The Norman's Bride. Terri Brisbin

he glanced down at her indrawn breath and saw the emerald-green color.

      She was looking at him.

      She was awake.

      A moan escaped her lips as he shifted her head higher onto his shoulder to feed her from a bowl of broth. He could only imagine the pain that still afflicted her from the many wounds she’d suffered. He whispered to her as he lifted the spoon to her mouth, urging her to comply with his directions. After a moment’s hesitation, she swallowed the soup without resistance.

      Even as he tamped down an initial desire to ask her the questions that had plagued him in the weeks before, he knew that she must have just as many questions of him. William carefully and methodically fed her the broth, giving both of them time to adjust to her awakening. He finished spooning the entire helping into her mouth and then paused for a minute. He planned his next move to cause the least amount of pain to her, but he realized she would suffer nonetheless.

      “I am going to move you now,” he whispered. “Do not try to move yourself.”

      William began to slide from behind her, holding her head in his hand to support her. Pushing some pillows in to replace his own body, he took care with every movement so that it was slow and did not startle her into resisting him. Soon he had her sitting up on the pallet, with pillows and rolled blankets surrounding her. William moved a few steps away and crouched down next to the sleeping platform.

      “Welcome back to the living,” he said with a cautious smile. He wondered if she knew what she had gone through in recent weeks, how close to death she had been. “Do you have need of anything?”

      She blinked her eyes several times and then looked around the room slowly. ’Twas not so large a room that it took much time at all. Soon her gaze was back on him. Questions clouded those emerald eyes and pain filled them, too.

      “Some water? Mayhap the broth was too salty?” He stood and retrieved a cup of water from the jar he kept. Lifting it to her lips, he tipped the cup to let her drink. She tried once to lift her head to meet the cup, but the moan that escaped told him how painful such a movement was to her.

      “Here now, rest back and do not fret. I am rushing you, I think.” He pulled a stool close to her side and sat on it.

      She closed her eyes and he was not certain if she was still awake or falling back to unconsciousness. But, after a few moments, she looked at him once more. Her breathing was ragged now that she was awake. Any relief that the sleep of the unconscious had given her was gone now. She forced a word out with great effort.

      “Who…?” she gasped.

      “Ah,” he said, nodding in understanding. “I am called…Royce.”

      Would he ever not trip over the name he used? It was his middle name and one he was familiar with, but the urge to say his real name had not lessened in the three years he had not used it.

      Her eyes closed again. This time he waited, realizing that she was dealing with the pain. When her eyes opened, confusion and agony filled them.

      “You are in my cottage near the village of Silloth-on-Solway Firth.” Before she could ask, he answered what he thought would be her next question—it would be his. “You have been here for three weeks. I found you, or rather my dog found you, in the woods some distance from here.”

      Her gaze became cloudy again and he waited. He could only imagine how much strength it was costing her to stay awake and not scream against what she must be feeling. He had suffered his own wounds in battle and in tournaments and had developed a tolerance for most pain, but this woman could not have experienced anything like this before.

      “Would you like to rest?” he asked, ready to stave off his curiosity until she was stronger.

      With obvious great effort, she shook her head slightly and mouthed the word no. She swallowed again and tried another word.

      “I…hurt.”

      Her voice was strained and husky from disuse and probably from damage, as well. He noticed that her left hand clutched the blanket as she tried to speak.

      William looked at her, examining her once more and seeing the bruises and scars as though for the first time. She did not need to know everything at this first moment, he decided. He did not want to scare her into a faint with the extent of her injuries.

      “Your face was cut and a few ribs were broken. The worst of it is your leg, but Wenda says it is set well and it should heal as straight as it was before.”

      Her face lost more of its already pale color so he stopped detailing what had been done to her. “I am tiring you. You must rest and then we can talk again. I am certain you have more questions and I have some for you.”

      He leaned down to straighten her covers. The touch of her hand on his surprised him—her grasp was stronger than he would have thought she could have accomplished. William did not pull from her, but waited. Her mouth moved several times as though she could not choose the words she wanted. Then she spoke.

      “Who…am…I?”

      The darkness threatened to claim her once more, but she needed to ask that one question. Upon regaining consciousness a wave of panic moved through her, removing any coherent thoughts. Only this man’s voice had calmed her mind and spirit. It sounded familiar and soothing and safe. But nothing else she could see or hear did.

      As he finished feeding her and moved from behind her, she followed his instructions. The pain was so great that truly she had no choice, but his gentle handling made it easier to put herself in his control. ’Twas as he was staring at her that she realized she did not know who she was.

      Searching through the thick fog of her memories, there was only black. She saw no faces, heard no voices and smelled no aromas. Only a black void existed where her life should have been.

      She needed to know her truth. Who was she? Where was she? And who was this man holding her and caring for her? Was he her husband? Brother? It had been his voice speaking in the hellish darkness; his voice guiding her and soothing her. Why?

      The first word she could form and force out had really been about herself, but the man misunderstood and gave his name.

      Royce.

      A kingly name for this rough warrior before her. Then another wave of darkness surrounded her as she realized the importance of him sharing his name with her. If he told her his name, then she had not known him before. Had he known her?

      Every breath hurt. Just moving her mouth to speak took all of her strength. But she had to know…so many things. And she needed to know now, before the panic that pushed in on her from all sides took control and she lost all thought.

      She used the pain to focus her thoughts and her efforts. It moved through her in waves, some more powerful than others, but like the relentless sea, it did not stop. More a statement than a question, her words were forced out of her by the torturous anguish.

      “I…hurt.”

      He did not want to tell her the truth. She read the coming lies in his silver-gray eyes before he spoke the words. Now fearful of knowing, she listened to the sound of his voice and did not pay attention to the content. Her wounds were grievous; she knew that from the inside out. A retelling would simply make the pain more frightening than it already was.

      A question filled her mind and she realized it would be the last one she would ask. The strength she had used to push herself back into consciousness was waning quickly. He stood and came nearer, tending to her. He was leaving. He was leaving and she still did not know who she was. Her hand moved on its own to keep him close.

      “Who…am…I?”

      The words she most feared at this moment were out now. He would tell her who she was and the chaos inside her would calm and she would remember. She would remember her life and her family and her name. She waited.

      The confusion she felt now filled his countenance. She watched as he looked over her face again and