For My Lady's Honor. Sharon Schulze

tighten, the sensation completely different from the way he felt when his breathing bothered him. She leaned against him so easily, as if it were the natural thing to do—as if she trusted him to make all right.

      By the rood, there was a formidable—nay, a truly alarming—notion!

      Taking a deep, calming breath, he shoved that idea far back into the recesses of his brain where he’d not be aware of it. Instead Padrig forced himself to focus upon their surroundings.

      The pit Alys lay in was deep; the top would likely reach to mid-chest were he to stand up. She must have been terrified, held captive within its dark, wet confines for so long.

      Any guilt he felt over the extension of that time because of the decisions he’d made, he must wait until later to indulge.

      If she’d been frightened, or still was, she scarce showed it now. Her voice, while weak and scratchy—no doubt from calling for help—otherwise seemed steady and sure. Her expression, what little he could see of it in the meager light, held joy at being found.

      Joy mixed with what was obviously pain, he noted with a swift glance at her strained appearance once he’d settled down into the confined space alongside her. Careful not to jostle her, he slipped his arm from behind her, watching her closely. Her entire body tensed and she began to list away from him before he caught her and gathered her close again.

      Sucking in a sharp breath, she buried her face against his shoulder. She held on to his hand all the while, her grip fierce, as if she drew something—strength, or comfort, perhaps?—from the contact.

      His touch as gentle as he could make it, he slipped his hand free and held her upright within the cradle of his arms, shifting them both into a more stable position. With a bit of maneuvering he sat and stretched his legs out before him, leaning back against the same tree he’d slipped over to join her, and drew her down to rest against his chest. “Where are you hurt, milady?”

      She pressed her cheek so hard into his linen surcoat, ’twas likely she’d carry the impression of not only the coarse fabric, but also of the mail hauberk beneath it, crushed into her flesh. Stirring slightly, she mumbled something unintelligible into his neck, her breath cold against his own none-too-warm skin.

      He drew together the sodden strands of hair plastered to her face and swept them aside, resisting—barely—the urge to bury his fingers within the lavender-scented mass. Instead he cupped his palm about her cheek and tilted her head slightly, so he could see her when she spoke. His gazed fixed upon her, he bent close and asked again, “Lady, where are you hurt?”

      Even in the dim light, he could see how she gathered herself, composing her features into a semblance of calm, swallowing and clearing her throat before she replied. “I’m not certain—though I hurt everywhere, or so it seems,” she murmured, her mouth curving into a faint smile, her voice stronger than it had been when he first found her.

      “I’m not surprised,” he told her. “You were buried beneath enough wood to build a fortress. Did you hit your head? Are your limbs sound? What of—”

      She placed her fingers over his mouth to silence him. “I believe I’ll have to get out of here and try to stand up before I can give you a full accounting of all my aches and injuries.”

      “We’ll get you out soon,” he assured her.

      “Why don’t we try now?” she asked. “With your help, I’m sure I could climb out.”

      “You couldn’t even sit up straight but a few moments ago—what makes you believe you can stand?” he demanded, shaking his head at her foolhardiness. “Besides, I’ve got no place to put you once you’re out—not yet, at any rate. We’ll see what Rafe has to report before we do anything more.”

      “Do you think I can get any wetter? More rain is hardly like to harm me at this point, Sir Padrig,” she told him, her voice tart. “I’m no delicate flower to be battered by wind and rain—”

      Footsteps crunched nearby, interrupting her tirade—for which Padrig was grateful. Where was the quiet young woman he’d been told had scarce two thoughts to rub together?

      Not that he’d actually believed she was like that, but still—

      “Here you are, sir.” Rafe leaned over the edge of the hole and handed Padrig a bundle of cloth wrapped in oilskin. “I couldn’t find any wine or ale, milady, but this here will warm ye straight to your toes,” he assured Alys as he held out a wooden flask.

      Moving carefully, she took it, gifting Rafe with a slight smile and a nod. “Thank you, Rafe,” she murmured. “Whatever it is, it will be most welcome. Though I’m wetter than a fish, I’m very thirsty.” Despite her brave front, Padrig noticed her arm shook as she lowered the flask to her lap.

      “There’s plenty there, milady—the flask is full—so have as much of it as you like. And don’t let Sir Padrig take it all, either,” Rafe warned, chuckling. “He’s been known to be a trifle stingy when it comes to the sharing o’ drink.”

      “Indeed.” Alys’s body quaked with laughter and she craned her head around, her eyes questioning.

      “I’ll try to restrain myself for your sake, milady,” Padrig assured her with mock seriousness. “Never let it be said I did not treat a lady with every consideration—the best tidbits at table, the most comfortable seat, first chance at a goblet of wine or mead—”

      “Ah, but who gets the last sip?” Rafe asked, eyebrows arching to emphasize his point.

      “The lady, of course,” Padrig said, laughing. “’Tis one of our knightly responsibilities. ‘A noble lady shall have the best of everything, first to last,’” he quoted in a portentous voice, his gaze on Lady Alys to judge her reaction to their banter. Amusement brightened her expression, faded the shadows in her eyes. “Is that not the way of it?” he asked Rafe.

      “Aye, Sir Padrig, it is. He has manners better than many a fine lordship—some o’ us call him ‘milord,’ milady, right to his face. He doesn’t seem to mind it. So you needn’t worry too much about this rogue’s ways, milady—at least for the nonce.” Rafe grinned, his teeth showing bright amidst his dark whiskers in a sudden flash of lightning. Once the thunder faded he told her, “You’ll not have to put up with him for much longer. We’re readying a place for you to rest out o’ the weather. We’ll be finished with it in a trice. In the meantime, you’ve naught to do but settle yourself here and trust Sir Padrig to make you more comfortable.” Nodding, he clambered out of the hole and disappeared into the shadows once again.

      Chuckling, Padrig called out his thanks, then turned his full attention to Lady Alys once more. After peeling off her sodden cloak and tossing it out of the way, he spread the blanket over her, then covered as much of the blanket as he could with the oilskin. Tucking it all around her, he gathered her close against him.

      Though he might be near as wet as she, at least his body still threw off some heat. Hers, on the other hand, radiated an icy cold everywhere they touched.

      He uncorked the flask and sniffed the fumes rising from it before sampling the powerful liquor. ’Twas strong enough to peel the hide from an ox! With any luck ’twould do her some good, however, for it had most definitely sent a wave of fire flowing in its wake.

      As long as she didn’t choke on it.

      Raising her head a bit, he held the drink to her lips. “Careful now,” he cautioned. “I’m not precisely certain what this is, but I assure you it’s far more potent than any wine.”

      She took a small sip, gasping and coughing for a moment. “Aye, ’tis not wine,” she told him once she’d caught her breath again. “I’ve had such drink before. ’Tis a favorite of my father’s. The Scots make it.” She closed her left hand over his, brought the bottle to her mouth and drank again, then, surprising him, swallowed still more. She took a deep breath and let it out on a hiccup and a sigh. “Sweet Mary save me, but in truth ’tis the devil’s own brew!”