Dragon's Daughter Page 2

  Rowena nodded quickly, feeling guilty for keeping the older woman from her work for so long. Hagar’s son was Rowena’s closest friend and had been since the day Rowena had first wandered down the forest path to their cottage. Of late Sean had seemed somewhat agitated and demanding, wanting her to take long walks and such when she was quite busy. He was wont to talk endlessly of a lass named Berta, whom he had met while delivering fish to a village farther inland. Rowena had no quarrel with his preoccupation, only his insistence that she hear his every thought. But she loved Sean wholly, and he would be hungry from his morning’s work. “I will keep you no longer. Thank you so very much for all you have done.”

  The older woman shrugged as she moved to the door, her face filled with affection and approval. “I’ve done no more than yersel, my lass. You’ve a good heart in ye. If ye have need of me I will come.”

  Rowena felt a rush of both happiness and self-consciousness. She whispered, “I love you as well.”

  Hagar smiled, flushing with pleasure, and nodded, closing the door behind her. Her cottage was just a short distance away and close to the main path through the village. It would be no great effort to fetch Hagar if she was needed, but Rowena was determined to manage on her own.

  No more than an hour had passed when Rowena was given cause to put her skills to the test. The man in the bed had begun muttering to himself again. By the time a new batch of potions was ready he had grown far louder, tossing and turning as she moved toward the bed to give them to him.

  When Rowena reached out to put her arm around his neck to lift him up, he shocked her by grabbing hold of her wrist and rearing up in the bed, those blue eyes flying wide. The bowl fell, spilling the contents upon the coverlet, even as fear raced through her.

  Her terror grew as the man cried, “Ashcroft…must find Rosalind….” He shook his head violently. “Dragon dead…the babe dead…not dead…”

  Ashcroft, for the love of heaven—the stranger knew of Ashcroft and clearly connected it to this unknown Rosalind. But the references to dragons and dead babes were utterly incomprehensible. Desperately Rowena forced herself to break free from the terror that gripped her. Yet it took all her strength to pull her arm away from his.

  Just as suddenly as he had risen up the sick man fell back upon the bed. His eyes were closed now, but the ravings continued, as did his thrashing about. With shaking fingers, Rowena grabbed the bowl and clutched it to her, backing away from the bed.

  Calm, she told herself over and over again, she must be calm. Breathing as evenly as she could, she moved to the table to refill the bowl.

  And all the while she could hear him repeating the same disjointed phrases. Her chest ached as she realized that he had obviously gone mad, as the other women had feared. It was such a pity for one so strong and virile to be brought so low.

  How much of his mind might return when, and if, he recovered, she could not say. All she could do was attempt to keep him quiet, not only for his sake, but for hers.

  By the time Rowena had returned to the bed with the bowl and a spoon with which to feed him the liquid, the sick man had quieted somewhat. That strong, tanned forearm lay across his brow, and though she was watchful, he made no effort to take hold of her again as she fed him a strong dose of the mandrake potion.

  That done, she rubbed more of the rue upon his forehead and placed a bag of dried rosemary beneath his head to ward off anxiety of the mind. Finally he fell silent once more, his arm dropping to the coverlet.

  Rowena stood for a long moment looking down at him. As when she had first seen him on the beach, she felt a deep sympathy for those who loved this man. Who would grieve for the loss of him? Did they even know that he had come to Ashcroft, and thus know where to search for him? If he died having never returned to his right mind, she would not know whom should be sent word of his passing. His people would never know what had happened to him.

  He might have a young child—a daughter who would always…

  She stopped herself there. She had no reason to think he had anyone, even this Rosalind, who could be as much a product of his addled mind as the dragons he raved on about. Rowena would be far better served by not getting overly involved in what happened to this man. She would tend him, as any other, and accept what came.

  Rowena barely glanced up as the door opened without ceremony some time later and she heard Sean’s voice say, “What is my mother on about? A stranger washed ashore? And you tending him?”

  She spoke with deliberate calm. “Aye, Sean, ’tis true. And here he is.”

  Hagar’s voice was filled with exasperation as she spoke from behind Sean. “As I told ye.” Obviously his mother had accompanied him.

  Rowena kept her gaze on the strong column of the stranger’s throat as he swallowed without fully rousing. She felt strangely self-conscious about holding his head against her breast as Sean moved to stand beside the bed, exclaiming, “Dear God, where could he have come from?”

  She shrugged and sighed as the man took the last of the liquid, and allowed his head to fall back against the pillows. She met Sean’s gaze briefly, seeing the agitation in his strong but sensitive face. “That is as much a mystery to me as to you. Has anyone sighted a ship?”

  Sean shook his dark head. “Nay, there would have been some mention of it amongst the men.” He cast an assessing glance over the sick man as Rowena placed the small wooden bowl upon the table beside the bed.

  Sean scowled as the stranger passed an agitated hand across his brow. “Why have you brought him here?”

  Rowena shrugged again, meeting his green gaze with surprise. “To minister to him, of course. Where else would he be taken?”

  “Why, anywhere. To our cottage. To…”

  Rowena felt her brow crease with puzzlement as she looked to Hagar, who was frowning. Clearly this notion hadn’t come from her. “Why would I have him taken to your cottage when everything I need to treat him is right here?”

  Sean’s scowl deepened. “You must see that this man cannot stay here with you.”

  “Others have done so.”

  He took an exasperated breath. “Those others were known to you and us. This man is a complete stranger. He could—”

  Rowena laughed in spite of her irritation with his overprotective manner. They had been struggling over things like this ever since they were children, Sean telling her she could not climb trees and the like, Rowena ignoring his every directive. “And pray, what could he do? The man cannot even raise his hand to wipe his own brow, let alone harm me in some way.” She recalled just how strong he had been in that one moment when he had grabbed her wrist, but she would be much more careful to keep him from waking to that degree until he showed some signs of improvement.

  Nonetheless, she did not meet Sean’s gaze as she said, “You can see the state he is in. I have given him medicaments to quiet him and will continue to do so.”

  “He could awaken fully at any time.”

  Rowena said, “I will certainly keep that in mind, and should he awaken with the intent to do me harm, I shall hie myself off to your cottage with all haste.”

  Sean placed his hands on his lean hips. “Ye canna stay here alone with a strange man, Rowena. I forbid it.”

  Rowena frowned, feeling a shaft of rebellion race through her. She knew he wished only the best for her, but she would not allow him, nor anyone else to dictate to her.

  She placed her hands on her own hips. “What say you, Sean?”

  He glared at her even as chagrin registered in his eyes. “Now, Rowena, I did not mean to sound so…I am only…”

  She raised her chin. “And have a care that you do not. Now be off with you so that I might get on with my own business here.”

  “Rowena…” His tone was cajoling now, but she would have none of it.

  “Go on, I said. You may stop ’round in the morning if you are truly concerned for my safety.” Though her determination to do as she would was still clear, the edge was now gone from h
er voice. ’Twas impossible to remain vexed at Sean for long. They knew one another far too well. Although she had never had a brother, if she had he would have been just like Sean, bright and handsome and protective.

  The fact that she had no brothers, no sisters, no family of any sort besides her mother, made her hold Sean all the more dear. She didn’t even know her father’s name, having been told that it was for the best. Even on the day she had died her mother had refused to utter his name.

  Telling herself that such thoughts could gain her nothing, Rowena watched as her friend moved to the door with obvious reluctance. Yet he said no more, glancing back over his shoulder only once before making his exit.

  Rowena then turned to Hagar, who had also watched her son leave the cottage. The older woman suddenly cast a sympathetic, yet distracted glance at her and said, “Is there anything I might do?”

  Rowena shook her head. “There is nothing to do but wait.” And suddenly she found herself confiding in her friend about those troubling ravings. “He has come around more fully, rambling wildly about dragons and dead babes. I fear his head injury may indeed have left the man addled.”

  Slowly Hagar came forward, placing a covered container on the table, her dear face fearful. “Those do sound like the ravings of a madman. ’Haps Sean is right in this. The stranger could be dangerous, Rowena.”

  “Pray do not worry. I have given him sufficient mandrake as well as other sleeping herbs. He will not waken.”

  The older woman shook her head, glancing to the door through which her son had gone. “Sean and I…we love ye, lass. And only wish for ye to be safe.”

  Rowena noted the odd catch in Hagar’s voice as she spoke of Sean’s and her own love. Rowena was more moved by this concern coming from Hagar, who had sought to guide her only in the gentlest ways, than she had been by Sean’s demands. Perhaps she should take heed here. Her mother had always told her to be wary of strangers. Heretofore there had been no reason for wariness, as she had never come into such close contact with a total stranger. But she should not allow her stubbornness to make her forget her mother’s advice.

  Rowena took a deep breath. “I will have a care. But truly, I do not feel there is cause to worry for the next few hours. As I said, I have given more than sufficient of the sleeping potions to keep him docile. In this state he would be near impossible to move, and it would be unfair to call out those who have already sought their beds to aid us.”

  Hagar watched her for a long, silent moment, then nodded, indicating the container on the table. “I’ve brought ye this broth, and will be back when the sun rises.”

  Rowena bowed her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you. I am grateful for your care.”

  Hagar left the cottage without further conversation.

  Rowena sighed. Since her mother died she had spent much time alone. Though she loved the villagers who had taken her and her mother in, she was also fond of her solitude.

  She glanced back toward the bed. She tried to tell herself that the sick man would give her little trouble, but knew it was not true. Although she had decided that she would not allow herself to care about the outcome of his illness, she did indeed care. Again she told herself it was because of those who might await him.

  It was with a decided determination to think of something besides the sadness engendered by this thought that she began to make herself a pallet on the floor near the fire. She did not mind so very much, as she had also slept there in the last few weeks of her mother’s wasting illness.

  The task was too soon completed, as well as her other preparations for sleep. Cocking her head, she listened for any stirrings from the bed. There was nothing but the sound of the man’s deep breathing, which seemed to have grown somewhat raspy.

  Rising, she went to peer down at him by the light of her candle. Though his face was very pale and drawn, that was no change from before. His forehead was cool to her touch.

  The sound of his breathing had definitely changed. Determinedly she told herself not to become alarmed, for it could be caused by nothing more than a dry throat. When she fetched and spooned a bit of cool water into his mouth, the harshness did seem to improve somewhat.

  Slowly she sank down on the bench beside the table and took a bit of the rich broth Hagar had placed there. Although it had grown cold, the flavorful liquid was welcome.

  Several times Rowena reached up to rub her eyes, which felt gritty and tired. It had been a long and wearisome day.

  Once the cup was empty she rose and went to her pallet. There was no telling what tomorrow might bring, and she would be well served to try to get some sleep.

  She knew not how long she had actually been asleep when she opened her eyes again. Wondering what could have wakened her, she became aware of the fact that the man’s breathing was ragged again. That soft raspiness seemed to have grown harsher, shallower. Frowning, she rose and moved to look down at him.

  That handsome face was flushed with heat, and though he slept on, he moved his head restlessly from side to side.

  Rowena put her hand to his forehead. It was hot—too hot.

  Chapter Two

  Fever.

  Rowena quickly went to the fire and put the water back on to heat. Because of the likely inflammation in his lungs, she made a mixture of horehound and honey. Then she placed a combination of sorrel and marigold into her mixing bowl to treat the fever. While she waited for the water to heat, she fetched a shallow wooden bowl, filled it with cool water and removed a soft clean cloth from the chest beside the foot of the bed.

  Then she stepped toward the bed, placed the bowl upon the narrow table and dipped the cloth into it. When she’d wrung out the cloth, she hesitated, her gaze fixed on his face, handsome in spite of the illness that had robbed it of color and animation. She should not have told Hagar to go.

  With a sigh of impatience, Rowena told herself that this was completely foolish. She had performed this very task more times than she could count. To hesitate with this man was madness. He was nothing to her, and utterly unaware of her at any rate.

  Her suspicion that he might be a noble, a man who came from the world of her father, made him no different from any other man who lay ill in her care.

  Nonetheless, she took a deep breath as she smoothed the cloth slowly across that wide brow, her fingers brushing the thick, dark brown hair Hagar had washed. The stranger stirred slightly and Rowena stiffened. But he did not open those blue eyes and she forced herself to relax.

  Yet as she ran the cool cloth over his high cheekbones and lean jaw, she found herself thinking that this man was the most handsome she had ever seen. There was a deep strength to his face that was belied by that one look she had had of his blue eyes, eyes that had seemed so surprisingly gentle. That gentleness was echoed in the softness of his mouth, which was now parted as he took in quick, shallow breaths.

  Suddenly she realized that though this man was a stranger, completely unknown to her, she wanted to know him. To know something of the world he came from, the world of her father. It was a world she and her mother had lived in, at least for a time.

  She wanted to know why the stranger had come to Ashcroft, and whence he would be going when he left.

  Her mother had told her that the nobles valued their lands above aught else. But the look in his eyes when he had spoken of the unknown Rosalind…

  If there was a Rosalind. What if it was all mad ravings?

  Frustrated with her own whirling thoughts, Rowena drew the bench close to the bed and set about her task with renewed purpose. She grew increasingly aware of the intimacy of their situation. She was touching this man in a way she would never dream of doing if he were well, learning the smooth contours of his face in a way she did not even know her own. Gently she bathed the corded column of his throat, his powerful shoulders, wondering at the sheer masculinity of him, and feeling a more intense awareness of her own femininity.

  When he groaned and tossed the coverlet from his chest, her gaze wen
t to that wide expanse, which glistened with perspiration.

  Her own breathing seemed more shallow, her chest tight. Although she knew it would help to cool him were she to bathe him there as well, Rowena dared not do so.

  Thus she put all of her attention and energy into doing what she could—working on without ceasing, yet never growing less conscious of him as a man, even when her heavy lids sagged with exhaustion…

  Rowena lifted her head from her arm, realizing she had fallen asleep. A low groan came from the bed beside her.

  Instantly her gaze went to her patient’s face. The light from the fire was dim but she could see the beads of perspiration on his upper lip. He groaned again, his head rolling on the pillow.

  Hurriedly she dipped the cloth into the cool water and wiped it across his brow. The moment it touched him he sighed, raising his hand to rub his throat, though it was clear he had not regained consciousness.

  Again she wet the cloth, this time applying it to his lean jaw.

  Without warning, his eyes flew open and he grabbed her, pulling her against the burning heat of his chest. “Rosalind…must find her…”

  Instantly Rowena leaned back, but in his fever her resistance only seemed to fuel his determination to hold her. His arms were like iron bands, pressing her to him, to the heat and strength of his body, the body she had not dared to touch.

  From somewhere there came a response in her own body, a hardening of the peaks of her breasts that shocked her even as a shaft of inexplicable pleasure raced through her blood.

  Then, just as suddenly as he had taken hold of her, she was released and he fell back, unconscious once more. Quickly she crossed her arms over her aching breasts, her gaze focusing on the smooth tanned skin of the stranger’s chest as she wondered how touching it could have brought such a reaction from her.

  She looked into his face. He was oblivious to her.

  Of course he was. He had never thought of her at all. It was this unknown Rosalind who consumed him to the point that worry for her had fought its way up through the depths of his illness.