Page 37 of A Lover for Lady Jane (The Welsh Rebels #5)

Chapter Nineteen

G riffin was dead.

The men were dead. Christopher, Stephen and the others, they were all dead, reduced to a bloody heap of limbs.

It was the only way to explain the fact that they had not come back yet. Jane kept staring at the door of the solar, unblinking. She had not moved from the chair, drunk or eaten anything since the retinue had left hours ago. She had barely taken a breath.

Why weren’t they back yet?

“They’re all dead,” she whispered to herself, feeling like her head would burst if the awful thought didn’t get out.

“Of course, they’re not,” Sian said from behind her, her tone sharp. “Stop thinking like this, it will only send you mad.”

Jane let out a snort of incredulity. “I will go mad if they don’t come back soon, whatever I think about. Don’t you see? The man I love is out there, facing?—”

“Please.” Something in her sister’s voice made Jane turn around.

Sian was standing in the middle of the room, her eyes huge in the fire light, her hands flat over her stomach, her lips wobbling.

She was on the verge of tears. “The man I love is also out there, and I am doing my best not to go mad myself, imagining what could have happened to him, imagining my baby never meeting his father.”

“Oh, Sian, forgive me! I’m such a fool!”

“You’re not a fool, you’re only worried, with good reason. But it will not help. We need to stay strong for when the men come back. They will need us then.”

Jane fell in her sister’s arms, sobbing.

How could she have been so selfish as to allow her anguish to show thus?

Of course, she was not the only one worrying herself to death.

Sian would be racked with fear as well. Her husband, the father of her unborn child, was in mortal danger, because Cynan would not go down without a fight, and there was no telling how many men he had at his disposal.

The ones they had seen by the bridge might not be the only ones he’d recruited.

Others might well be waiting at Lord Wills castle.

Oh, she would make sure her father and uncle made the foul Englishman pay for all he had allowed the rebels to do!

“Listen to me.” Sian, almost a hand shorter than she was, but magnificent in her determination, held her at arm’s length, her blue eyes sending sparks.

“Our men are not dead, and they will be here soon. They had better do, because if they don’t, I’ll kill Christopher myself for the worry he’s caused us. ”

Jane could not help a laugh at this spirited answer, so typical of her sister. “Oh, Sian. You’re the best?—”

A noise interrupted her. Her heart tripped in her chest when she identified it as the one she most wanted to hear.

Horses’ hooves. At last! With a gasp Jane bolted to the door and ran down the spiral staircase, followed by her sister.

In the bailey, the group of men were already dismounting, Christopher at its head.

The usually impeccable Lord Ashton appeared as disheveled as she had ever seen him.

His tunic was cut in various places, his long hair was in disarray, and his left cheek was cut.

In the torchlight, the crusted blood appeared a dull brown, as if he’d been rolling in mud.

With a scream Sian threw herself into her husband’s arms. Eyes closed, Christopher held her without a word.

It was then that Jane saw Griffin. No wonder she had not spotted him at first. He was being lowered from his horse by Stephen and two of her uncle’s men.

She ran to his side, panic overwhelming her when she saw he was barely conscious and had to be held upright.

If Christopher resembled a knight returning from the crusades, Griffin looked like a man who’d gone to hell and been spat out by the devil himself.

His clothes were in tatters, his hair was matted with blood and his right hand was roughly bandaged, as if the men had done their best to cover a grave injury before setting off.

He was pale as death, and slick with sweat.

“Oh, my God, what did they do to him?”

Christopher drew to her side, his shoulders stooped in contrition.

Sian was still holding him close, with both her arms wrapped around his waist. “I… I’m sorry to say they had started torturing him when we arrived.

” He was breathing rather fast, like a man fighting pain.

Evidently the cut on his cheek was not the extent of his injuries.

He was very pale himself, paler than the rest of the men.

“His right hand…the two smallest fingers are missing. On his chest?—”

“I will see, worry not.”

Jane knew she would be sick if she heard exactly what the Welshmen had done.

This was a grim repetition of what had happened to her father fourteen years ago.

Instead of just killing him outright, Gruffydd had taken pleasure in drawing out Connor’s suffering.

It seemed that the son had inherited the father’s taste for cruelty.

Not that she was overly surprised.

A sob escaped her lips. “I don’t know how to thank you for getting Griffin back,” she told Christopher, overwhelmed by the enormity of what he had done. He was the one who had saved Griffin.

Without him she would never have known where to look.

Even supposing they had eventually found out where Cynan had taken his captive, it would have been too late.

The rebels had wanted to amuse themselves by torturing him, but they would have quickly tired of the sinister game and ended up killing him.

Or a weakened Griffin would have succumbed to the torture.

Either way, it was a miracle they had gotten to him in time.

“Please.” Christopher gave her a tight smile. “Finally, I feel I have atoned for what I made you go through when we were young, Perfect Little Jane Hunter. We’ll talk no more of it. Go see to his injuries, while my wife sees to mine.”

Indeed, it seemed as if the will not to worry Sian unduly was the only thing holding him upright at the moment. Jane nodded, as eager to get to her man as he was to lie down. “Of course. Thanks again.”

When he left, supported by Sian, Jane knew she would never think ill of Christopher Harrison ever again. He had given her her life back by rescuing the man she loved and had almost lost his in the process. They were now linked by an inextricable bond.

On her orders, Stephen and the two men carried Griffin to the room she had been allocated, next to the solar. Having settled him on the bed, they left, assuring her they would bring back everything she needed to see to him without delay.

Once she was alone, Jane drew near the bed, intimidated in front of an unconscious Griffin in a way she had never been when he’d been at the height of his potency.

Bracing herself, she started to unwind the bandage around his hand—and recoiled in horror when she saw only a bloody mess where his little finger and ring finger should be.

Christopher had warned her about the injury, but stupidly, she had not paused to think what it actually meant .

Two fingers are missing was what he’d said.

The simple, impersonal description did not begin to describe the horror of what had actually happened.

But at least the wound was not bleeding anymore.

Taking heart from it, she placed a light kiss on his thumb.

As the damaged hand was the right one, her guess was that Cynan had not known Griffin was left-handed and had naturally started the torture with his supposedly more useful hand, so as to inflict the most damage.

This was some consolation. Of course the pain of the mutilation would have been felt just as keenly, but at least now he would be able to live his life with less inconvenience than if he had lost the fingers of his leading hand.

Jane threw the soiled bandage on the chest lining the wall and set about removing Griffin’s undershirt.

Encrusted with blood, covered in dirt, cut in dozens of places, it was already damaged beyond repair so, deciding it was the best way not to hurt him, she simply tore it from his body, uncovering the wound on his chest Christopher had warned her about.

It was deep enough to warrant stiches, but it too, had stopped bleeding.

In preparation for the men’s return, she lit as many candles as she could find. Better keep busy than stare at the dozens of cuts crisscrossing his honeyed skin and go mad with anguish.

A moment later, true to their word, the three men were back, carrying water, bandages, a needle and thread, a tray laden with food and some clean clothes, everything she needed to make Griffin more comfortable.

“Here. Should you need anything else, you only have to ask, my lady,” Stephen told her.

Not trusting herself to speak, she thanked him with a wobbly smile.

Once they were gone, she started tending to Griffin.

He had still not recovered his senses, and was thrashing on the bed, like a man fighting demons.

Was he in physical pain, or reliving the torture he’d endured at Cynan’s hand?

Both? Tears started to run down her cheeks.

She had forgotten to ask Christopher what had happened to the rebels, but she didn’t doubt for a moment that they were finally free of them.

“Oh, my love,” she murmured, running a cloth over Griffin’s sweaty brow. “I’m here, it’s over. I’m here. Now all you have to do is to get better.”

Griffin was swimming in an ocean of pain.

The only thing preventing him from drowning in it was Jane’s presence by his side, Jane’s voice in his ears, Jane’s hands on his skin.

She was wiping his brow, stroking his cheeks, cleaning his chest, talking sweet nonsense all the while, as if she feared silence would bring his demise.

And she was right to be worried. Without the anchor to reality she was providing, he was in danger of slipping into the dark, dangerous oblivion beckoning.

But why was she here with him? How had she found him, in the dank castle cell he’d been thrown in?

He hadn’t dared hope anyone would come to his rescue and had resigned himself to the idea that he would die, alone and reduced to a bloody mess.

He didn’t even mind so much. It was the torture he had found hard to stomach.

The humiliation of it, the powerlessness, the pain…

Yes, the pain. His hand was throbbing, his chest was on fire, his throat had been scraped raw.

He was so thirsty… He tried to talk, found that it was too painful and gave up, focusing on the pleasurable sensations Jane was creating in the few parts of his body that were not hurting.

He felt her wet his hair, brush it with soothing, tender strokes, her love evident in every gesture.

He allowed himself to bask in it. She was telling him everything would be fine, that the pain would soon stop. He could only hope.

Then her words started to take a new direction.

No longer soothing, meaningless reassurances, they took on a new urgency.

How long had they been in that room together?

It wasn’t the cell, he had established that much, and it seemed to him that it was no longer dark outside, that light was trying to pierce his eyelids.

He wished he could put his arm over his face to stop it, but his body was too heavy.

“Griffin, please, you have to wake up,” Jane was saying, her voice tinged with panic. “You cannot die, not now, I need you, you cannot leave me… Us.”

“Us?” he croaked. If ever there was a time to make an effort, this was it.

Had he heard her right? Who was this “us” she was talking about?

He didn’t have anyone in the world except her.

Something started to niggle at the back of his brain.

Hadn’t something been bothering him when he’d been attacked?

“Oh, thank God!” Jane fell against his chest, sobbing, relief audible in her voice. He closed his eyes again, exhausted by the effort it had been to open them. “You’re not dead!”

No, he was not quite dead yet. And he dearly needed to hear what she had to say. “Us?” he repeated, unable to say anymore. Hopefully she would understand what he meant.

A silence. He fought to stay awake.

“I haven’t had my courses since we…” She stopped but there was no need to continue. Since they’d slept together, she meant. “Since we arrived at Castell Esgyrn. I think I may be with child.”

Jane was with child.

His child.

Dear God. This was exactly what he had dreaded to hear after their encounter in the barn—and what had been bothering him before the attack.

An image of Jane’s hand cradling her stomach while Sian had talked about feeding her son tore through the haze in his mind.

He’d wondered at the evocative gesture. Now he understood what it meant.

The world stilled around him; all the lights dimmed at last. And then… And then the ocean won.

Griffin fell into a deep, black void.