The Christmas Knight. Michele SinclairЧитать онлайн книгу.
coughing, waving her hands in a futile attempt to clear the air of dust. Like before, the massive stone walls remained erect, but inside the structure was chaos and devastation. Shouts were coming from everywhere as people started dashing inside to search for the new lord’s body. Bronwyn couldn’t move. She just stood transfixed in shocked horror.
A strong firm grip encircled her upper arm and pulled. “My lady. You need to leave. It’s not safe here.”
Bronwyn blinked. “It was my fault. I should have left. He didn’t come down because I had to stay. To see him. He saved me and I just wanted…” Tears formed and fell.
Then she saw him. Ranulf was lying near the top of the tower on the stairs that had been built into the stone structure. Bronwyn wrenched free of Tyr’s grasp and leapt up the stairs before he could stop her.
Ranulf felt cool fingertips stroking his cheek and decided he was dreaming. His angel had returned and was whispering softly into his ear and he longed to know what she was saying. As consciousness took hold, he realized they were words of fear and remorse and he knew then that it was not a dream, but a nightmare, and if he were to open his eyes, his angel would be there, looking at him…with pity.
Ranulf reached out with his working arm and snatched her wrist. “Don’t look at me,” he hissed. His confidence had already taken a hit when she dared to argue with him. No one did that. No one.
“Shh. Don’t try to move.”
Ranulf tried once again to push her away, but his arm wouldn’t cooperate. His shoulder hurt, but that pain was negligible compared to the one in his head. “Leave me,” he pleaded. Never had he begged before, but he could hear it in his voice, imploring her to go.
Soft lips caressed his right ear. “Please, my lord. Let me save you as you saved me.”
Ranulf opened his eyes and tried to lift his head. Intense pain shot through his temple and the world started spinning around him, making him very nauseous. He had already made a complete idiot of himself. She was tending to his shoulder as if he were an unskilled soldier with his first wound and unaccustomed to dealing with pain. He was not going to add vomiting to the day’s events.
Her fingers reached the edge of his tunic and were about to pull back the opening to further examine the wound when he reached up and stopped her. “Don’t. Get someone else. Anyone else.”
Bronwyn was about to argue when comprehension sank in. She should have realized that such a severe burn injury would not be localized to just his face. The man neither wanted nor would get sympathy from her because of his past wounds. Everyone had nightmares, and he obviously was stilling dealing with his.
“Why? I’m not afraid. Are you?”
Ranulf recognized a challenge when one was issued, but he could not recall the last time someone had made such a direct one. He held her gaze for a long moment. “Only of you, angel.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why? You look like one.”
“Then the fall has made you delusional, and the sooner we get you off these stairs and remove the wood lodged in your shoulder, the better.”
Hearing that he was not on the ground and that they were about to move him, Ranulf was in the process of saying “no” when someone jerked up his shoulders and head, causing the world to grow dark.
Ranulf’s last thought was that Tyr and the old lady had been right. He really was a fool.
Ranulf awoke to the smell of flowers and the tantalizing scent of woman. Once again he had the unfamiliar sensation of being caressed. This time the feeling of fingers ran softly across his forehead and into his hair again and again, completely overwhelming his other senses, including the painful banging in his head that matched the beat of his pulse. He concentrated on the gentle ministrations and listened to the raspy tones of his angel issuing instructions. Her low, sultry voice did not carry the songbird qualities heard so often in court, but it was soft, clear, and possessed a dangerous quality that could awaken his once-dead heart.
Ranulf held his breath. The silky sounds had changed from sultry tones to playful ones…and they were chiding him.
“You’re smiling, my lord,” Bronwyn whispered into his ear so that no one else could hear. “Not the large type of grin your friend wears so easily, but enough for me to know that you are awake.”
Ranulf blinked his one working eye and saw the face of his angel peering down at him. Her hair had been haphazardly pulled back in a loose braid that at any minute threatened to fall apart. The angry midnight eyes he had witnessed from afar were not nearly as dark as he had originally believed. Lined with concern, they were a deep misty blue, the color of the sea after a storm. He could see no pity or fear in the overly large pools. Only one other pair of blue eyes had ever looked at him that way. Sir Laon le Breton’s, her father.
Ranulf discovered not long after his injury that only a certain type of woman would be attracted to his bed. Tyr and a few others had tried to convince him otherwise, and usually it was a mercenary heart he held in his arms, attempting to woo him for his money. But there were a few times, when the woman he held looked back at him with such cold detachment it made him feel only lonelier and less of a man. Three years ago after a highly unpleasant encounter, he decided to forgo female companionship altogether, and until today he had never been tempted to change his mind.
Ranulf could not remember ever wanting any woman more. But indifference from her would be a soul killer. He suspected that if he should try, she might indulge him in a kiss, but he didn’t want her pity or her compassion. He desired something else. Something so rare that he had not once encountered it in the last decade. He needed Bronwyn le Breton to see him as a man.
A knock on the door pulled Bronwyn away from his side. Perturbed by her sudden absence, Ranulf shifted slightly to see the old nursemaid followed by Tyr enter the room. Unable to stop himself in time, he groaned. Bronwyn immediately flew back to his side, but Ranulf could see his tall friend arch a brow inquisitively and flash him a knowing grin as he crossed his arms. Tyr had seen him injured—and more seriously—too many times to believe that pain was behind Ranulf’s grimace. His friend recognized Ranulf’s desire to be alone and apparently was enjoying himself too much to care.
Bronwyn licked her lips, drawing his attention back to her. “When the floor fell, part of one of the beams broke off and lodged itself in your shoulder. I managed to take it out and slow the bleeding, but I am going to have to sew the wound shut and treat it. I’m afraid it will be very painful.”
Ranulf watched as she bit her bottom lip, worried at the agony she was about to inflict on him. But all he could think about was how he wanted to pull her mouth down to his and discover just what heaven tasted like.
“Do you need me to get you something to bite down on?”
Behind her, Ranulf could see Tyr cover his mouth and fight to keep from laughing aloud. The damn man was enjoying this too much.
Bronwyn poked him. “Do you?”
Ranulf blinked and refocused on what she was asking. “Do I what?” he groused.
Bronwyn issued him a scathing look, but the nursemaid was not consoled. “Maybe he isn’t right in the head,” Constance muttered, standing over him. “Do you know your own name, my lord?”
Ranulf scowled at the interfering old woman and said, “Ranulf to my friends, Lord Anscombe to my people, and Deadeye to everyone else. You choose.”
The response from both women was immediate. The one from the nursemaid was as he intended. After shooting him a withering look, the wild, gray-haired woman spun around out of his sight. Bronwyn’s expression, once tender and concern-filled, had transformed into one of exasperation. “It’s not his head that you should be worried about, Constance. After years of dealing with my sisters, I thought you would recognize obstinacy at the expense of pride,” she purred lightheartedly, giving him a wink.
Ranulf almost choked