Lion's Lady. Suzanne Barclay

you ready the needle and thread,” Lion offered.

      “All right.” Opening the medicine chest, she rummaged through it, bringing out a needle, stout silk thread and several packets of herbs. She dipped both thread and needle into the whiskey Sim had brought. Her hand trembled slightly as she prepared to dig into Harry’s ruined flesh.

      At the touch of her needle, Harry roused. “My lady!” he cried, sitting up with no warning.

      “Harry! Lie still!” Rowena reached for him, but he pushed her aside with surprising strength.

      “Have to save her,” he cried, his eyes wild and unfocused.

      “Easy, lad.” Lion grabbed hold of Harry’s shoulders and forced the boy to look at him. “She’s safe, do you hear? We got to her in time. She came to no harm.”

      “Praise God.” Harry sagged in Lion’s gnp, shivering as he was laid back down on the pallet. “So afraid for her.”

      “As was I.” Lion lifted a cup of whiskey to Harry’s lips. “Drink deep, lad. You’ve a bit of a cut on your side that wants stitching. It’ll go a mite easier with this in your belly.”

      Harry drained the cup, then sighed. His eyes closed; his breathing eased.

      “Best begin,” Lion said softly. “I’ll just steady him for you, least he rouse and cause more damage.”

      She looked up at him, too weary in body and soul to fight against his help. “Thank you,” she murmured. Curiously, the words did not stick in her throat. With steely determination, she began to ply her needle.

      It was nearly nightfall by the time Rowena left Harry’s bedside. She was stiff from crouching over her patient, and so tired she could have curled up on the bare floor and slept. Felis had returned from a successful birthing, however, and insisted she would sit with Harry a spell.

      As Rowena stepped from the sickroom, Lion came away from the wall he’d been leaning against. “Harry?” he asked.

      Rowena tensed. “He yet lives. Why are you here?”

      “I told you I’d be nearby.”

      “And I told you to leave hours ago.”

      “I quit the room, for my presence made you nervous. But I am not about to leave you undefended.” Before she could stop him, he seized a stray curl and tucked it behind her ear.

      Rowena jumped back, uncomfortable with the thought that he’d been near all this time. “I do not require a guard.”

      His grin was mocking. “You say that only because you do not know the men gathered at Blantyre as well as I do. Some of them have the manners and morals of pigs.”

      He was protecting her. The notion was both comforting and frightening. “I can look after myself.” She started down the corridor away from him.

      “Really? What business have you in the guards’ quarters?”

      She stopped and turned. “What?”

      “That is where you are headed.”

      “I see.” She changed direction, brushing past him without touching him, yet the heat from his body singed her. Down the hall she went, conscious that he kept pace behind her though she could not hear his footsteps. At an intersection, she paused.

      “The great hall is to the left.”

      Rowena sniffed and turned toward the hall in search of Eneas. Loath as she was to see that turn-tail lout, she had to learn what plans he’d made for their accommodations. With any luck, he’d already spoken with the earl and arranged for the swearing to take place on the morrow. Pray God they could leave soon, for being in Lion’s presence was painful beyond bearing.

      “Why have you come to Blantyre?” he asked.

      “I have business with the earl.” Rowena quickened her pace. As she turned the next corner, she was assaulted by such noise: shouts and bellows, laughter and...was that the crack of breaking wood? It came from behind a double set of metal-banded doors at the far end of the corridor. “The great hall?” she asked weakly.

      “The very same.” Lion moved up beside her, his grin flashing in the torchlight. “We could sup in my chamber instead.”

      “Certainly not. I’ve no wish to be private with you. I must see my kinsman.” Ugh. To call Eneas that grated. “And pay my respects to the earl.”

      “Mayhap you’d like to wait till you’ve bathed and changed.”

      Rowena stopped and looked down at her gown. To say that it was the worse for wear after five days in the saddle and another spent crouched on the floor was an understatement. “Somewhere I have a pack with a clean gown.”

      “Why not wait till the morrow? Alexander is likely deep in his cups by now and—”

      “Nay. I would conclude my business quickly. I do not want to spend a minute more at Blantyre than I have to.”

      “A wise decision. The men here are barbarous.”

      Steeling herself, she met Lion’s amber gaze squarely. “You keep saying that Have you become a barbarian?”

      “I hope not.” His smile was as compelling as ever.

      “Why are you at Blantyre?”

      “Like you, I have business here.”

      She sensed evasion. He’d always been clever with words, able to wriggle out of a question quicker than the river salmon they’d fished for that long-ago summer could escape from a net “I see. Well, I hope to conclude mine the quicker, for then I can be the one to ride away from you.” When pain darkened his beautiful eyes, the heart she’d thought fortified against him tripped. Why? Why did you leave me without a word? Nay, she did not want to know, could not afford to care why. She lifted her chin. “Do we enter the hall or stand here trading barbs?”

      “The slings and arrows of outrage are all yours, lass,” he said quietly. “I would have peace between us.”

      “That can never be.” Rowena moved past him and flung open the right-hand door. The wash of light and noise stopped her in her tracks. Blinking, she surveyed the great hall.

      It was several times the size of Hillbrae’s. Into it were crammed more people than she’d seen in one place before-beautiful women and burly knights. They laughed and shouted, sang and danced, cavorting about to the riotous wail of a pair of pipers. Torchlight played on formfitting silken gowns in a dozen brilliant colors. Gemstones glittered at the women’s necks and on their fingers. Like fairy princesses they were, bonny and ever so polished.

      Rowena hung back, hands clenching in her rumpled skirts. “I must look a sight,” she murmured.

      “The offer of my chamber is still open.”

      “I am still not interested. Ever,” Rowena said, turning on him.

      “Ah, well, can’t blame a man for trying.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “At least let’s clean you up a bit before you must face the harpies.” He seized her chin before she could move away, whisked a square of linen from inside his tunic, moistened it with his tongue and dabbed at her cheek. “Hold still,” he admonished when she squirmed. “Well, you still look like a wee lassie who’s been playing in the mud, but you’ll have to do,” he said cheerfully after a moment.

      “Thank you so much.” Rowena flung his hand aside, turned and plunged into the hall, too angry with him to mind the surprised looks cast her way. Belatedly, she realized he’d probably meant to make her angry so she’d forget about being ashamed or intimidated. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

      Two men suddenly leaped in front of her, their hands around each other’s necks. “Take that back,” one screamed, shaking the other so his teeth clicked.

      “Will not.” His opponent sent