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She waved an irritated hand at him. “God’s Bones, du Reims,” she said. “Surely you cannot be serious. If it bothers you so much, then Simon and Channing will be in the chamber with us as chaperones. Now is it proper?”

He looked at her, dubious. “Probably not.”

She glared at him. “I must sew up your wound,” she said. “It is probably caked with blood and dirt even now and will take a good deal of effort to clean it up, so you must sleep on a bed and not on a pile of straw in a cold livery. I insist, du Reims. You will not argue with me on this.”

He sighed heavily, unwilling to enter into yet another battle with her. He was coming to realize that he had to choose his fights wisely with her. Otherwise, they’d be arguing over every little thing. So, he nodded in resignation and headed out of the chamber to find Simon and Channing with the excellent news that they would have a fire that night.

Meanwhile, Tresta put her satchel on the bed nearest the fire and began hunting for her sewing kit. Every proper woman had a sewing kit, one she traveled with, and she found it at the bottom of the satchel. A serving wench brought in a steaming earthenware pitcher of wine that, when Tresta stuck her finger in it to taste it, was heavily watered and heavily spiced. But it was hot and the food plentiful, both things very much needed after a day like today. As Tresta turned back to her satchel, the drunk tavernkeeper lingered by the door.

“Do you require anything else, my lady?”

Tresta glanced at him. “Nay,” she said. “Thank you.”

The man didn’t leave. He was intently looking her over. “Is the big knight your husband?”

Something in the way he said it put her on her guard. She looked at the man squarely in the eyes. “He is,” she said. “And if you do not leave me in peace, I will tell him that you are harassing me.”

That was enough for the tavernkeeper. He quickly turned away, heading back into the common room as Tresta pulled the door shut and threw the bolt. She didn’t want the man coming back in and cornering her.

She didn’t trust him.

Tarran returned a short while later after having settled the men in the livery with Channing and Simon in tow. Tresta unbolted the door for him and the small chamber became far more crowded with four bodies in it when it was barely adequate for two. But the boys settled down in front of the hearth, laying out the bedrolls they’d brought all the way from Snow Hill, the same bedrolls they’d slept against on their journey to London.

Tarran parceled out the food, splitting a loaf of bread between the boys and giving them enough cheese and boiled eggs to stuff them. Tresta wanted to look at his wound, but he brushed her off, instead splitting another loaf of bread with her and a big bowl that was filled with a mixture of rice, hard cooked eggs, flaked fish, and a liberal amount of salt.

Tresta wasn’t one with a taste for fish, but she was so hungry that she devoured it. She and Tarran ate out of the same bowl, with big, flat wooden spoons provided. They also had their share of cheese and boiled eggs, as the boiled eggs seemed to be quite plentiful. The first several minutes proved a feeding frenzy, especially for Channing and Simon, who quickly drifted off to sleep after so much food and the warmth of the fire. Tresta grinned at the boys as she poured more warmed wine into her cup and then, politely, into Tarran’s.

“When I see them, I miss my own sons,” she said, watching Tarran lift his eyebrows in response. She held up a hand to him. “I know what you’re going to say and you can save your breath. Teague said the same thing. I was not going to remain behind, so you do not have to say that missing them is my own fault. I know that. But Jasper and Rhys are perfectly well cared for with my father. I was simply stating that I miss them.”

Tarran bit his tongue, sipping at the hot, watered, and spicy wine that was so warming against the cold night. “They will make fine knights someday,” he said. “Lord Teague is fortunate to have four strong sons to carry on his name.”

Tresta heard him speak of Teague in the present tense and it reminded her yet again where they were going. What they would find on the morrow. Not that she had forgotten it, but there were moments when it faded to the back of her mind. Just a few moments when she wouldn’t feel the fear and grief clutching at her.

She struggled to shake it off.

“Will you let me look at your wound now?” she asked, trying to distract herself. “You really must let me tend it.”

Tarran knew that. He’d been avoiding it for the most part, but it pained him and he knew it needed to be cleaned out unless he wanted it to turn to poison. With a sigh, he set his cup down and stood up.

The tunics were the first things to come off, one of them bearing the red and yellow of the House of d’Mearc. He tossed them onto the bed he would use for the night, silently stripping down as Tresta went over to her bed and collected her sewing kit. She also collected something that looked like a drying towel, setting them on the table and taking the empty food bowls over to the door.

Tarran was shimmying off his mail coat as he heard Tresta ask for hot water when she handed over the dirty dishes. He wasn’t fully clothed in his knightly gear, mostly meaning that he wasn’t wearing his mail trousers, but rather leather breeches that protected his legs adequately. When he traveled like this, he didn’t wear full protection, so removing what he had from the waist up was relatively easy. By the time Tresta got her bucket of hot water, his torso was stripped naked.

“Sit on the bed, please,” she said as she lugged the water over to the bed he was using and set it down. As a little splashed out onto the floor, she had him turn away from her so she could get a look at the wound. He heard her hiss. “This is not too deep, fortunately, but it must be cleaned. The bleeding has stopped and a scab has already formed, but I can see bits of tunic imbedded in it. I think I also see pieces of mail.”

Tarran was too weary to get worked up about it. “Then do what you must, my lady.”

Tresta did. She placed the linen towel soaked in hot water against the wound to loosen it, thinking that it must have been painful for him but he never flinched and he never uttered a sound. However, picking debris out of a healing wound was going to be quite uncomfortable, so once the scab and skin were soft enough, she took one of the bone needles from her sewing kit and started at the top of the wound.

Piece by piece, the debris started to come loose.

“Do you recall that battle in Garthmyl two years ago?” she asked.

She couldn’t see as he closed his eyes against her careful but painful tugging. “I do.”

Tresta put a piece of debris on the table. “Teague had a wound much like this one,” she said. “A sword caught him on the buttocks. How on earth he was struck by a sword on the buttocks, when he was riding a horse no less, I will never know. I had to pick all manner of rubbish from that wound.”

Tarran opened his eyes as he remembered that battle. “That was when about fifty Welshmen ambushed us,” he said. “We had gone into the village to speak with the local chieftain, but we were attacked.”

“I remember that. Teague was furious.”

Tarran grunted. “We all were,” he said. “We were lured there. We ended up burning the village and taking the lord into Shrewsbury for justice.”

Tresta bit her lip in concentration as she gently pulled on a piece of torn tunic in the wound. “No one would tell me how he was wounded in the buttocks,” she said. “Do you know?”

A flicker of a smile tugged on his lips. “I do not recall.”

“I do not believe you.”

“My lady, if he wanted you to know, he would tell you.”

She pulled out the offending piece of tunic and put it on the table with the rest of the debris. “In other words, he has sworn his knights to secrecy.”

“You will have to ask him when you see him.”

She slowed, her eyes taking on a distant look as she thought of her husband and what tomorrow might bring. But she steeled herself because lamenting about it tonight would do no good.

Tomorrow, she would know.

“Will you be honest with me, du Reims?” she asked as she went back in for a few more pieces of tunic.

“I always am, my lady.”

“Do you believe it was Somerset’s fleet that was scuttled?”

He leaned forward so she could get to the wound near his armpit. “I do not know, my lady,” he said honestly. “It would be reckless to tell you anything other than that.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I suppose I was just… thinking.”

“That is understandable.”

“You have shown a good deal of compassion in this matter,” she said, pausing. “In Calais over the past week, things were… chaotic. I am well aware of that and I am well aware of the things I said to you at the time. But I want you to know that whatever the outcome of this situation, I am grateful that you have always been calm and steady. Unyielding, but steady.”

“You are welcome, my lady.”

“May I ask another question?”

“What is it?”

“If it looks as if it was not Somerset’s fleet tomorrow, will we return home?”

“Aye.”

She digested that as she plucked the remaining debris from the wound and looked it over. “And if it is Somerset’s fleet?” she asked quietly. “What will we do?”

He was quiet for a moment. “I do not know,” he said honestly. “But whatever we do, I shall discuss it with you. I will not make any decisions without consulting you.”

Tresta hadn’t expected that answer. Tarran du Reims was a man supremely confident in everything, including his decisions. She found it surprising, and quite touching, that he should discuss the situation with her if it turned out Somerset’s fleet had indeed been decimated. Setting her needle down, she reached around him and picked up a cup of the lukewarm wine.

“If it is Somerset’s fleet and tomorrow we discover the worst, I must say something,” she said, looking at his broad, muscular back. “I will not hold you to your oath, du Reims. You swore fealty to my husband, not to me. If the worst is revealed on the morrow, I will not fault you for leaving and returning to England without me.”

He frowned, turning to look over his shoulder at her. “Why would you say such a thing?” he said. “My oath is to the House of d’Mearc and I have served your husband for many years. I would not simply walk away from that responsibility. To do so would be to shame myself.”

She sighed faintly as she poured the warmed wine on the wound, cleansing it. “But there would be no army,” she said. “No knights, no one to command. I would return to Snow Hill and resume what I can of my life. I would not ask you to keep an oath taken to a man… a man who is no longer here.”

He was trying not to react to the sting of the wine. “I will not shirk my responsibility.”

“I am not your responsibility.”

“You are,” he said, turning so he could look at her as the wine she was pouring ended up on the floor. His gaze on her was intense. “If we discover the worst tomorrow, I would never walk away knowing that Lord Teague would expect me to keep my oath and watch over you. I would be a poor knight indeed if I simply walked away. Surely you do not mean to suggest I could be so irresponsible.”

She shook her head. “I did not mean to suggest that at all,” she said. “I simply wanted you to know that I would not hold you to it. Surely you have somewhere else to go, someone else you could be serving that would mean something to you. Something other than a bereft house and no army.”

He could see that she wasn’t trying to insult him. She was simply trying to absolve him of any guilt in the situation. Therefore, he thought carefully on his answer.

“I suppose I could return home to my father,” he said. “But that would be unfulfilling.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Because he already has two of my brothers serving him,” he said. “I would have to compete with that lot.”

Tresta thought about that a moment before indicating for him to turn around so she could finish with the wound.

“I do not know much about your family,” she said. “Teague mentioned that you are from East Anglia.”

Tarran nodded as she poured more wine on the wound, stinging. “My father is the Earl of East Anglia,” he said. “My eldest brother, Talus, is his heir. My brother, Tristen, also serves him and my youngest brother, Kinnon, serves elsewhere.”

Finished cleansing the wound, Tresta dried it carefully with the damp towel. “I did not know you were an earl’s son.”

“I am.”

“How many brothers do you have?”

“Four, including an elder half-brother.”

“And you are the youngest?”

He shook his head. “Second eldest,” he said. “Serving the House of d’Mearc put me at the top of the pecking order. If I go home, I shall be in the middle again and if my older brother tries to harass me just one more time, I will have to slay him and bury the body.”

Tresta grinned. “He might put up a fight, don’t you think?”

“I can outfight him.”

That sounded much more like the Tarran du Reims she had known for all of these years, but it also explained a bit about why he was the way he was. He could be aggressive and quick to temper. With older brothers bearing down on him, that was understandable. She’d never known, in all of the years they had been acquainted, that he was an earl’s son. But she wasn’t surprised.

The man had the look of nobility about him.

“I am sure your father would not like that,” she said. “But if you choose to leave, I just wanted you to know that I would not hold you to your oath should… should…”

She couldn’t finish and he didn’t finish for her. The implication was obvious and there was no need to voice it. He simply sat there as she finished cleaning his wound and put several neat stitches in his flesh to close it up. Truthfully, he hardly felt the needle. He was more focused on the subject of the moment, on what news tomorrow would bring them.

He was also focused on the thought of leaving Tresta should Teague be dead.

He wasn’t going to do it.

He couldn’t believe she really meant to release him from his oath because there was no way he was going to leave her without a knight to help her navigate a world without her husband. Being that Snow Hill was on the border, she would need his help in stationing troops there because once the Welsh princes realized what had happened, it was quite possible they would try to confiscate the castle. Tarran thought he might even send word to his father for reinforcements. Surely Tevin du Reims would not deny him.

But there was no way he was leaving Tresta to fend for herself.

No way in hell.

When Tresta was finally finished stitching up his wound, she had him put on a clean tunic he had rolled up in his saddlebags to protect the injury while he slept. She told him that she would bandage it in the morning to keep it clean and the stitches protected from his clothing and mail but, for tonight, it remained unbandaged and throbbing.

But he wasn’t paying attention to the pain. He was only thinking, rather foolishly, that he’d rather liked the feel of her hands against his skin.

Even if she had been stabbing him with needles.

With Channing and Simon snoring away on their bedrolls before the fire, Tresta went to her little bed and lay down to sleep, covered up by her traveling cloak. Tarran ended up laying on his stomach on this bed because laying on his back hurt his wound, but he lay there for quite some time, staring at the wall, until he heard Tresta’s soft, steady breathing and he knew that she was asleep. Then, he turned his head so he could see her in the flickering light of the hearth.

He just wanted to look at her.

When he finally fell asleep, it was to the outline of her beautiful face.