Naughty Temptations

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

She met his steely, blue-gray eyes and refused to look away from his demanding gaze. For several quiet, tense moments they stared at each other. She searched for the lover she’d known and found it not. Instead she saw a pain so deep and cruel clawing at him, it could only find outlet in this way.

Finally Fianna said, “Your threats are useless. I’ll give him my best efforts as a healer. I do that for all I treat. But I cannot guarantee it will be enough to save him. I cannot heal all.” She stepped back and turned away, to face the sick man. “What is wrong with him?” She went to her knees and put a hand on the man’s forehead. His flesh felt hot and was coated with sweat.

Henrik sighed, set his sword down on a table, and knelt beside her. “He was injured in a raid. The wound was stitched and appeared to be healing, but then it started to swell and he became ill. They brought him back here.” He lifted the man’s tunic and removed the dressing from a wound in his shoulder.

Fianna drew in a sharp breath. A cut ran along the top of his shoulder then angled down across his chest. It had been stitched, but it wasn’t healing cleanly. The skin all around the wound was swollen, and red streaks radiated from the area. She muttered a quick prayer under her breath, since she feared it would take a miracle to save him.

“This will not be easy,” she said to Henrik. “I’ll need hot water and cloth, as much of both as you can find.”

He nodded and went to give the orders. She was checking over the sick man’s body to be sure there weren’t any other injuries she didn’t know about when he returned. “How long ago was he wounded?” she asked.

“Four days past.” For the first time his stoicism slipped and Fianna got a glimpse of how much he cared about the patient and how much it was costing him not to show it. His hands clenched into involuntary fists and his entire body tensed with evident frustration.

“Your brother?” she asked him.

He nodded. “Ranulf.”

She looked at Henrik again. “This will be difficult. The wound must be opened again, to allow the ill humors to drain from it.”

He shut his eyes for a moment and drew a harsh breath. “It will heal him?”

“It may. If the ill humors haven’t taken too strong a hold on him. I’ll need someone to help me.”

“I’ll help. What need you?”

She looked at him, meeting his eyes again. For the first time since his unexpected rescue of her earlier, she felt she really saw the man rather than the image of invincible power he tried to convey. The shadowy depths of his light blue eyes betrayed the pain and fear he hadn’t allowed to show before.

“This won’t be pleasant,” she warned.

“Tell me what to do.”

Before she could answer, the woman who’d been tending the pot earlier pushed the hanging cloth aside and brought in a bucket of steaming water along with a pile of clean linen. She set both down hastily and left. Before she could go, Fianna called to her, “Wait. I need a brazier with lit charcoal and some cool water as well.”

The woman gave her a blank stare, then turned to listen to Henrik as he translated. She nodded and left again.

While waiting for her return, Fianna removed the dressings and began to clean the area around the wound. The young man on the mat groaned once or twice but otherwise gave no indication he was aware of what she did.

The woman returned with the brazier and set it on the floor, then left and came back with the cool water.

Fianna pulled her mother’s dagger from its sheath. Henrik’s eyes flashed and he moved toward his sword.

“I won’t harm him,” she said. “I told you I must reopen the wound.”

He drew a long breath, nodded, and returned to his position kneeling by his brother’s head.

Fianna held the dagger, warming it between her hands, her right palm over the red stone in the hilt. She remembered her mother’s words about it when she’d given it to Fianna.

The dagger is a gift of the fae, her mother had told her. ’Tis bespelled in ways I cannot explain to you. It can heal as well as harm, but you must set your will to its action. That had been shortly before her mother had gone away three years earlier, disappearing into the mists beyond the mountains. Fianna moved the dagger so she held it by the tip of the hilt and the very end of the blade. She stared into the red stone, willing it to the healing of this very ill young man.

After a minute or two, her thoughts turned back to her mother. The woman had warned Fianna for some time that she would have to leave, but Fianna had never believed it would happen. Until the day she found her mother lying still and pale on her cot. When Fianna roused her, her mother had kissed her and said, I was waiting for you to return. I have no more time. You know my mother was of the fae and my father a mortal man. My time in this realm was no more than borrowed and is now at an end. I grieve to have to leave you, my love, but if I stay I’ll fade away to naught. As it is I’ve near o’erstayed my time. You have what I’ve taught you and my dagger as well for your protection. It should be enough.

She went to the door and picked up the small pack waiting beside it. One more thing, Fianna. One day you’ll look into the dagger and see your fate. Act wisely on what you see. She kissed her one last time before she walked out the door, heading for the mountains. Fianna didn’t follow. Even if she caught up with her mother, she couldn’t go with her.

Fianna made herself put those thoughts aside and concentrate on imparting her will for healing to the dagger. She folded one of the cloths and wrapped it around the hilt, shifted her grip, and plunged the blade into the flames spurting up from the brazier. She held it there long enough to heat the metal thoroughly.

When she pulled it out of the fire, Fianna let the edges of the cloth fall back far enough to reveal the red jewel again. She stared into it. The memory of her mother brought tears that obscured her vision, turning the heart of the jewel into a sea of swirling red. Yet tears couldn’t account for what happened next.

In the depths of the stone, something more than just its red heart grew brighter and flared into sparks. Orange and yellow streaks ignited, flickered, and roared up into a blazing fire. Flames leapt high, higher than herself as she watched it. She could see no fuel for it, yet it seemed it needed none.

She gasped and almost dropped the dagger onto her patient. Her mother had said she’d see her fate in the stone someday. Was this to be how she would meet her end, then? Fire? Dear heavens, she hoped not.

Hoping to deny it and will it away, she closed her eyes. When she opened them, the flames still blazed in the jewel’s red depths. But from the heart of that fire another image was forming. A face seemed to emerge from the flames, with hair of fire…Nay, not fire, a fiery shade of gold. A man’s face, strong, handsome, with light eyes and…

Again she nearly lost her grip on the dagger. It had to be a trick of the light. Or a reflection. Perhaps he was standing behind her and his face reflected in the jewel… But, nay, he still knelt beside his brother’s head, off to her left, staring at her with an expression of mingled alarm and confusion.

“Are you well?” he asked.

She shook herself. This was no time for fancy or speculation. A man’s life slipped away while she mooned over a vision. “Aye. I’m well,” she answered. “I just had a moment of dizziness. It will pass.”

She looked into the stone again, hoping it had all disappeared. But no, Henrik’s face still stared out of the jewel at her, backed by fire. Was he, then, her fate, also? And what did that mean?

As one speculation chased after another in her brain, the images began to fade from the jewel, until she stared at nothing but the red center of the stone. She sighed and shook herself. There was work to do and she needed all her wits about her.

“You must hold him still while I do this,” Fianna told Henrik.

His throat worked, his mouth pulled into a tight line, but he nodded and leaned over Ranulf. He put one hand across his brother’s head and the other on the man’s uninjured shoulder.

As she’d promised Henrik, the next few hours were far from pleasant. Ranulf screamed and tried to rise when she reopened the wound, but Henrik held him firmly. She let the wound drain, then set a cloth soaked in hot water over it to pull out as much of the ill humors as possible. In the meantime she sponged him down with cooler water to try to reduce his fever.

The light faded as they worked. The woman who’d brought the other things returned with candles and oil lamps to light the room. Fianna asked for more hot water and kept changing the cloths on Ranulf’s shoulder, replacing each as it cooled. Eventually she felt the heated cloths had done all they could. She got a bottle and a jar from her bag and unstoppered the bottle.

“You’ll have to hold him again,” she warned Henrik. “It will hurt when I pour this on the wound.” He nodded and resumed his place, keeping his brother still, even when the stinging liquid washed over the damaged flesh, though Ranulf flinched and tried to roll away. Henrik watched in fascination as Fianna took another pot and spread the ointment from it over the injury.

The last thing to accomplish was re-stitching the wound. Mercifully Ranulf had lapsed into complete unconsciousness again by then. Though Henrik continued to hold him, Ranulf didn’t move while she worked the needle in and out. When it was done, she knelt by his side a few minutes longer, watching the patient’s face, praying quietly for his healing. She wasn’t at all sure he would survive.

She put a shaky hand on his forehead. So long as the fever remained moderate, it was likely a good thing, but should his temperature spike too high, the outcome wouldn’t be good.

“There’s little more I can do for him right now.” She glanced up at Henrik.

The man’s pale face was drawn into a frown. “Will he live?” he asked.

She reached for a clean cloth, soaked it in the cool water, and bathed his face with it. “He’s a strong man,” she said, trying to reassure herself as well as Henrik. “And the wound itself is not so very serious. If the ill humors hadn’t taken him so strongly, he’d have recovered from it quickly. If the Lord is merciful, we’ll have driven back the poison far enough that his own body can overcome the rest.”

“Is there no more we can do to help?”

“Keep him warm enough and cool enough,” she answered. “Cool him down if the fever goes high. Try to get some nourishment in him. Wait. And pray.”

Henrik stroked his brother’s hair back from his face. “I’ve waited for so many things, for so long,” he said, his voice quiet, reflective, sad. “I should be better at waiting than I am. Do they not say practice brings competence? If so I should be very good at patience. Yet I am not. I cannot but anticipate every coming moment and wish it were done and over with before it begins so I can move onto the next and thus get through them more quickly.”

He sighed and laid a hand on the side of Ranulf’s face. “Sleep, my brother, and may your body mend.”

He got to his feet, though the movement lacked his usual grace as he was stiff from hours of kneeling. Exhaustion took its toll as well.

He reached down to draw Fianna to her feet. “Come and rest now that you’ve done all you might.”

“Someone must stay with him and sponge him regularly,” she protested. “And I need to be here if the fever spikes.”

Henrik studied her face. She wondered if she looked as drawn and gray with fatigue as he did. “I’ll get someone to stay with him.”

He disappeared through the curtained exit and was gone for some time. When he returned a woman of middle years followed him into the room. They had a long conversation in his language, and he pointed to the cloths and water twice. As he finished his instructions, the woman nodded and shooed him away.

Henrik put a hand on her arm to lead her though the curtain. “Riga will watch over him the rest of this night. I’ve told her what to do. She’ll wake us should there be any change. I’ve also had a mat brought in and placed in the other room, so we can rest but be nearby should we be needed.”

Fianna wondered at his use of the word “we.” Did he plan to share the mat with her? But she was so far beyond exhausted it shouldn’t matter that he’d be so near. She would sleep.

When they lay down together, she curled up facing the wall, but he put an arm out to draw her closer to him.

“Fianna?” he said as they lay in the darkness. “I regret I acted as I did earlier. Drawing my sword and threatening you. It was badly done.”

“Why did you so then?”

“I didn’t know if you… I feared you would be angry with me and refuse to come, or after I forced you to come, refuse to help him.”

“Why would I not help him?”

He was silent for a moment. His breath sifted gently through the hair above her ear. “After the night we spent together, I didn’t return to you.”

“And you believed I’d be angry and refuse assistance because of that.”

He sighed. “I think I should have known you better. But in truth, we did little talking that night, and so I cannot truly say I know you well.”

Fianna considered that. “Aye, that’s so. Though I think I could say I knew something of your heart after that night.”

“Without doubt, you’re a better judge of people’s hearts than I am.”

“Then know this now. No matter how angry or disappointed I was that you failed to seek me out again, it would never have stopped me from doing all in my power to heal one who is sick or injured.” She paused before she added, “In truth, I could not in fairness blame you. I chose you without giving you much choice, asking only that night. And you gave more generously than I deserved.”

His laughter blew over her ear and the side of her face. “You think you gave me no choice that night? I could easily have said you nay, did it not suit me to answer your request. But I was intrigued by a woman so bold and beautiful. My curiosity as well as my manhood demanded I say aye.”

“And your manhood and your curiosity being at once satisfied, you had no further need of me.”

“Not so. You’re one could inspire a lifetime of curiosity and desire. I have met none at all like you before in my life, and every part of me, from my head to my manhood, clamored to explore further what happens between us. But I should not do so. ’Tis not right I should do so.”

“Nay?”

“Fianna, I told you. I thought you understood. I will be leaving here. I would have gone as soon as Ranulf returned, had he not come back in such condition. Even so, when he recovers and is able to take my place by our father’s side, I’ll be off. Knowing this, it didn’t seem fair that I seek you out again, despite your kind invitation. I would not have you forming an attachment to me that would be cruelly sundered when I left. Were it not for that, I would have come to you every night since.”

“My invitation was many things, but kindness played no part in it,” she admitted. “This trip is important to you.”

“I’ve waited half my life, it seems.”

“Yet your brother has been gone on his adventure.”

“Aye. And I tell myself I begrudge it not. Yet in some measure, I do. But now my time is near, should he live.”

“And if he does not?”

He was silent so long she wondered if he’d answer or if he’d fallen asleep. His breath had not the regular rhythm of sleep, however, and after a while he said, “I would remain here. My father is not well. Age and exhaustion are on him. He needs someone vigorous and strong to maintain his order.”

Fianna sighed. “I’ll do all in my power to save Ranulf. More than that I cannot promise you.”

“Nor do I ask it, despite my rash words earlier. I spoke out of my fear and frustration.”

“I understand. It is done.”

They were both quiet for some time. She thought he’d fallen asleep until he asked, “What was happening at your home this afternoon? Why did all those people come to you? Were they concerned that you were being taken against your will by us? Or did they seek your testimony against those young men who would have forced you?”

“None of those,” she said. “They came to tell me I was disrupting the peace of the town by inciting lust in the young men. It was decreed I must choose one to marry.”

“’Tis not your fault. True men need not force a woman to their will.”

“Aye. But whether I am at fault or no bears little on the case. In the interests of peace, I must be wed. So I must choose one by the night of your Walpurgis feast.”

“And if you do not?”

“Then I must leave the town, on pain of death.”

He moved against her, apparently distressed by her answer. “That is harsh of them. Do they value you so little?”

“Not so high as their peace, it appears.”

“You could leave and find others who value your services more.”

“Aye. But I’ve been happy there, and they have need of me. I have no wish to leave.”

“You have no longing to see more of this world? ’Tis a very large place, and I understand there are wonders to be found. I am eager to be off and begin discovering them myself.”

“Nay. I want the comfort of a room of my own, my bed, my garden, and my work.”

He touched her, ran a gentle hand through her hair. She got the feeling he wanted to offer comfort but knew not how. Finally he said, “I hope you can find your way to a solution that brings you peace.”

That was the last she remembered of that night.

*****

Fianna roused when the first light of dawn seeped through cracks around windows and doorways. She shifted and was momentarily surprised to feel another body against her back. When she rolled over, Henrik was awake and watching her.

She smiled and reached out to touch him. She ran her fingers through the tangled disarray of his blond hair, watching the lazy grin play across his face. That smile, worn for her, stroked a place deep in her breast with a heat of longing and desire. But within moments his face darkened, and he looked toward the curtained-off partition.

Reminded of her purpose for being there, Fianna quickly scrambled up off the mat and went to the other room. Henrik came right behind her.

The woman, Riga, was wiping the cloth across Ranulf’s forehead. She spoke to Henrik in Norse for several moments, and he commented or questioned in the same tongue. Fianna was reassured when Henrik didn’t seem too upset or unhappy in response. Several times, though, as he looked toward his brother, worry shadowed his expression. Once he even closed his eyes briefly and expelled his breath on a long sigh. She found herself wishing she could pronounce some magic words to wipe that concern from his face and restore the smile from earlier.

Fianna touched Ranulf’s forehead and throat. He felt warmer than he had the previous night and was still muttering, though she couldn’t decipher the words. The pulse in his throat beat hard and fast.

“He stayed the same for most of the night,” Henrik reported to her after he’d sent the other woman off to bed. “About an hour ago, he began to get worse. He started talking, but making no sense with it, and Riga thinks he has been getting warmer.” His breath caught in his throat. “This is not good, is it?”

“It is not good, but not surprising either,” she told him. “I didn’t think I could get all the ill humors out of the wound. I pray we removed enough that his body can fight what remains.”

“What should we do?”

“Sponge him off and try to keep his fever down. I have an infusion I’ll make that will help with that. If he shows signs of chills, we must have more blankets to wrap him.”

Henrik nodded. “I’ll get more blankets.”

While he was gone, Fianna dipped a cloth into the water and swabbed Ranulf’s face and down his chest and arms. Like his brother, he was an impressively built man. In fact, if his face weren’t so gray and drawn, his hair so shaggy and unkempt, he would look a great deal like Henrik.

Odd that she didn’t have the same kind of reaction to him she had to Henrik. There was no tingle of excitement when she touched Ranulf, no frisson of longing for closer contact when she looked at him. He roused her pity and her concern as a patient but nothing more. In fact…

She froze, horrified by the thought that crossed her mind. It wasn’t something she could wish for. It wasn’t what she would want. But she couldn’t deny it was there. If this man were to die, Henrik wouldn’t go away. He wouldn’t leave his father on his own, no matter how much he longed for travel and adventure. And if he were staying, he’d likely want to see more of her, maybe even provide her with an alternative to the men of the town.

Nay. She didn’t want to think that way. Ranulf was her patient. She would do all in her power to save him, though she wasn’t truly sure how much that was.

She drew out the dagger and held it over the sick man with the blade parallel to the length of his body. She stared hard into the red jewel in the center until the wash of scarlet filled her vision to the exclusion of all else. She waited for the vision of flames or even the sight of Henrik, but it didn’t happen.

After she’d looked into the jewel for some time, the red color began to swirl in a way she’d never seen before. The color seemed to flow in waves in an uneven, roughly circular swirl. She wondered if her sight were going odd, but couldn’t tear her gaze away from the jewel. No vision came to her, but she thought a voice spoke inside her head, saying, “Choose.”

Choose what? she asked silently.

“What you pray for.”

What I pray for? I don’t understand.

“What do you truly want for this man?”

That he live or die, mean you?

“The choice is yours.”