Chapter Five

G envieve could not hold in the sigh that escaped the moment Winslow closed the chamber door. His very presence in the chamber made her skin tingle and the room go hot. Thoughts of him leaning down and capturing her lips in a bold kiss had desire pooling low in her belly. It had been years since she’d felt this way—since her husband died.

Uncomfortable with thoughts of her late husband, and shocked by the sensations reawakened by Winslow’s hand gripping her knee, she needed to do something. To move.

Throwing the covers aside, she got out of bed, but her foot got tangled in her sleeping gown. Trying to brace herself with her hand at the last minute, she moaned as it folded beneath her.

Sharp pain sliced through her wrist. Merde. I should have stayed in bed. Standing slowly, she got back into bed and drew the covers up to her chin. Her wrist didn’t look any different. It would be all right. Wanting to be ready when Winslow returned, she put her hand down and pushed herself up straighter on the bed. The bolt of agony shooting up her arm through her wrist brought tears to her eyes.

At least the pain in my hand can take my mind off the pain in my head and throat.

Cradling her hand to her side, she wondered what she’d say to anyone who asked how she hurt it. As I cannot speak, there’s nothing to tell.

The silence was starting to eat away at her. She longed for Winslow’s company. While she had not been able to speak to him, he had cared enough to try to understand what she tried to say. She did have elemental needs, but she also had the deep-rooted need to be with people, to speak to people. Two tears escaped, mirroring one another as they fell, sweeping down across her cheeks, before she brushed at them impatiently.

Winslow was the man who had rescued her; mayhap he could tell her what she could not remember. Where had he found her and who had abducted her? She dare not wonder the why of it yet. That could come later when she could speak again.

The door to the chamber swung open wide, and all rational thought fled. The breadth of Winslow’s shoulders would not fit though the door, he had to turn slightly to enter the chamber.

His slow smile made her entire body start to quiver all over again. His flame-bright hair fell untamed to his shoulders and should have made him appear less a man. He looked so different than the close-cropped dark-haired Norman men. He appeared every inch the conquering Scots barbarian, and she was distinctly uncomfortable with the feelings he drew from deep within her.

The sensual lure in his golden-brown gaze pinned her to the bed. With a certainty, Genvieve knew he was attracted to her. She had seen the same look in Francois’s dark eyes many, many times. She closed her eyes to block out the man before her, willing her mind to call up the vision of her dead husband. Though she tried, she could not quite bring his handsome features fully into focus. Francois’s dark eyes, aquiline nose, and aristocratic features kept blurring. Her traitorous mind replaced them with a broad, freckled face, slightly crooked nose, and warm amber eyes.

Damn the man for making her feel desire again. She wasn’t ready, and had no time to deal with such feelings. She was trapped by her body’s need to fully recover from the attack. Until she had the strength to saddle a horse and to go home or could speak, she couldn’t leave or ask which roads were safe to travel. Though she was loathe to admit it, she knew she could not travel alone and would be forced to stay at Merewood Keep a little longer.

The sound of a woman’s low voice snapped Genvieve out of her reverie. Embarrassed for not noticing the slender serving woman who had accompanied Winslow, she looked down at her knees and smoothed the bed linens. The familiar motions soothed her, helping her to regain her composure.

“I’ve brought Simone to meet ye, lass,” Winslow said, his voice low and soothing.

She nodded her head.

Winslow led the woman over to the bed. “Tell her yer name, lass,” he commanded.

Genvieve , she mouthed.

Simone looked at her, and then up at Winslow, “I think she said Genvieve.”

The vigorous nod of her head confirmed Simone’s words.

“Genvieve,” Winslow said, putting the accent on the first part of her name, rather than the last so it sounded more like JAN veev .

Genvieve smiled, it really didn’t matter how he said her name. What mattered was that the people would have something else to call her, other than that poor woman .

“You are Norman,” Simone said with a small smile.

Genvieve nodded.

“Do you live nearby?” Simone asked.

Genvieve shook her head. She wanted to tell the young woman that until recently, she had been living in London with her parents. She wanted to tell her that she had intended to join her cousin Augustin to help care for his young daughter, Angelique, but her handicap stopped her.

Winslow took hold of her hands and gently stroked them. Unconsciously, she pulled her injured hand back with a jerk.

“Let me ha’ another look at yer hand, lass.”

“Her name is Genvieve,” Simone prodded him.

“Aye,” Winslow agreed, “but her name gets caught around my Scots tongue…lass is easier.” Though he directed his words to Simone, his gaze locked with Genvieve’s, seeking her approval.

At her slow nod, he smiled warmly.

Held captive by his heated gaze, she didn’t notice what Winslow was doing until he prodded the bones of her hand and wrist. A low moan escaped before she could stop herself.

“Simone, will ye fetch Lady Jillian?”

“ Oui ,” she headed for the door.

“Tell her, I ha’ need of her healin’ herbs,” Winslow told her.

Looking back at Genvieve, he added, “Lady Jillian has a concoction that will ease any swellin’ or pain…a root of some kind.”

Comfrey , she mouthed.

He watched her mouth move, but didn’t respond. His amber eyes darkened a moment before he blinked and their color returned to normal.

“How did ye hurt yer hand?”

She shrugged in answer. She’d never tell him she’d been too unsettled by his touch to lay in bed, while thoughts of him getting into that bed with her drove her to the brink of madness.

He stared at her, as if willing her to speak. When she didn’t, he sighed and told her, “Lady Jillian is a gifted healer, though Lady Eyreka is as well.”

Genvieve frowned at him. They were not the only ones well versed in the art of healing, she had learned at her mother’s knee. Her mother had taught her many things. Among them, how to run a vast holding, prepare a feast fit for a king, and care for a newborn babe.

A sharp, hollow pain pierced her breast at the thought of her miscarried babes. She had lost both early in her marriage to Francois and had not conceived again in the eight years that followed. Before she could bring herself back to the present, she heard Winslow call out to Lady Jillian.

With a brisk efficiency, the lady of the keep prepared the poultice. “How did you hurt your hand?” Lady Jillian asked quietly.

“Her name is Genvieve,” Winslow urged.

The woman’s eyes widened at the name, and she looked about to say something, but obviously changed her mind and merely nodded. Genvieve wondered if she should know Lady Jillian, or if the woman’s reaction was to the odd way Winslow pronounced her name.

Winslow looked at her and then the other women and blurted out, “The lass took exception to somethin’ I said.”

Jillian smiled knowingly. “Well, I certainly cannot fault Genvieve. I have often felt that way myself,” she finished with a chuckle. “I’ll be back later to wrap your hand,” she said before turning toward Winslow. “Do try not to say anything to encourage our guest to strike you again.”

“Ye wound me sorely,” he said, holding his hands to his heart.

Genvieve saw the other woman smile at the sincerity of his words, though Genvieve could not help but wonder if he truly meant what he said.

Winslow settled himself next to the bed and moved to hand Genvieve a trencher of food, then frowned when she tried to reach out with her injured hand.

“Ye need to hold that hand still, lass,” he instructed.

She started to shake her head at him, but he ignored her and reached for her hand. “Ye canna let the poultice slide off,” he gently stroked his thumb on the underside of her wrist.

Her gaze darted to his and understanding blossomed between them. He must have felt it too because his gaze darkened, as her pulse raced.

“Try using yer other hand.”

Genvieve tried, but it was too awkward for her, reaching across her body to the tray resting on the table beside the bed. She sighed in frustration and dropped her hand back to her side.

Without a word, Winslow picked up a spoonful of stew, blew on it, and held it before her lips. She shook her head and pointed to the bowl of broth and bread.

“’Tis sorry I am, lass. I shouldha’ realized yer throat pained yet to eat as well as speak.” He dunked the bread in the bowl and mashed it with the spoon until it would be easier to swallow. She let him feed her, his large hands surprisingly gentle.

The tension eased out of her shoulders as he held the spoon and continued to feed her. In between bites, he ate, until at last their hunger had been satisfied.

Genvieve wanted to thank him, the need to speak aloud overwhelming her. But Winslow was looking away from her, and did not see her lips moving. She grabbed his arm with her good hand.

Their eyes met, and a powerful current arced between them. Desire flared again and entwined with the need sweeping through her, robbing her of her breath. When his hand lightly cupped her chin, pinpricks of awareness tingled where he touched her.

His sharply indrawn breath seemed overly loud in the stillness of the chamber. His head lowered until his lips brushed hers in a tentative kiss. He paused, pinning her with the intensity of his gaze, before capturing her lips in a searing kiss.

She felt a moan of pleasure rise up within her, but the sound could not be heard over his low growl of approval.

She felt dizzy, dazed when he lifted his lips from hers breaking the connection.

His dropped his forehead until it rested against hers. “I dinna mean to startle ye, lass,” he rasped.

She wanted to tell him that he had not and gently cupped his cheek. Hoping her smile of encouragement would speak for her, she waited, watching him.

“ Och , dinna tell me ye crave another?” he teased, obviously understanding her look.

She tilted her head back, preparing for his kiss.

This time the bone-melting kiss nearly shattered her composure. He ended the kiss, stepped back from her and stared at her as if he were seeing her for the very first time.

They were both breathing heavily when the chamber door swung open and a deep voice boomed. “My wife wanted me to bring these linen strips to you,” Garrick said to Winslow.

When neither one of them moved, he stared from one to the other. Finally he shrugged. “Do you need help wrapping her hand?” he asked, handing the linen to Winslow.

Genvieve’s heart skipped a beat watching Winslow’s hands fumble with the strips of cloth Garrick handed to him, before deftly wrapping her wrist. Would either man sense the jolt of awareness that rocked her every time Winslow touched her? Mon Dieu , she hoped they could not.

“Jillian will send Simone to sit with you tonight, Genvieve.” Garrick walked to the door. “She’ll be up shortly.” Looking from Genvieve to Winslow and back, he shook his head and left.

Genvieve’s gaze drifted to where Winslow stood awkwardly beside the bed. He almost seemed reluctant to leave. She gave him a small smile of understanding and mouthed the word, Merci .

With a brief nod, he turned and was gone.

Lying back against the feather-soft mattress, Genvieve let her eyes drift closed. In her mind’s eye she recaptured the rough image of the Scots barbarian who was rapidly becoming her sole communicative link with the rest of the world. The potent sensuality behind his kiss reverberated through her, and she realized that he was already so much more.

Sleep beckoned, but it was the promise of dreams filled with more of Winslow’s kisses that lulled her under.