gaze, a lethal mixture of helplessness and command, on the monk who appeared to have the most importance. "You must help me, please." She let all the emphasis fall on that small word,
me
.
"Lady!" He knelt beside her in the rushes. A gilded cross set with river pearls swung from a cord round his neck. She had not been mistaken. The abbot.
"Quickly. Help me with him. It is fever from a wound. Outlaws. We were attacked…" It would serve. Not one person in their party was going to admit who they really were or what they were doing.
She permitted a sob. It was not difficult. The abbot made distracted noises of comfort but she was pleased to see his hands on the patient, his gaze, were direct and competent. He might have the strength to take her side.
"Thank you." She breathed it.
Only then did she give in to the need to look at Brand. Like Duda and Cunan, she fought tactically.
His face terrified her. The paleness and the shadows round the eyes. She had thought she was prepared for this. She was not.
"Dear heart." It came out without any of the duplicity she had planned. She touched his face. It burned her hand. She thought he was gone, lost in the grip of the fever world, but then the thick-lashed eyes fluttered.
"Brand? It will be all right. There is help for you here that—"
The look in his eyes, one slight movement of his hand, cut that all off as irrelevant.
"Alina…"
She could scarce hear. All she could see was the terrible effort this took.
"Do not speak."
But the eyes held her: gold light, unquenchable. It was as though hurt and betrayal and bitterness no longer existed. It was the look that had passed between them and changed the world's shape for them. For her it had been stronger than the power of isolation, despair and the malice of two kingdoms. Still was.
"Alina…trust Duda. He knows…"
She leant lower, trying to shield him from view with her body. All her senses trained on the strained mouth.
"Do not go with Cunan… betray…"
Her brother, her flesh and blood. Her only link with her home.
"Why…" But it was too late. Someone grabbed her arm and even as she braced herself, clinging to the fever-wracked body she could feel the life of consciousness drain out of it.
"Lady, come away." .
Duda. Even his hands were hairy. He had won then. It was hardly surprising. He had half a dozen Northumbrians at his back.
Above her she heard Cunan's voice arguing. He was the one who was supposed to protect her.
But all she could see, all she could think of was the lifeless form in her arms and the fact that his last conscious thought, right or wrong, whatever he believed her future should be, had been of her. All that filled her mind was the bond that had been forged between them those long months ago in Bamburgh. Tested by loss that could not be borne without breaking.
Their bond was shattered, yet even so, her last thought, her last action, would be for him.
Behind her Cunan's voice rose. The werewolf's paw on her arm tightened. There was only one weapon that would keep her with Brand.
She fixed her gaze on the abbot.
"Father, if you could send for the infirmarian to help my husband…" There was an appalled silence behind her. She filled it by saying, "I know something of healing myself and I can help."
She took a strength-giving breath. "My husband is all in the world to me." She let her voice rise in pitch, become shrill, but piercingly clear. "I will not be parted from him." The words rent the air in a male-chilling shriek of womanly desperation.
Her hand, despite the weakness of badly healed bones, despite the grip of the wolf's claws at her wrist, embedded itself in Brand's tunic. The other hand lighted on his unconscious face with a possessiveness none could miss. It was not feigned.
No one moved. She took another breath. She sobbed. The abbot must have thought it pathetic. The others knew precisely what it was: a declaration of war.
The next sob took on an edge that made teeth
me
.
"Lady!" He knelt beside her in the rushes. A gilded cross set with river pearls swung from a cord round his neck. She had not been mistaken. The abbot.
"Quickly. Help me with him. It is fever from a wound. Outlaws. We were attacked…" It would serve. Not one person in their party was going to admit who they really were or what they were doing.
She permitted a sob. It was not difficult. The abbot made distracted noises of comfort but she was pleased to see his hands on the patient, his gaze, were direct and competent. He might have the strength to take her side.
"Thank you." She breathed it.
Only then did she give in to the need to look at Brand. Like Duda and Cunan, she fought tactically.
His face terrified her. The paleness and the shadows round the eyes. She had thought she was prepared for this. She was not.
"Dear heart." It came out without any of the duplicity she had planned. She touched his face. It burned her hand. She thought he was gone, lost in the grip of the fever world, but then the thick-lashed eyes fluttered.
"Brand? It will be all right. There is help for you here that—"
The look in his eyes, one slight movement of his hand, cut that all off as irrelevant.
"Alina…"
She could scarce hear. All she could see was the terrible effort this took.
"Do not speak."
But the eyes held her: gold light, unquenchable. It was as though hurt and betrayal and bitterness no longer existed. It was the look that had passed between them and changed the world's shape for them. For her it had been stronger than the power of isolation, despair and the malice of two kingdoms. Still was.
"Alina…trust Duda. He knows…"
She leant lower, trying to shield him from view with her body. All her senses trained on the strained mouth.
"Do not go with Cunan… betray…"
Her brother, her flesh and blood. Her only link with her home.
"Why…" But it was too late. Someone grabbed her arm and even as she braced herself, clinging to the fever-wracked body she could feel the life of consciousness drain out of it.
"Lady, come away." .
Duda. Even his hands were hairy. He had won then. It was hardly surprising. He had half a dozen Northumbrians at his back.
Above her she heard Cunan's voice arguing. He was the one who was supposed to protect her.
But all she could see, all she could think of was the lifeless form in her arms and the fact that his last conscious thought, right or wrong, whatever he believed her future should be, had been of her. All that filled her mind was the bond that had been forged between them those long months ago in Bamburgh. Tested by loss that could not be borne without breaking.
Their bond was shattered, yet even so, her last thought, her last action, would be for him.
Behind her Cunan's voice rose. The werewolf's paw on her arm tightened. There was only one weapon that would keep her with Brand.
She fixed her gaze on the abbot.
"Father, if you could send for the infirmarian to help my husband…" There was an appalled silence behind her. She filled it by saying, "I know something of healing myself and I can help."
She took a strength-giving breath. "My husband is all in the world to me." She let her voice rise in pitch, become shrill, but piercingly clear. "I will not be parted from him." The words rent the air in a male-chilling shriek of womanly desperation.
Her hand, despite the weakness of badly healed bones, despite the grip of the wolf's claws at her wrist, embedded itself in Brand's tunic. The other hand lighted on his unconscious face with a possessiveness none could miss. It was not feigned.
No one moved. She took another breath. She sobbed. The abbot must have thought it pathetic. The others knew precisely what it was: a declaration of war.
The next sob took on an edge that made teeth
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