if he didn’t manage to peel his torn shirt off, it would end up sticking to the wounds, making the entire healing process even more painful. He didn’t care. Sooner or later Bogo would find his way to his master’s room, bringing salve and clean linen and food. In the meantime he would wait.
He could ignore pain—it was something he’d learned quite young, and he considered it only one of his considerable talents. He closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of fresh linen.
He had until tomorrow to recover, and he’d be damned before he’d give Father Paulus the pleasure of seeing his pain. He had been summarily dismissed, and his presence wouldn’t be required until the wedding festivities the next day, leaving him more than enough time to recoup his strength. He couldn’t afford to let anyone see him flinch. He couldn’t afford to be vulnerable—not in his precarious situation.
He closed his eyes. The ride in the litter had been endless, and even the presence of Lady Julianna had been little distraction. It was all he could do to ignore the pain— he’d had no reserves left to tease the deliriously shy widow.
It was already growing dark, he was hungry, but he was in too much pain to move. Where the hell was Bogo when he needed him?
He lost track of time—it may have been hours, it may have been less—when he heard someone at the door. They’d locked him in, he realized, not moving. He supposed he could thank Sir Richard and kindly Father Paulus for that signal honor. The opportunities for revenge were plentiful to a man with imagination, and Nicholas had far more than his share. He listened to the sound at the door without moving, dreaming of ways to torment his enemies.
“Master Nicholas?” It was Bogo, of course, sounding frustrated. “They’ve locked you in.”
“I know that,” he said in a resigned tone. “Find Lady Isabeau and see if she’ll give you a key.”
“Are you hurting?”
Nicholas’s reply was succinct and blasphemous. Bogo’s heartless laugh didn’t improve his temper. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, and scuttled off.
Nicholas settled in to wait, once more cursing the abbot and his heavy hand. He had complete faith in Bogo—his servant could manage anything with subtlety and speed. He’d know better than to let anyone know Nicholas had been injured, though exercising caution might make the whole procedure take longer. He was willing to endure. He’d had experience at it.
In the end, the room was almost pitch dark when he heard the clanging of keys. He didn’t bother to move from his prone position—his back was a fiery mass of pain and he had no reason to pretend with Bogo, a man who knew all, or at least most, of his secrets.
“It’s about time,” he muttered into the bed linen as a pool of candlelight filled the room. “Couldn’t come up with a reasonable lie in a timelier manner? I’m about to puke from pain. I trust you’ve brought me some ale as well?”
“I never lie.” The soft female voice shouldn’t have come as such a shock, but he’d been too miserable to realize that the tread was lighter, or to recognize the faint, lovely smell of cinnamon in the air.
He tried to sit up, but the effort was shockingly painful, and he sank back down with a choked gasp. “What are you doing here?” he demanded in a rough voice.
“Your servant came looking for my mother, but she’s off cavorting with her new husband,” Julianna said coolly. “He insisted there was no need for me to bother, but considering that you decided to tumble across the courtyard to my… Lord Hugh’s feet, I presume your back must be paining you. This time you can’t object if I physick you.”
He turned his face to look at her. The branch of candles left a pool of light around them, and the room was cold, though he could feel a faint film of sweat against his skin. Even with the pain he was in, he was in no mood to have those soft, pale hands touch him. “Send
He could ignore pain—it was something he’d learned quite young, and he considered it only one of his considerable talents. He closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of fresh linen.
He had until tomorrow to recover, and he’d be damned before he’d give Father Paulus the pleasure of seeing his pain. He had been summarily dismissed, and his presence wouldn’t be required until the wedding festivities the next day, leaving him more than enough time to recoup his strength. He couldn’t afford to let anyone see him flinch. He couldn’t afford to be vulnerable—not in his precarious situation.
He closed his eyes. The ride in the litter had been endless, and even the presence of Lady Julianna had been little distraction. It was all he could do to ignore the pain— he’d had no reserves left to tease the deliriously shy widow.
It was already growing dark, he was hungry, but he was in too much pain to move. Where the hell was Bogo when he needed him?
He lost track of time—it may have been hours, it may have been less—when he heard someone at the door. They’d locked him in, he realized, not moving. He supposed he could thank Sir Richard and kindly Father Paulus for that signal honor. The opportunities for revenge were plentiful to a man with imagination, and Nicholas had far more than his share. He listened to the sound at the door without moving, dreaming of ways to torment his enemies.
“Master Nicholas?” It was Bogo, of course, sounding frustrated. “They’ve locked you in.”
“I know that,” he said in a resigned tone. “Find Lady Isabeau and see if she’ll give you a key.”
“Are you hurting?”
Nicholas’s reply was succinct and blasphemous. Bogo’s heartless laugh didn’t improve his temper. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, and scuttled off.
Nicholas settled in to wait, once more cursing the abbot and his heavy hand. He had complete faith in Bogo—his servant could manage anything with subtlety and speed. He’d know better than to let anyone know Nicholas had been injured, though exercising caution might make the whole procedure take longer. He was willing to endure. He’d had experience at it.
In the end, the room was almost pitch dark when he heard the clanging of keys. He didn’t bother to move from his prone position—his back was a fiery mass of pain and he had no reason to pretend with Bogo, a man who knew all, or at least most, of his secrets.
“It’s about time,” he muttered into the bed linen as a pool of candlelight filled the room. “Couldn’t come up with a reasonable lie in a timelier manner? I’m about to puke from pain. I trust you’ve brought me some ale as well?”
“I never lie.” The soft female voice shouldn’t have come as such a shock, but he’d been too miserable to realize that the tread was lighter, or to recognize the faint, lovely smell of cinnamon in the air.
He tried to sit up, but the effort was shockingly painful, and he sank back down with a choked gasp. “What are you doing here?” he demanded in a rough voice.
“Your servant came looking for my mother, but she’s off cavorting with her new husband,” Julianna said coolly. “He insisted there was no need for me to bother, but considering that you decided to tumble across the courtyard to my… Lord Hugh’s feet, I presume your back must be paining you. This time you can’t object if I physick you.”
He turned his face to look at her. The branch of candles left a pool of light around them, and the room was cold, though he could feel a faint film of sweat against his skin. Even with the pain he was in, he was in no mood to have those soft, pale hands touch him. “Send
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