A wave of nausea caught her by surprise. She wasn't sure if it was a reaction to her trickery or if she had lost more blood than she'd realized.
Lawrence lifted the hem of her gown, tore off a strip of her chemise, and began wrapping her throbbing shoulder.
Nicholaa looked down at the ragged bandages covering her hands and had to shake her head over her own condition. Lord, she was a mess. Since meeting Royce, she'd suffered one injury or indignity after another. If this continued, she'd be dead in a week. She started to mention this to her husband, just to prick his pride, but suddenly the light-headed feeling she'd pretended to experience only minutes before, came on all at once. She wasn't pretending this time when she asked Royce to tighten his hold.
"I can't decide if I'm going to lose my supper or swoon," she whispered.
Royce fervently hoped she'd swoon. She proved to be accommodating.
"She's sleeping again," Lawrence remarked.
Royce nodded. His voice was ragged when he said, "She's lost so much blood."
The anguish in his lord's voice wasn't lost on the vassal. "Nay, Royce," he replied. "Only a fair amount. She should be fully recovered in a week or two."
Neither warrior spoke again until Lawrence finished his ministrations. Royce allowed the vassal to hold Nicholaa while he remounted and then took Nicholaa into his lap. He noticed that the white bandage on her shoulder had already turned red. "She could bleed to death before we reach home," he muttered. Lawrence shook his head. "The flow has already eased," he said. "Royce, I don't understand your reaction. This isn't a life threatening injury."
"I don't wish to discuss my reaction," Royce interjected.
The vassal quickly nodded agreement. He regained his mount before speaking again. "Why did she interfere, my lord? Surely she realized your armor would protect you."
"She wasn't thinking," Royce returned. "She thought only to protect me."
He sounded baffled by his own explanation. "Nicholaa said something just after… I don't understand her meaning, Lawrence, but there is more to this than…"
He didn't continue. One of the soldiers drew his attention when he offered him his cloak. Royce accepted the garment and wrapped it around Nicholaa.
He then gave the order to call his men together. It was the first time in all his days that he'd retreated from a fight. He didn't hesitate though. Nicholaa was his only concern now. Nothing else mattered.
As it turned out, retreat wasn't necessary. Lawrence returned to Royce with the announcement that the attackers had fled as suddenly as they'd appeared.
Royce mulled over that oddity a long while. Although the rebels had clearly had the initial advantage, Royce could have turned the fight into a victory, as his soldiers were far more skilled than the Saxons were. That much had been evident from the way the enemy had rushed toward them from the hills. They had run without a thought of flanking the Normans or protecting their own backsides. There wasn't any discipline in their ranks. They had made an easy target for the Normans' arrows.
On the long ride to Rosewood, Royce kept trying to separate his mind from his emotions, a simple undertaking under usual conditions. His heart kept getting in his way, though. He told himself again and again that when he'd given the order to quit the battle, he'd merely been doing his duty. Nicholaa was his wife, and it was his responsibility to protect her. But why were his hands still shaking? Why was his fury over her injury so consuming he could barely think?
Damn it all, this inconvenience was getting out of hand. His wife was muddling his mind. His life was a carefully drawn map, and now she was easing her way right into his every thought.
It wasn't until they had reached the castle and Royce was carrying Nicholaa up the narrow steps to the bedchambers that he realized the full horror of his situation.
He didn't just care about her. He was falling in love with the woman.
God's truth, that admission so stunned him that he almost dropped her. He quickly recovered and continued on toward Nicholaa's chamber, his mind racing with all the reasons he couldn't possibly love such a stubborn, illogical woman. Hell, he didn't even like her most of the time.
Logic came to his rescue. It wasn't possible for him to love her. He didn't know how to love anyone. Aye, he told himself. He'd been trained all these years to be a warrior, and he had never learned how to love. Therefore, he reasoned quite logically, he couldn't possibly love Nicholaa.
It was all right to care about the woman, of course, for she was his possession. He could care as an owner would care about any valuable property.
Royce felt better after he'd sorted it all out. Yet he contradicted his new convictions by growling at all the servants who presumed they would take over Nicholaa's care. Baron Hugh had followed the parade of weeping women up the stairs. He stood in the doorway, watching with growing astonishment as Royce tried to put Nicholaa on the bed. The giant warrior couldn't seem to get the deed done. He leaned over the bed twice, but each time he straightened up, Nicholaa was still in his arms. Royce couldn't seem to let go of her.
Hugh took mercy on his friend. He ushered the servants out of the room, save for one, a sweet, plump temptress named Clarise whom he'd been trying to get into his bed for nearly a week now. He motioned for her to stand aside, then ordered Royce to put his wife down. His hand rested on Royce's shoulder. "Take your helmet off and see to your own comforts. Clarise will take care of Nicholaa."
Royce did put Nicholaa down and take his helmet off, but he refused to leave the room. He tossed the headgear into a corner, then clasped his hands behind his back and stood guard beside the bed. He saw Nicholaa jump when the helmet hit the floor. Could she hear them? he wondered. Perhaps she was finally coming out of her swoon. God, he hoped so.
Nicholaa knew exactly what was going on. She'd alternated between true sleep and pretending to be asleep all the way home. The pain in her shoulder had eased considerably, and she was feeling much better now. The problem was that she'd have to explain her actions to her husband once he knew she'd recovered, and she still didn't know what she was going to tell him.
She needed time to worry through this problem. She was still a bit stunned that Thurston was alive-thankful too, of course. As his only sister, she felt it was her duty to protect him. But she was also Royce's wife now. She had to give her loyalty to him and try to protect him as well. God, it was confusing.
Nicholaa started shivering. She was frightened for Thurston and for Royce. She knew her brother's stubborn nature. He wouldn't give up until he'd regained his holding, but Royce wouldn't let Thurston have Rosewood without a fight, either. One or both could die before the matter was settled.
She didn't want to lose either of them. What was she going to do? Should she trust Royce with the truth? Or would that be disloyal to Thurston?
Tears filled her eyes. She needed time to sort it all out before doing anything.
"She's in pain," Royce muttered, drawing her attention. "I want it stopped. Now."
Nicholaa didn't open her eyes. She wished Royce would take her into his arms and offer her the comfort she so desperately needed right now. She wanted him to tell her everything would be all right.
God help her, she actually wanted him to love her, if only just a little.
"We could send someone to the abbey for a healer," Hugh suggested.
Clarise had just finished sorting through the trunk, looking for Nicholaa's sleeping gowns. She carried a white cotton garment over to the bed. When Nicholaa moaned, Clarise burst into tears. She dropped the gown and began to twist the hem of her bliaut into a knot. "Lady Nicholaa cannot die," she cried out. "We would be lost without her."