Chapter Twenty-One

J illian's gaze met Alan's. His eyes flashed with righteous anger. The raised broadsword hovered for a brief moment in time as her cracked lips formed around the unspoken word— no! The sword sliced down in a cruel arch parting sinew from bone, blood from tissue. The warmth of Alan's blood splashed on her face.

Her stomach rebelled. She fought to control the spasms, but the horror of his death was too much to bear. She retched until the meager contents of her stomach had emptied, all the while tears streamed from eyes too shocked to register what lay before her.

Eyreka's voice drifted through the haze that had suddenly blocked her vision. It was growing dark… blurry… and a thousand bees swarmed in her head.

"God in heaven, Reka, he's dead. 'Tis all my fault."

In one blinding instant, her mind and her vision cleared. The brave man she had coerced into helping them escape lay in a mangled heap at her feet. She had never imagined death to come so swiftly, nor so brutally. The image of his body hacked in twain would be with her forever. Alan had given his life for their freedom, and she would carry the guilt of his death to her grave.

She could take no more. Without a sound, she fainted dead away.

*

"Halt!"

Garrick kept his gaze on the man with an eye patch as he rode into the encampment.

Heeding the warning, he slowed. Every muscle stiffened ready to pounce as soon as the wagons following close behind rolled into camp behind him.

"I seek Harald. I have brought the ransom demanded."

A tall warrior strutted out from where he stood watching the progress of the party. He stood legs apart, arms crossed across his broad chest.

"You have found him," the man boldly answered.

"Where is my wife?" Garrick demanded.

"Someone will take you to her after I have inspected the wagons. John?"

A lanky man with greasy hair strode forward to grab the reins out of Garrick's hands. But he out-maneuvered the man deftly, with a foot to the middle of the man's chest, he shoved, propelling him backward.

Five rebels immediately swarmed around him, yanking the reins from his hands.

"Now then, Merewood, perhaps we shall begin with that first barrel over there."

"'Twas not part of the bargain. Where are my wife and mother?"

"The bargain is now mine to make, you have no say in how I execute it. John, get up."

A woman's shrill scream of terror echoed through the camp, an eerie silence following in its wake. Fear sent shards of ice down his spine; he knew that voice.

"Mother!" Garrick bellowed. He was a man possessed, she was somewhere nearby being tortured. He had to get to her! Leaping from his saddle, he took the two closest men out with his feet. The third he knocked down and used as a stepping stone to outrun the other two. Still he followed in the direction of the scream.

He found her kneeling beside a pile of rags, sobbing.

The rags moaned and his mind dimly registered the fact that it was his wife who lay bruised and bleeding, bound and gagged. He must have whispered Jillian's name; his mother turned to look up at him.

His bellow of outrage sounded close enough to the battle cry he was to signal his men with. Back in the clearing, a dozen armed warriors sprang up from inside the barrels where they had been hiding, waiting for his signal.

The loud clanging of steel upon steel filled the forest glade. Shrieks of pain alternated with the clash of weapons. The scent of fear mingled with the smell of blood. It blocked out the clean fresh scent from a recent rain wafting through the trees as if the battle raging were of no earthly consequence. The sun angled high overhead, its warmth touching down through the gaps in the trees.

The rebels fought with deadly intent; they outnumbered the smaller fighting force by ten, but Garrick's men were fighting to hold onto their way of life. They were fighting for honor, duty, and the lives of two women who made a marked difference in their bleak warriors' existence. Righteousness strengthened their sword arms, steeling their resolve to arise the victor.

With God on their side, and the aid of a canny Scot and his Irish mercenaries, Merewood and his men overpowered the weakening rebel force.

He ordered the prisoners bound. MacInness saw to the detail. Returning to his mother, he knelt with her at Jillian's side. Unacknowledged emotions raged through him; they were too close to love for his comfort. He tamped them down, striving for a measure of control that he did not feel.

"What happened?" His voice broke over the question.

"They beat her," she said simply.

"Why? What did she do?"

"Do? You believe she has done something to deserve this treatment?"

Before he could answer, his mother continued, "I have never met anyone more courageous than Jillian. She was unafraid, even when they executed Alan—" This time, Eyreka's voice cracked. Unable to continue, she broke down and wept.

Pulling her close, Garrick tried to make sense out of what his mother was trying to say in the midst of great gulps of air and jags of tears.

MacInness caught his eye. Garrick motioned for him to join them. When he did, Garrick turned his mother over to his vassal's capable hands.

Bending down, he brushed a wisp of hair off Jillian's forehead. His stomach flipped; the bloody, jagged split of skin had been hidden by her hair. Ignoring the acid roiling in his gut, he took his time checking for obvious injuries before looking for hidden ones. Her face was a mass of tiny cuts and odd shaped bruises. Her bottom lip was split and bleeding. Aside from the gaping cut on her forehead that would have to be sewn back together, the only other major wound appeared to be the twin bruises on her sides. The size of a man's footprint.

His wife had been kicked—repeatedly. He silently vowed to kill the man responsible. He hoped her ribs were not cracked beneath the bruises; any sudden movement could cause her further injury, even death. The thought speared through him right to his aching heart. Though he had tried to hold back the feelings and deny them, he could not. They existed and the need to tell Jillian he loved her filled him. But before he could, he had to see to her injuries and get the women to safety.

He turned to face his men, "Find out who did this." He paused, then ground out, "If Owen is behind this, he won't live long enough to be afraid of me."

"I still say we should skin them," MacInness countered loudly to Iain.

The sharp intake of breath to his left satisfied the Scot that his threat had been loud enough to be overheard, and feared.

"We need hot water, hot enough to cleanse wounds," Garrick bit out.

He worked silently, efficiently with what little supplies they had. He tore a wide strip of linen from Jillian's bliaut. Though the hem was in tatters, the rest was in one piece and was cleaner than any other cloth to be found in the camp.

While Patrick and Sean took turns at watch, Eamon built a fire to heat the water. Kelly seemed to be knowledgeable as a healer, and Garrick had him help alternately soak the deep cut across her forehead and pat the lesser cuts dry.

Having nothing else available, he carefully removed the thread from the sleeve of Jillian's gown in one long strand. He then lowered it into the boiling water, leaving it to soak. While he waited for the thread to be ready, his men rifled through the campsite and found passably clean thin strips of linen. Careful not to pull too tightly, he wound the strips around Jillian's middle to protect her battered ribs.

That done, he sat back and looked around. His eyes met with a bright amber gaze. "I need help," he simply stated.

"Ye have but to ask," MacInness replied.

"I need a steady hand to help hold her down. If she wakens…" Garrick began, but couldn't finish the thought.

MacInness placed a hand on his shoulder in a silent show of support. "There isna anything I wouldna do for the lass."

Carefully threading the needle he had found lying among the thin strips of linen, he heated it in the fire, then began the slow process of stitching the wound. Jillian murmured incoherently but blessedly did not wake. Sweat poured down his temples as he worked. Each time the needle pierced her broken flesh, bile surged up his throat, burning it.

With each tug on the threads, the wound closed a little bit more and his stomach settled—halfway there. Praise God, she lay unconscious. Garrick knew he would not have been able to stitch the wound had she been awake watching him. Finally, the deed was done. Covering the stitches with a piece of boiled cloth, he wrapped it around her head a few times to ensure the bandage would not move.

"'Tis done."

"Aye, mon, ye did well." MacInness nodded.

"I hope 'twill be enough. It's too soon to tell. Now we wait."

"Wait?" Dunstan asked coming up behind the two men.

"Aye," Garrick answered, "for the fever."

For three days while the others stood guard and tended camp, Garrick ministered to his wife. He bathed her face and neck constantly trying to bring down the fever gripping her fragile body. Twice daily, he tried to force broth down her parched throat. While tending to his wife, the overwhelming need to tell her he loved her swept over him. She had to recover soon, so he could tell her how he felt.

Deeper still were the familiar feelings of failure, of making decisions that had devastating effects on those he was responsible for—those he loved. It was his fault his bride lay semiconscious, burning with fever. His decision to set her aside must have forced her to follow him to London. Though he was still not certain why she did, he blamed himself nonetheless.

A fierce surge of protectiveness welled up within him. She was still his wife, but for the first time in his life, Garrick did not know what to do. All his life he made decisions based on the needs of others. He wanted to take her back to Merewood, where she would be safe, but he had to press on to London. He could entrust her safety to MacInness, but what if something else happened to her? He'd never forgive himself. Better to keep her close at his side.

A lifetime would not be long enough for her to forgive him. Now that his heart had convinced his head that he truly loved her, would they be destined to part? By God, he would change their destiny if he had to. But he would have Jillian as his wife.

"Please…for the love of God, no!" Jillian thrashed about in unnatural sleep, fighting an unknown enemy.

Taking her firmly by the shoulders afraid she'd add to her injuries, Garrick held her down but she did not stop. She became more agitated, crying out for help. At the end of his patience, he grabbed her, pulling her tight against his chest. She melted into his arms and a blessed silence followed.

"Is she still feverish?" MacInness sat down near Garrick.

"Aye." Pain and uncertainty swirled round inside him until his head ached from it. The look in MacInness's eyes told Garrick how much he cared. Garrick had long grown used to his vassal's feelings for his lady wife—in fact he depended upon them.

"I do not know what more I can do for her," he confessed.

"Well now, ye shouldna keep the worry all to yerself, mon. Get some rest, ye look like the verra de'il."

"She's my wife. I'll take care of her."

"Do ye really care what happens to her, then?"

He swallowed against the lump of emotion lodged in his throat. "She has to recover, there are things I need to tell her. Wrongs to be righted. I—" Garrick could not continue.

"Let me watch over her for a while. She's stronger than most from what yer mother tells me."

Taken aback, Garrick realized that he had not spoken to anyone in the last few days. He rubbed his face with his hands. His time had been spent bathing the pale, thin face of the woman who had taken hold of his battered heart with both hands.

"Have a care with her," Garrick warned, "she's so fragile."

"At first glance ye maun think so," MacInness said, "but I canna agree. It takes a woman of uncommon strength to stand up to a bunch of rebel cutthroats protectin' those she loves."

As Garrick went in search of his lady mother, he had a premonition that he would not like what he was about to find out.