For My Lady's Honor. Sharon Schulze

lap, Lady Alys closed her eyes and slumped into Padrig as her tension eased. He took one last sip of the liquor and corked the flask, balancing it by his side should Lady Alys have further need of it.

      She lay curled against him as though she would crawl inside his very being to seek his warmth. “I told you before that I don’t know the extent of my hurts.” Her voice slurred a bit, as if she hovered on the cusp of sleep. “I do know, though, there’s something wrong with my right arm.” She raised her head slightly from his shoulder and met his gaze, her eyes huge in her pale face. “It will not work at all—and it hurt terribly when I did try to move it.”

      “Indeed.” Mind awhirl, Padrig did his best to maintain an impassive mien and to keep his body from revealing his dismay.

      Damnation! He had a very good idea what the trouble with Alys’s arm might be. If he was correct, ’twas something he could make right, but the process would likely be very painful for both of them.

      For her especially, for he knew from personal experience the gut-wrenching agony caused by settling a dislocated shoulder back into its proper position.

      The thought of causing Alys such pain, of using his strength against her, of manhandling her delicate body, made his stomach twist.

      “We’ll look at your arm, and your other hurts as well, once we get you out of here. Rafe will be back soon,” he assured her. “We’ll move you to shelter, get you dry and warm.” He nestled her more firmly under his chin and pressed his face into her hair, the scent of her filling his senses once again. “Do you feel any warmer yet?”

      “Aye,” she told him, though she sounded as though she held her teeth clenched tight together as she spoke, making him doubt she told the truth.

      Still, what more could he do but hold her, try to protect her, keep her safe until his men had made some sort of shelter?

      Aye, Padrig, a mocking voice within him chided, ’tis a terrible burden, is it not, to hold such a lissome creature so snug within your embrace?

      To his surprise, ’twas tenderness he felt flowing through him, not lust. To hold a woman so close with no other intent than to provide comfort and care was to him a foreign emotion, no question of that.

      Yet there was a rightness to the feel of Lady Alys in his arms…a sensation as right and true as the feel of his sword held firm in his hand.

      By the saints, the day’s misfortunes had turned him into a maudlin fool! In truth, he felt no more than any decent man might—his knightly duty to care for those weaker than himself.

      ’Twas naught more than that.

      He closed his eyes for a moment before forcing himself to ease his grip on Lady Alys.

      Absolutely nothing more.

      His thoughts now firmly under control, Padrig gathered Lady Alys a little nearer, brushing his palm over her forehead, then cupping her cheek. Her skin still felt cold, although she’d a tinge of pink riding high on her cheekbones. Mayhap the color was a result of the liquor she’d drunk, rather than any returning warmth—though the faint brush of her breath against his fingers seemed less chill than before.

      Still, ’twas such a slight improvement. Further concern edged its way into his already uneasy thoughts. Despite his efforts to warm her, Lady Alys continued to shudder and shake within his hold.

      Jesu, she must be frozen to the very marrow of her bones!

      He needed to get her out of this pit now, but he dared not move her alone. Any movement that jolted Lady Alys’s arm or shoulder would be excruciating.

      But he dared not keep her here any longer, either. In addition to her injuries directly attributable to the storm’s fury, she could have developed an inflammation of the lungs, or some sort of fever.

      By the rood, for all he knew Lady Alys might have injured her head as well; she had not asked about her maid since they’d first uncovered her. Though he might not know her well, he knew well enough she’d never have forgotten about Marie.

      He glanced down at her face. She appeared to be asleep, her features slack from exhaustion…and mayhap a bit from the strong drink, too. Whatever the reason, he’d not find a better time to get her out of this hole. “Alys,” he murmured, brushing his fingers over her cheek. “Milady?”

      She nestled deeper into his embrace, the innocent movement filling his unruly body with an unexpectedly intense heat. Aye, ’twas time—past time—to get them both out of this morass.

      He loosened his hold on Lady Alys and repositioned her to sit upright across his lap, her weight slumped against his arm instead of draped over his body. Shifting, he pulled himself up with his free hand so he could peer out over the rim of the hole.

      The rain had slackened noticeably in the brief time since he’d climbed in here with her. Unfortunately, the sky had not cleared much. Scattered moonlight broke through the scudding clouds, the fitful light providing scant illumination—and now the storm had died down—there had been very little lightning in the area to lend its questionable assistance, either.

      A dubious blessing; they need not worry so much about being struck down by a bolt from above any longer…yet the price of such security was to be struck nigh blind instead.

      ’Twas ever his share of fortune, he thought with a wry chuckle—to be blessed on the one hand, and cursed on the other.

      But mayhap their luck was about to improve. They ought to be able to kindle torches now. Lord knew they could use them! He couldn’t see much as he gazed out over the expanse of destruction, only vague, shadowy movements shifting about off in the distance.

      He’d absolutely no notion who or what he saw—there was as much chance ’twas their horses he was watching as it was his men.

      He took a deep breath and tamped down his frustration; this night seemed endless, maddening, a test of his leadership he feared he’d fail.

      He’d not let things come to such a pass, he vowed silently.

      The sun had to rise sometime soon—but he’d not wait for it. ’Twas time—past time—to get things moving.

      To get Lady Alys out of here, to make certain she and the other injured were out of the storm and tended to.

      Now.

      Chapter Seven

      “Rafe,” Padrig muttered, grown impatient with waiting. “Damnation, where are you?”

      “Right here, sir,” came the reply from just the other side of the pit.

      Clutching Alys to his chest with one arm, his free hand grasped firm about his knife hilt, Padrig leapt into a half-crouch.

      “Christ on the cross, man, but you gave me a start,” he said. Exhaling sharply, he let his dagger drop to his feet and lowered himself to sit again. His heart still thumping hard, he eased Lady Alys’s limp form down to rest against his chest and drew the blanket higher about her throat. She settled into his lap as if she’d done so many times before. Softening his voice, he added, “I didn’t even hear you draw near.”

      “I tried to stay quiet, sir, so as not to disturb the lady if she’d settled into sleep.” Rafe climbed up onto the mound, perched on the edge and gazed down at her.

      “I don’t know that much of anything will disturb her at the moment.” Padrig shifted her body a bit, so she rested in a more comfortable position. “She didn’t so much as twitch when I jumped up.”

      “Poor wee lamb,” Rafe said quietly, shaking his head. “Just look at her, all bruised and battered—and no doubt hurt in other ways as well, like the others.” He reached into the leather bag hanging from his belt and drew forth a small cloth-wrapped bundle. Unfolding the material, he revealed a candle stub, tinder, flint and steel, the lot of which he held carefully cupped within his hands. “’Tis a miracle she was able to stay awake and call for help, without