance, a welcome greeting that lent Julianna the strength to hold on to the man slumped in her arms a bit longer. Never had the road from the forest to the keep seemed so long, nor her own resources so puny. She’d worked hard to perfect the ability to suppress any signs of exhaustion or weakness, yet this unknown man threatened to expose the woman she tried to hide beneath her mannish ways.

The weight of him, his muscled body nested against her, felt foreign in a deliciously intriguing way, making her aware of how different her own body was from his. Tall and lean, male. The scent of leather and armor, the subtle brush of his whiskered cheek against her neck…. That simple contact heightened her senses until her mind and body fair reeled from the overwhelming enticement of sound, scent and touch.

But the tide of heat that passed through her owed as much to embarrassment as to feminine awareness. To feel such things for a man nigh lifeless in her arms! What was wrong with her? Had she grown so desperate in her self-imposed chastity?

She shook her head in disgust. ’Twas an easy thing to live a chaste life when not faced with temptation. The good Lord knew she’d never before been tempted by any man at Tuck’s Tower.

Or elsewhere.

’Twas a good thing she had not, she thought wryly as she rode beneath the raised portcullis and nudged her mount toward the stables. For if she were to give herself to a man, she suspected her fragile and treasured authority over Tuck’s Tower and all who dwelled within its walls would come to an end.

And that, she would never allow to happen—not while she had breath in her body, and the support of her doting and powerful uncle—her overlord—behind her.

She’d willingly sacrifice herself for Tuck’s Tower, if need be.

Two of her men approached and eased the wounded man from her grasp, though she feared she’d not free herself of the feelings he’d engendered within her so readily. But she’d work to do it now, to settle the man and treat his injuries. For the sooner he recovered and left Tuck’s Tower, the less opportunity for her to do something she might regret.

Despite the late hour and her own state of exhaustion, Julianna took charge of seeing to her unexpected guest. The fact that outsiders seldom passed through their gates had made some of her people suspicious of every stranger, while others—mostly those too young to realize the threat a stranger could pose—would welcome anyone to Tuck’s Tower without a thought of caution. Julianna, however, had been taught vigilance nigh from the cradle; she would protect her own until time and experience allowed her to do otherwise.

They carried the man to a small chamber adjoining hers—a room equipped with stout doors that could be locked—and laid him upon a straw pallet on the floor. After she’d given them several low-voiced commands, the men-at-arms left.

Biting back a sigh of exhaustion, Julianna entered her chamber and collected the night candle from beside her bed, kindled it and returned to the storeroom to set the tall iron stand next to her patient. The thick taper cast its brightness too high to be of much use, although it gave her a clear enough look at him to see that the disheveled hair hanging to his shoulders, where not matted with blood, was dark blond.

Bending over him, she adjusted the makeshift bandage wound tightly about his brow. “You are a handsome one,” she murmured, then shook her head in disgust at her weakness. “Though that matters not a whit.”

She went back to her room to collect more candles and water. “Who are you?” she mused. “And what were you doing in Sherwood on foot, all alone?”

If he survived his injuries, she’d learn those answers as soon as he could speak, for she scarce dared trust anyone anymore, even those she knew. Strangers—especially well-armed strangers—posed far too great a risk. She refused to permit anyone or anything to threaten her tenuous control over Tuck’s Tower, for she dared not risk losing all she held dear.

However, of late her nerves and resources had been stretched to the limit. If her uncle knew about the recent chaos and suspicious events in the area, he might decide to remove control of Tuck’s Tower from her hands, make it but another minor holding in his succession of manors and keeps spread about the land. He might also decide to carry her off to court or to live with him and his family—to live a noble lady’s life, to be wed to a stranger, to be forced to live someplace far from her home.

The ewer, which should have been full, stood nigh empty, and the candle stubs in the holder from the table were too short to be of use. Another example of recent events; with most of the servants pressed into service for defense and other tasks, many of the usual household chores had fallen by the wayside. She poured the dregs from the pitcher onto a washrag, then stuck her head out into the narrow corridor and shouted for someone to bring more candles, hot water, her box of simples and a maid skilled in healing.

Unwilling to leave her patient alone any longer, she snatched a branch of candles from the table by the hearth, pausing at the sound of heavy footsteps outside the chamber.

“My lady.” Rolf stood in the doorway, her basket of medicines clutched to his brawny chest. “Thought you might need me for something.”

“Aye.” She set aside the cloth and candles from her chamber, arranging them on the floor alongside the pallet. “Help me out of this armor, if you would.” She’d a long night ahead of her, with naught but her own will to overcome her exhaustion. Though the mail hauberk and leggings allowed her to move freely, they weighed heavy upon her after a day’s wear, and they made kneeling for any length of time uncomfortable.

She bent at the waist and gave a groan of relief as Rolf assisted her in drawing the hauberk over her head. She left the armor where it fell and turned away to tug off her boots, then unbuckled the straps at the waist of the mail leggings and slid them off. Her padded undertunic and linen leggings, uncomfortably damp with sweat, clung to her skin, but she would wait until after she took care of her guest—her prisoner?—to change out of them.

Stretching and rolling her shoulders did little to ease the tension holding her within its grip, but her own discomfort mattered little compared to her unknown patient’s wounds. Instead, she pulled off her undertunic and tugged her shirttail loose, rolled up her sleeves and, taking up the candles, lighted them to brighten the small chamber.

Dropping to her knees beside the pallet, she motioned for Rolf to help her remove the stranger’s blood-stained armor. ’Twas much more difficult to free him from his mail than it had been for her to slip out of her own, since he could not stand or help in any way. His wounds made the task nigh impossible. By the time they’d stripped him to his undertunic and braes, while trying to protect his injuries and the makeshift bandages covering them, Julianna was drenched with sweat and felt as though she’d just wrestled an ox into submission.

Blotting her forehead on her sleeve, she settled down beside the still-unconscious man, wincing as her leggings caught on the rough floor boards. She yanked out the large splinter jabbing her backside and muttered a curse, though she wished she could howl out her pain and frustration instead. She was hungry, weary and sore—none of which was likely to change for the better anytime soon—and the servants and supplies she’d called for were nowhere in sight.

Shifting to a more comfortable position, Julianna took up a cloth and wet it, dabbing at the blood covering the man’s brow. He immediately began to shift about and moan. Had she been too rough? Mayhap she was not the best person to care for him. She laid her hand on his shoulder to quiet him and glanced up at Rolf. “Go get Mary—” A sound outside the door made her pause, but ’twas only two maidservants with the water and candles she’d requested. Julianna sat back on her heels and swiped her sleeve absently over her damp face yet again while the girls carried in a bucket, a basin and two short, fat candles. “Bring her to me at once.”

“Aye, milady.” Rolf followed the servants to the door, pausing when Julianna called his name.

“Look in the barracks first,” she told him, not bothering to disguise her displeasure. “If you find her there, I want to know about it. I cannot have her stirring the men to fight each other over her favors yet again. If they’re foolish enough to do so, ’twould normally be their business, but we cannot spare anyone at the moment. Our safety is far more important than their lust.”

Though Rolf’s expression didn’t change, Julianna could see from the look in his eyes that he’d keep Mary away from the barracks one way or another. At this point, she thought wearily, she didn’t much care how he did it. If they hadn’t needed Mary’s skills as a healer, Julianna would have sent the round-heeled wench on her way long since.

“Don’t you worry none, milady. I’ll see to it.” He nodded respectfully and left.

The door had no sooner closed behind Rolf than her patient began to stir. Eyes open wide, he stared up at her, his gaze unfocused and his face twisted into a grimace of pain. “Poor man,” Julianna murmured. “I’ll give you a draught to ease you soon.” She bent over him, smoothing her hand over his brow and shifting sweat-and blood-matted hair away from the large bump above his temple. A bit lower and he’d likely have died from the blow. She could do little to treat that injury save clean it, but she’d do what she could for the others.

She drew her hand down his cheek and along his jaw in a soothing caress, frowning as her callused fingers scraped against his whiskers. ’Twas not a lady’s smooth hand, she reminded herself, but ’twas competent enough to save him, whether it be with sword or simples.

And if she were to care for his wounds, it seemed she’d have to do so without any other help. Giving his face one last stroke, she shifted to get to her feet, then let out a shriek when he clamped his hand hard about her wrist.

“What—” His voice, barely audible despite her nearness, faded away. Licking at his lips, he tugged on her arm and drew Julianna closer. He drew a deep breath and squinted up at her, his blue eyes intense. “What is this place? Is it Birkland?”

Julianna covered his hand and loosened his hold on her wrist, her mind awhirl. Birkland. Could he be one of Richard’s men? There was nothing familiar about him or his garb, but she’d heard rumors that Richard had hired mercenaries to shore up Birkland’s defenses and help him in his quest for power.

By the Virgin, had she brought an enemy within their walls?