Warrior Of Fire. Michelle WillinghamЧитать онлайн книгу.
of her hair. It was not a heavy silk like other women he had known. No, it was fragile, like her—tangled and damp from the journey. As he studied her more closely, he realised how very thin she was, half-starved and frail. This was not a woman who had missed a meal or two. She was fighting for her life.
He’d seen folk who had starved to death before, men and women alike. And although he shouldn’t care what happened to a stranger, he felt an invisible force drawing him closer. She needed someone to watch over her, someone to take care of her—the way he wanted someone to protect his sisters.
His mood darkened as he went to fetch her another blanket from the chest. He laid it over her, and she moved slightly, snuggling close within the blanket.
Dieu, how long had she been walking outside? He thought about awakening her but decided to let her sleep. She looked exhausted from her journey. He adjusted the blanket and touched her hair once again. His questions could wait until morning.
Raine lit a torch in the hearth and then left the room, closing the door to keep in the heat. He walked down the stairs and through the sanctuary. Although the worship space was untouched by fire, he could feel the presence of the holy men...and their screams haunted him still.
He blamed himself for their deaths, for being unable to save them. The devastating fire had claimed the lives of every man, and he’d been granted only a few days’ leave to bury the bodies.
Raine walked outside to the kitchen, needing a distraction. He had eaten his own meal hours ago, and the truth was, he knew very little about cooking. Among the Norman soldiers, his food consisted of hunting meat and roasting it. However, the monks who had once lived here had root vegetables stored underground before they’d been attacked. He supposed he could find something for the woman to eat.
He paused, feeling like a thief. But dead men had no need of food, he reminded himself. There was no bread, but he found dried meat he didn’t recognise, parsnips, and some walnuts. Would she like any of it? He wasn’t certain, but it would have to suffice. Raine started to gather it up in a bundle, but then he stopped short.
What in the name of the Rood was he doing? Bringing her food and blankets as if she were a treasured guest? She was a stranger and an intruder. He ought to awaken her and demand to know why she was here. There was no reason to let her stay.
Raine seized the food and strode through the kitchens, slamming the door behind him. He didn’t know this woman. He didn’t know anything about her except that she was dangerously weak, and the sight of her stole his breath.
It was an undeniable fact that she would die if he turned her away. And the last thing he wanted was one more death on his conscience.
But he could save her.
Raine slowed his pace back to the donjon, letting out a low curse. He knew what would happen to a beautiful woman travelling alone, if he forced her to go. He bit back a curse at the thought.
She’s not your responsibility. You must return to your commander and your duties.
He knew that. But when he entered the sanctuary and climbed the stairs bearing the bundle of food, he couldn’t stop thinking about his sisters. They were alone in England, hostages of the king. Was anyone protecting them? Or were they at a stranger’s mercy, like this woman was?
No, she was not his to protect. But neither would he abandon her. He had finished burying the holy men, and before he returned to his commander and the other soldiers, he could bring her to safety. At least then he would know that she had come to no harm.
Raine pushed the door open, and the chamber was warm and inviting. The peat fire glowed upon the hearth, casting shadows within the room. A simple cross hung upon one wall, and beside the hearth was a wooden chair. The woman was sleeping within his bed, her breathing deep and even. He moved silently, setting the food down on a low table before returning to the shadows.
Raine knew he should be resentful that this woman had stolen his bed. Instead he felt...grateful that he could give her a place to sleep. There was the sense that he could watch her sleep, all night long, and he would enjoy the peace upon her face.
She stirred a moment, and he remained against the far wall out of the light. But a moment later, she sat up in the bed. Her long brown hair hung over her shoulders, and her eyes opened. They were a clear blue, like a summer sky. A sudden wariness crossed over him, for she was easily the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
Which meant that her presence would be missed, and men would pursue her.
‘I know you’re there,’ she said quietly. ‘You built the fire up while I was sleeping.’
She spoke in Irish, and for once, he was thankful that he’d learned their language. He understood her, although he had difficulty speaking beyond a handful of words. Though he had lived in Éireann for more than two years, he said nothing, not wanting to frighten her. And yet, he had a hundred questions he wanted to ask this woman. Who she was...why she was here.
After a time, she asked, ‘Do you intend to harm me?’ There was weariness in her voice as if she hardly cared anymore.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You are safe.’ He said nothing else, letting her draw whatever conclusions she would—though his armour made it clear that he was not a monk.
‘You are a Norman soldier,’ she predicted, studying his appearance.
‘Je suis.’ There was no reason to deny it, particularly when her gaze had settled upon the conical helm he had set aside.
She let out a slow breath and surprised him by switching into his own language. ‘Will you come into the light, so that I may see you?’
He didn’t want her to see his face. Let her think of him as one of hundreds of nameless soldiers, men easily forgotten. If she never saw him, it would be easier for him to fade from her memory. He wanted no one to remember him, no one to know who he was. It was the only way he could protect himself from being recognised—especially if he succeeded in the task his commander had set before him.
‘I will remain here,’ he answered in his own language. ‘You may sleep in peace, and I will watch over you for the night.’
She stiffened at that. ‘And what is it you’re wanting from me in return?’
He had no expectations of her, but simply answered, ‘Tell me your name.’
She seemed to relax at his request, recognising that he had no intention of harming her. ‘I am Carice Faoilin, of Carrickmeath. And you?’
‘I am Raine de Garenne.’ The name would mean nothing to her, he was certain.
She pulled the coverlet higher and asked, ‘Are you alone here?’
‘I am.’ At least for now. It was likely that other priests and holy men might come to view the damage when they received word of the fire. By then, he intended to be gone.
‘Why? Where are the rest of your men?’
‘I will join them in the morning. I stopped here only for a short while.’ But he would not tell her all of his reasons.
Instead he said, ‘There is food and drink, should you want them. I bid you adieu.’ He kept his hood over his head to shield his appearance from her, departing the room before she could ask more questions.
* * *
The next morning, Carice awakened in a strange bed. The sheets held the unfamiliar scent of a man’s body. It was like being entangled with someone else, though she knew she had slept alone. And although bits of memory returned, making her realise where she was, she felt an intimacy with the man whose bed she had shared.
Raine had kept his word not to harm her, and she had slept soundly, feeling safer than she had in years—which made no sense at all. Slowly, she sat up, holding the bed coverlet close. It was always difficult to stay warm, and she was never comfortable any more—not really.
But