The Memory of Her Kiss Page 7

  “Lass?” Gregor called to her again. They needed her voice to guide them.

  “Aye.”

  Only slightly closer now, it seemed.

  “Hold!” Torren ordered suddenly, once again catching Gregor by the shoulder. He angled his light closer to the ground, or where the ground should have been. The underbrush and vines and roots ended at a length of rock where nothing could grow. The rock disappeared, showing the edge of a cliff.

  “Call again,” Torren instructed the lass.

  “I see your torches,” she called back and then cried, “Oh, you’re so far away!”

  As her voice appeared to come from well below them and off to the right, Torren tossed his torch down and to the left. Gregor counted slowly, one, two, three, four, until it reached the ground. As it fell, he noted it was not a sheer and straight drop-off but showed several spots where more rock jutted out, which would have thankfully interrupted a free fall, but likely bumped and bruised her along the way.

  The torch had landed on yet more rock, being some thirty to forty feet below them. It was steep enough yet to discourage any intent to climb or even scramble downhill. And Anice was still unseen.

  “Jesu,” he breathed, thankful she was even alive after such a fall. “Lass, can you come to the torch?” And even as he asked this, he was aware of a moving shadow at the right edge of the light from the torch. Gregor and those that surrounded him, peering over the edge, watched as she lumbered stiffly into the light, and rather gracelessly sank to the ground. Her kerchief was gone, the light of the dimming torch showed, and a long streak of what appeared to be blood dripped down one side of her face, in a wobbly line from above her temple, along the outside of her eye, and down her cheek. Her habit was torn, the sleeve hanging off one bare shoulder, and most of the rest of it was dirtied and twisted about her.

  There were murmurs of concern from the soldiers at the top of the crag.

  Tamsin moved as if to start climbing down the cliff. Gregor clenched his fist in the man’s collar and shook his head when Tamsin turned worried eyes to him. “You’ll end up same as she.” He turned to find Torren still at his side. “Rope and horses,” Gregor said to Torren, but his eyes had returned to Anice. She was holding one wrist gingerly while her head rested on the back of her neck to peer up at them.

  “Aye,” answered his captain, and called for these things to be brought. Once again, these orders were repeated backwards until several soldiers at the rear of the party dashed back to the camp to fetch these things.

  Kinnon called down to her, “Hold on, sister, we’re comin’ for you!”

  “Aye,” she said, her voice much weaker. Gregor detected the familiar sound of her chattering teeth.

  Only a few minutes later, two great destriers were led through the wood, and a length of rope was handed to Torren. Gregor made to remove his sword belt but noted Torren was doing the same. He looked up at his captain while soldiers held torches all around them.

  “You canna do it,” Torren said. “It’ll need climbing on the way up, holding the lass as well. You’re no strong enough.”

  Gregor objected, reaching for the rope. This was his duty. He needed to save her.

  Torren yanked the rope out of his reach and met Gregor’s eyes. “You’ll only make it worse on the lass.”

  Gregor’s jaw clenched. He gave Torren his opinion of this with his gaze, but knew the man was right. With an unhappy grimace, he nodded, and Torren cinched the rope securely around his waist. Gregor instead took up the other end of the rope and knotted it through the yoke which Fibh had just secured between the two horses. When it was fastened to his satisfaction, he returned to the edge, where Torren waited, turned about so that his heels hung over the clifftop.

  Fibh and two others guided the destriers into a position so that the rope was taut between the horses and Torren. Gregor gave a curt nod to Torren as he began his descent, the beasts being backed up slowly, their steps and pace matching Torren’s.

  Gregor’s eyes found Anice again, saw that she slumped a bit more and her face was no longer tilted up toward the top of the crag, but hung onto her chest. She favored the one hand yet, holding it out and away from her body.

  The light began to fade from the torch below, the flame shrinking. Gregor turned and grabbed one from Tamsin’s hand and let it fall near to the first, landing near to the other without being too close to Anice.

  It took Torren several minutes to reach the flat spot of a very small glen where sat Anice, the big man having to push his feet off from the vertical rock to skip over the parts that jutted out. Gregor watched as Torren finally reached the bottom and left the rope about his middle as he strode quickly to the lass. The big warrior went down on one knee before her, his back to the watchers on the clifftop. He raised his hand, trying to lift up her fallen sleeve to cover the bare skin of her shoulder. It fell away again as soon as his hand left it. From this distance, Gregor could only hear murmurs of whatever Torren and Anice said. As gentle as Gregor had ever seen him—as he was sure he’d never seen Torren before—the captain of the army assisted Anice in gaining her feet again. She shook her head at something Torren said and nodded, and Gregor’s teeth clenched when he noticed the quiver about her lips. Torren made some motions, perhaps showing her how he needed to lift and carry her, and the pair walked to the ground directly below. Torren tugged the rope with one hand and opened up his other arm, into which Anice moved. Her seeming initial want to keep her hands fisted at her chest proved impractical. Soon she wrapped one slender arm around Torren’s thick neck and now held the injured hand near to her own bare shoulder. Torren waited until she was comfortable with this and when she gave him a nervous nod, he yanked again on the rope.

  “Pull!” Gregor directed and Fibh made the destriers walk forward now and the pair attached to the rope were slowly hauled up the side of the crag while Anice talked the entire time. Little snippets of her words, giving several differently worded apologies and many thanks to Torren, drifted upwards to many listening ears.

  Gregor kept his hand loosely on the rope so that it slid through his palm and fingers as the destriers moved further away from the edge now. He leaned over the cliff to mark their progress and heard Anice give a small cry as she and Torren were bounced against the rock wall.

  “Pull!” He urged, as their progress seemed stalled. He kept his eyes on the top of Torren and Anice’s heads while Fibh threatened the horses, “Move, you daft beasts!”

  Torren’s hand, upon the rope, appeared over the edge first. His fingers let the rope go and shifted and clung to the rock, as they were raised still. Several soldiers moved forward and grabbed his hand and arm as the destriers continued to pull them higher. When her face came into view, she found Gregor’s eyes immediately and he was not unmoved by the tears that stained her cheeks nor the fright that lived in her gaze. When Torren and Anice were far enough above the edge, but before they might have been dragged across the ground at his feet, Gregor lifted Anice carefully out of Torren’s arms, mindful of her bruised hand. He hauled her up against his chest and wrapped his arm under her legs while she laid her head against his shoulder. He waited only a moment to be sure that Torren was standing safely upon the ground before he moved with measured and sure strides, taking her out of the woods. She trembled or cried in his arms, he did not know which, but felt her convulsions against him. Soldiers parted in front of him, and torches lit their way. Kinnon dashed ahead of him, his torch light dancing up and down as he led them back to the cart.

  Gingerly, Gregor sat Anice upon the rear boards of the cart, holding her steady, his hips pressing against her knees, his hands now on either side of her hips while he inspected her.

  “I fell,” she said, unnecessarily, raising her eyes to his. The torches, now near to the wagon, showed only hints of her previous fright, and a growing self-consciousness in her gaze, as if she expected to be rebuked for her accident.

  His lips twitched. “Aye, I gather you did, lass. Is it broke
n, do you think?” He asked, nodding toward her left hand, which she still held raised at chest level.

  She shook her head. “I can move it, so I think not.”

  “Just bruised, like as no,” said Tamsin, standing close, watching Anice with a decent frown of concern. Gregor considered him and the growing assembly forming around them. He did not fail to notice that Anice glanced around at all this fuss over her. Torren moved to the front of the group gathered around the wagon bed and Gregor watched Anice offer him a sheepishly thankful smile of gratitude.

  “I’ll keep the rope close, sister. We’ll be tying it ‘round you any time you need to visit nature’s privies,” the big man said, eliciting rounds of relieved and amused laughter.

  Anice joined in, pressing the sleeve of her unharmed wrist over her mouth while her eyes lightened with mirth. “Not a bad idea, I think,” she said, “I’m so sorry, Torren, that you were forced to—”

  “Weren’t forced, sister,” Torren interrupted, and waved off this, possibly her fifth or sixth apology to him. “Had to wrestle the cord from the chief, or doubtless I’d now be attending a scolding from you when he tore open some hole and then dropped you on your arse—pardon, sister—on account of his weakened state.” This last was said with a baiting glint in his eyes, directed at his chief, and which Gregor dismissed with very chief-like poise, save for the raising of one brow while the soldiers around continued to chuckle in good humor.

  Gregor gently took her left arm in his hand, holding it at her elbow, and applying pressure with his other hand, moving down toward her wrist. Her skin was cool and soft and both of them followed the progress of his fingers with their eyes, seeming just now to forget that they were surrounded by at least a dozen soldiers. When he squeezed experimentally at her wrist, she tried to jerk away, though he kept hold of her arm, and their eyes met, while she bit her lip. He waited until she relaxed again, holding her gaze. She gave a tight nod when she was ready for him to continue. Gregor bent the wrist slowly back and forth, and around in a circle, which she withstood with a pinched-face, closed-eye pout.

  When he was satisfied that it was indeed unbroken, he suggested, “Mayhap a splint just to be sure, and to keep it steady.”

  He turned and instructed the men to resume their business, as the making of camp had been disrupted by her fall. He gave a few more orders to those who lingered, then turned back to Anice, and placed his hands once again on the bed of the wagon aside each of her thighs. “Lass, did you still have need of privacy, or did the fall come after?” He kept his voice low. They were surrounded by full nighttime darkness, but his face was close enough, as were several torches, that he could detect the rising of a pretty blush.

  “I have no need presently,” she said softly. “Oh, but I have to change your bandage,” she said, as if only just recalling.

  “Aye, the walking wounded, we are,” he noted, and she grinned. And then Kinnon was at their side again, with a small bucket of water and several other supplies. The lad perched upon the open bed next to Anice, who smiled disarmingly at him so that Gregor had to wait until the lad took that in, his own returning grin appearing decidedly bewitched. But Kinnon did finally feel other eyes upon him and turned his gaze on Gregor, who only stared until the boy took the hint and gave up his seat.

  “I could bring you some rabbit, sister,” Kinnon offered eagerly.

  “Thank you, Kinnon. I would like that.” And when the lad pivoted, keen to be about pleasing her, she confounded him by adding, “And some for your chief of course.” Kinnon had stopped and looked at Anice again, but she was staring at Gregor, who still stood so close that she had to tilt her head to see his face. “Or, would you rather pheasant? You may not eat snake in front of me.”

  Gregor grinned at her but only shrugged, teasing her by making no promises. “Actually, lad, we’ll come up to the fire in a bit and see to our meal.”

  “But thank you all the same,” Anice said pointedly when Gregor did not.

  Turning, he considered the provisions Kinnon had brought, thinking it was lucky that so many, if not all, of these men, were a bit enamored of her—some more so, he was sure. She was soft-hearted and unfailingly polite, which normally might have been overlooked, but not so with Anice. Outsiders, and women more than others, were most unwelcome in the midst of a moving army. They were considered a distraction, as was so obviously the case with Anice, and often were blamed for any and all mishaps, as it was thought they brought with them bad omens. But none in his army treated Anice with any of the disdain or suspicion or censure with which they habitually favored travelers who took up with them.

  Without bothering to regard his own personal thoughts on Anice, Gregor dunked one of the cloth strips Kinnon had provided into the bucket of water. He approached Anice again, his waist at her knees once more, and took her chin in one hand. “You’re a mess, lass.” He said, shaking his head in mock chastisement, and wiped away the long drip of blood that began at her forehead. When the blood and grime were cleared, he leaned closer to inspect the origin. A decent cut showed itself, just at her hairline, but it bled no more, and he decided it needed no further attention. “Officially, this will be registered as a battle wound as you are in effect in the service of my army. But I’m no sure you’ll want to bandy about how exactly you came to own it.” He stepped back and winked at her.

  Her hands lifted and covered both her eyes and her head sank. Her shoulders shook and Gregor scowled, thinking he had made her weep. She lifted those shining eyes to him, crinkled at the corners, and said through a laugh, “Sweet Lord, I’ve a privy wound.” And she shook her head and gingerly touched the cut at her forehead. “You must strike me, if we cannot think of a proper tale to accompany the gash.”

  Gregor relaxed and grinned back at her. “I’ll no be hitting you, lass, poor tale or no.”

  “I’ll ask Fibh. I’ll bet he’ll help me.”

  He shook his head at her quip and fingered the torn sleeve of her habit. “We’ll no be able to repair this until Stonehaven.”

  “Which is fine, as it will lend credibility to whatever tale I am forced to invent.”

  Gregor rifled through the other items provided by Kinnon and applied a stiff piece of leather, likely from some unused breastplate, to the top and bottom of Anice’s wrist and secured the pieces by winding a long strip of linen around and around. He bent over her hand and used his teeth to tear the end of the linen, that the single piece was now two ends, which he tied together. Anice tested it lightly, showing him that it appeared to render her wrist quite immobile.

  “Thank you.”

  Gregor unbelted his sword and laid it on the bed of the cart next to her and stripped off his tunic. “I can unwrap this, lass. Can you fix the poultice?”

  He watched her scramble upon her knees to crawl toward the back of the cart, while he began unwinding the bandage at his midsection. He bent and employed the clean end of the rag to remove the same gooey poultice she’d applied this morning, being careful not to wreck any of her attentions thus far by wiping so hard as to reopen the wound. Then Anice was seated at the end of the wagon again, examining the cleaned wound.

  “This is very nice,” she said.

  He saw only the top of her head, as she leaned so close in the darkness to study the healing progress. The fingers of her good hand softly touched his skin and he held his breath and admonished himself internally, ‘tis only her fingers, upon a hole in your gut, and there’s nothing sensual about it! He closed his eyes and let his head roll back, counting stars to distract himself, thankful for the cloudless night, as she now applied the poultice from the cup.

  Anice set the cup aside and began to wrap the fresh linen around him and this was the tricky part. He needed to remain focused on those stars while she was nearly hugging him as he held his arms up and out of the way, her little hands having to meet at his back to switch the linen from right to left to bring it round the front again. She did this again and again until all the long strip was use
d, and then as he just had, used her teeth to rip the end of the fabric, wrapping one part once again around him and finally knot it in front.

  Gregor wasted no time donning his tunic, and said, more gruffly than he’d intended, “Aye, c’mon, then. I’ve a strong hunger.”

  He collected her good hand in his and led her toward the fire. Several soldiers jumped up when they walked in between all those sitting around, already partaking of the cooked meat. Gregor indicated to Anice that she should sit, which she did, tucking her knees underneath her, managing to look impossibly proper set amongst all these hardened warriors and without her wimple and bearing a gash upon her head and splint upon her hand. Rather proudly, she held up her wrapped hand for the inspection of any interested onlookers, which happened to be many. Several flasks and horns were raised, “To battle wounds!” Someone called.

  “Aye, a bit o’ fun for you, lass, to break up the tedium of the long haul,” said Fibh with a hearty chuckle.

  Anice wrinkled her nose at Fibh. “Fun? Not quite. Do you know what we did for fun at the cloister? We sang hymns or we worked in the garden. Sometimes, if we were feeling very festive, we transcribed religious texts. That was fun. We didn’t tumble ourselves over the side of a cliff to liven up our days.”

  More laughter followed.

  Gregor returned to her side and she accepted the trencher he handed to her with a few bits of rabbit and pheasant. She was still smiling. As if she weren’t already pretty enough, the smile made her stunning, those perfect lips widened to reveal her neat line of teeth, all bracketed by those amazing dimples. Here she sat, with her shoulder bared to one and all, having suffered some bit of trauma, and she behaved as if she’d only tripped over a protruded root.