Page 10 of When I Fall in Love (De Piaget #4)

N icholas fetched bread, cheese, and rather wrinkled apples from the larder, then paused by the kitchen fire. Unfortunately, he could remember in perfect detail his short, unpleasant conversation with Jennifer there that morning. He closed his eyes briefly. He should have told her that he didn’t want her to go. He never should have ignored her in the first place—

Then he shook his head. Nay, there was nothing he could have done differently. He couldn’t have offered to aid her when all he’d wanted to do was keep her; he couldn’t have told her that he wanted her to stay when he’d known she needed to go home. It was, in all respects, an untenable situation with no good solution.

But now the situation had changed.

He left the kitchen, then paused at the edge of the great hall. Jennifer was sobbing into her sleeve, her injured hand resting on her knees. Nicholas grimaced at the sound. How terribly lost she must feel. Lost and frightened and in pain. The pain he could ease, but the fear?

Not without telling her far more than he wanted to about things he shouldn’t have known.

He stepped out into the hall and stumbled, almost dropping his burdens. He cursed silently. His arm was beginning to ache abominably. He would have to see to the arrow wound sooner or later, which he wouldn’t enjoy. He would also have to see Ledenham sooner or later, which he would enjoy very much.

That thought kept him warm as he crossed over to the fire.

He sat down on the stool in front of Jennifer. She dragged her sleeve across her eyes and looked at him. Nicholas winced. He should have aided her; he could have spared her much of what she suffered.

Though he suspected that he couldn’t have spared her all. He had wit enough to have seen that her gate had been dug up. Did that mean it was ruined? He supposed it could mean nothing else.

“Do I look that bad?”

He studied her and hesitated. Her eyes were puffy, her nose red, and she looked more miserable than any woman should have the misfortune to.

“Well,” he said, casting about for something polite to say, “you’ve had a rather trying day.”

“Thank you for that. I think.” She sat back in the chair. “I’d have to agree.”

He nodded silently. He could only imagine how terrible that must be, to have home and hearth unreachable.

Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done about it that night. What she needed was sleep and food, and not in that order. He held up his findings.

“Can you eat?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Have you eaten today?” he asked. “Something besides those bitter greens you’ve been foisting off on me?”

“No,” she said and her eyes teared madly, “but I’m not hungry.”

“I’m hungry,” Montgomery offered suddenly.

Nicholas realized that his youngest brother was standing behind Jennifer’s chair. He was looking just the slightest bit fierce, as if he wanted to protect Jennifer, but wasn’t sure he dared.

Nicholas rose and handed him cheese, bread, and fruit. “Go find Miles and John and share. I will care for Mistress McKinnon well in your absence.”

Montgomery hesitated.

“Go,” Nicholas commanded, pointing toward the door.

Montgomery went. Nicholas sat down, poured Jennifer more wine, then forced the cup on her. He made sure she had at least drunk a few sips before he turned his attention to his bloody sleeve. Damn that Ledenham—

“Are you going to do something about that?” Jennifer asked uneasily.

“Eventually,” he said grimly. He should have gone with her. He could have saved them both a great deal of aggravation. If he had, perhaps her gate through the centuries would have worked and she would have been safely home, not sitting in his drafty hall, drinking from a cup he’d borrowed from his mother.

Pitiful.

“When?”

He looked up. “When, what?”

“When are you going to fix that?”

He blinked. “Oh, my arm. Well, I’ll need to soon.” He paused, then looked at her. “Can you sew?”

“Quite well, actually,” she said. “Why?”

“Wait for me.” He made his way to his solar, dug through his personal gear and came up with a wallet of needles. One never knew when some sort of sewing might be required. He liked it better when that sewing was limited to his saddle.

He returned to the hall, resumed his place on the stool, and handed the leather wallet to Jennifer. She looked at him in shock.

“You want me to sew you ?” she asked incredulously.

“Someone must,” he said easily. “’Tis either you or one of my brothers and believe me when I tell you that they do not sew well.”

She blanched, but unfolded the leather containing his needles just the same. Her hands were shaking. Nicholas spared a brief moment to wonder just how it was they took care of wounds in her day, then let the thought continue on. She was, for better or worse, now in his day and she was limited to what he could provide. He poured her more wine.

“Drink that,” he said. “You’ll feel better.”

“I imagine not,” she said politely. But she drank the entire cup in one long pull just the same, then dragged her sleeve across her mouth. She handed the cup back to him. “Thank you,” she said with a gasp. “Better.”

“In truth?”

“No,” she admitted unsteadily. “I’m trying to give you a feeling of confidence in me.”

“I trust you.”

“See what you say after I’m finished.”

He smiled, then set her cup down. He stood up and took the knife out of his belt, unbuckled his sword belt, then set all his gear down on the floor next to him. He stripped off his tunic, cursed at the pull of his arm, then sat down again. He watched impassively as she threaded the needle with what he’d brought her. He was, he had to admit, somewhat relieved by the expert, unthinking way she did it. Obviously, she did indeed have experience with the art.

He watched as she leaned over and held the needle against the flame of the fire. He knew he should have been surprised, but he’d watched Jake do that a time or two and knew that she was burning off something. Germs, gems, he couldn’t remember what Jake had called them. What he could remember was the inventively vile comment he’d tossed at his brother-in-law for his foolishness.

How ironic that he should be the recipient of such ministrations now.

He vowed then never to tell Jake about it. The onslaught of laughter at his expense would have been unbearable.

Jennifer wiped the needle off on a clean bit of her jeans, hesitated, then reached for the wine.

She didn’t bother with the cup this time.

“Save some for me,” he said dryly.

She put the bottle down and smiled. “If I must.”

He was rather glad his backside was firmly placed upon a stool. He realized then that he had never been the recipient of one of her easy smiles.

No wonder his brothers were completely under her spell.

“You have more need of it than I,” he managed. “At least for now.”

She shook her head. “I can do this.” She held up the needle. “I think.”

At least the needle was the smallest and thinnest, which he appreciated. But her hands were trembling visibly. She took a deep breath.

It didn’t aid her, apparently.

Nicholas reached out and took her hands in his, avoiding her injured finger. He looked at her seriously.

“I am accustomed to this,” he said. “You will not pain me.”

“You wouldn’t have this if you hadn’t come to rescue me.”

“And you wouldn’t have needed rescuing if I’d agreed to help you in the first place. We are at an impasse, so let us leave it behind us.”

She looked down at their hands folded together. “Why didn’t you help me?”

“I like your salad,” he said, her term for those bitter greens feeling foreign on his tongue. He would not, even under pain of torture, give her the real reason.

“Liar.”

He blinked, then realized that she was saying it gently. He smiled briefly, then released her hands. “Be about your work, Mistress McKinnon, and perhaps I’ll have another salad before I retire. I’m sure it would be strengthening.”

“Hmmm,” she said, then she took her needle in hand. “Ready?”

“Aye.”

“Do you fight often?” she asked, taking a strip of cloth and soaking it with wine to press against the wound.

“When necessary. I generally walk away unscathed.”

“Do you?”

“I do,” he said simply. “My father is Rhys de Piaget and he is a master swordsman.”

“And you would best your brother if you didn’t think it would destroy his fragile ego.”

Nicholas snorted. “Meet Robin and judge for yourself. His swordplay is his life.”

“And you?” she asked, looking at the wound and becoming very pale indeed. “What is your life?”

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. And he realized that he didn’t.

But he knew what he wanted.

Why did he have to meet a woman he couldn’t look away from only to find that she was hundreds of years out of his reach? If he hadn’t been a more cheerful soul, he might have suspected that Fate was punishing him for some misdeed he couldn’t remember.

He started to give his usual vague answer about repairing his castle and filling his coffers, but Jennifer had set to work on his arm and he found that speech was impossible.

She wasn’t a poor needlewoman. She was actually quite a bit better than anyone else he’d had sew his poor flesh together. She was a damned sight better than Robin and vastly superior to Miles.

Still, sweat broke out on his forehead.

He couldn’t believe it was from pain, for the pain was nothing.

He realized Jennifer was looking at him. He grimaced.

“I am well.”

“You don’t look well.”

“I am well,” he repeated.

“I’m almost done. Then you take the chair and I’ll go get you something to eat.”

He didn’t argue. He closed his eyes as she leaned forward and bit off the last bit of thread. He bowed his head and blew out his breath as he listened to her pack up his gear and pour wine.

“Nicholas.”

He lifted his head and looked at her. She was a bit blurry, but he supposed that was to be expected. He took the wine, downed it, and almost fell off his stool.

He felt her hands on his bare shoulders. If the rest of the evening’s events hadn’t finished him, that certainly did. He put his hand over hers briefly, then rose. He wasn’t happy with the sudden weakness that struck him, but he couldn’t seem to do anything about it. He didn’t protest when she put her hands on his waist and guided him into the good chair. He sat, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against it.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

“You look dreadful.”

“Thank you for that, as well.”

“Montgomery, watch him,” she said, sounding particularly concerned. “I’m going to find him something to eat.”

“I’ll come help,” Miles offered. “You might need a man’s strength of arm in your labors.”

Nicholas realized then that he hadn’t noticed his brothers. How long had they been there? At least they’d had the good sense to be silent. He concentrated on breathing for several minutes, then finally forced his eyes open so he could look down at his arm. The stitching was done quite well, actually. It burned like hellfire still, but he knew that would pass. He leaned his head back against the chair again and closed his eyes. Perhaps a small rest wasn’t out of the question.

“Nicholas.”

He woke to find Jennifer leaning over him. He nodded and straightened. “I feel better.”

She sat down on the stool in front of him and held a wooden trencher on her knees. It was full of things that should have looked good, but didn’t.

“You should eat.”

He focused on her with an effort. And once he looked at her, he found that he could do nothing else. By the saints, she was lovely. Firelight had surely been created to caress her porcelain skin and deep red hair. Nicholas thought he might have smiled in pleasure at the sight. Or he might have slept.

That he wasn’t certain was very unsettling.

He opened his eyes to find Jennifer looking behind him with an expression of concern. Nicholas frowned and glanced behind him, too. Miles was standing there. He wasn’t doing his damndest to woo Jennifer, which was disconcerting somehow. Nicholas drew his hand over his eyes.

“Are you unwell?” he asked Miles.

“I’m not, but I think you are,” Miles said gravely. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.” Nicholas turned back to Jennifer. “I am well.”

“Eat something, then.”

“Didn’t I already eat?”

“No, you didn’t,” she said, shooting Miles a look of concern. “Here, try the bread to start with.”

Nicholas did, but it tasted gritty and stale. He tried dried fruit, but it was too much effort. He settled for a cup of wine.

He wondered, briefly, if any of it would come back to haunt him.

“To bed, I think,” he announced.

Then he frowned. Were his words slurring?

He rose, drawing his hand over his eyes. “I think I need air.”

Jennifer set the trencher down behind her and leaped to her feet. She put her hands on his arms.

“You look terrible.”

“You keep saying that,” he slurred. Aye, those were his words and they did sound quite garbled.

He felt hot and very, very ill.

“Please let me help you,” she said, from very far away.

Nicholas shook his head, but that made the hall spin violently so he stopped.

But, by then it was too late.

He felt himself falling and couldn’t stop it.