down at her.
“I don’t know that much of anything will disturb her at the moment.” Padrig shifted her body a bit, so she rested in a more comfortable position. “She didn’t so much as twitch when I jumped up.”
“Poor wee lamb,” Rafe said quietly, shaking his head. “Just look at her, all bruised and battered—and no doubt hurt in other ways as well, like the others.” He reached into the leather bag hanging from his belt and drew forth a small cloth-wrapped bundle. Unfolding the material, he revealed a candle stub, tinder, flint and steel, the lot of which he held carefully cupped within his hands. “’Tis a miracle she was able to stay awake and call for help, without a doubt.”
“’Twill be a miracle, indeed, if you can manage to start a flame under these conditions.” Padrig watched as Rafe leaned forward from the waist, using his upper body to shield the tinder from the drizzle. “But a welcome one, nonetheless. Here, let me help.” He wiped his hands on the blanket edge and picked up the oilskin, raising it to form a makeshift canopy over Rafe’s hands.
Rafe struck the flint and steel a number of times before he ignited the tinder, then the candle wick.
“Well done,” Padrig murmured as the wick burned with a steady light. “Could it be that our fortunes are finally about to improve?”
“We can but hope, milord,” Rafe replied.
The faint flame glowed bright as the sun after so long in the dark. The light was a blessing, for the longer Lady Alys remained asleep, the more concerned Padrig grew about her condition. At least now he could get a better look at her.
She had remained limp in his hold when he’d jumped up, sat back down—even now she hadn’t so much as stirred or in any way seemed to take notice of either their conversation or the candlelight.
“Let’s hope she’s hardier than she appears.” Padrig smoothed his hand over her disheveled hair and let it rest for a moment on her cheek. Was her skin warmer, or did hope alone make it seem so? “I assume you’ve a place ready for her?”
“That we have, milord.” Rafe pointed to the east, where the devastation had been the worst. “Just along the edge o’ the new clearing. Figured since all the trees’ve already come down, it should be as safe a spot as we’re like to find.”
Padrig nodded his approval. “Good work! See if you can find a safe place for the candle and lend me a hand raising her out of here, would you? We might as well get her to the shelter while she’s sleeping so soundly. We’ll not get a better chance.”
Rafe stashed the candle beneath an arching branch and climbed down to help Padrig.
Careful to jar her as little as possible, Padrig slid out from beneath her. “I pray she stays asleep. If we’re lucky, she won’t even notice we’re moving her. I don’t believe there’s any way to get her up over the edge without hurting her.” He settled her right arm gently across her stomach. “From what she told me, I’m afraid her shoulder is out of the socket.”
Rafe winced, and looked unconvinced. “I don’t know about that, milord. She’d have to be more than asleep to bear the pain—she’d have to be flat out insensible!”
“You’ll need to be very careful then,” Lady Alys warned them, startling them both when she slowly eased out of Rafe’s hold and sat back against the side of the pit. “For I’m wide awake now and in full command of my senses, more’s the pity. And thanks to your lovely candle, Rafe, I’ll see whatever you do.”
“I take it you couldn’t get her to drink all o’ the whiskey?” Rafe muttered to Padrig. “She must have a head hard as an ox! By my reckoning there ought to have been more than enough liquor in that flask for such a dainty lass to drink herself into a stupor,” he said, his amazed expression so comical, Alys couldn’t help but chuckle. “Aye, one so deep ’twould last for days!”
Even the minor act of laughing sent spiky shards of pain lancing through her. Slightly breathless, she told them, “This ‘dainty lass’ knows better than to take more than a few swallows of that devil’s brew. Even if I could buy myself a brief period of oblivion from the pain I feel now, it still wouldn’t be worth the agony I’d go through later.”
“Milady, I doubt there’s any way we’re going to get you out of here without hurting you,” Rafe warned. He picked up the flask, opened it and held it out to her. “Please—have some more. As much as you like! You might as well go ahead and—”
Ignoring the flask—no easy feat when the smell wafted all around them—Alys cut him off with a shake of her head. “Nay,” she said firmly, the mere idea of swilling that much liquor making her stomach clench. “I said I’ll not have any more, and I meant it.”
“But milady—just this once—” Rafe met her gaze and evidently saw she would not back down. Sighing, he lowered the flask. “’Twould truly be for the best if you’d go ahead and drink.” Meeting her scowl with one of his own, he held the whiskey out to her once again.
“Enough, Rafe.” To Alys’s surprise, Sir Padrig reached out and took the whiskey and cork from Rafe, stoppered the flask and set it down out of the other man’s reach—but within hers. “If she says she’d rather not, we cannot force her.” He met her gaze, his own steady, reassuring. “She’s no child, to be cajoled into going against her own wishes.”
“I got quite thoroughly drunk on my father’s whiskey just once,” she said, hoping if she explained, Rafe would accept that she’d valid reasoning behind her decision. “I was such an idiot once I drank it, and the aftereffects were so bad, I vowed then never to subject myself to such an embarrassing experience again. As a general rule, ’tis easy enough to avoid it.”
Rafe’s single-minded determination that she avail herself of the whiskey to dull her pain, however, did make her wonder. Precisely why did he think she’d need it? She hurt now, ’twas true, but ’twas not so bad as to be unbearable.
Did they think something was so wrong with her that she couldn’t bear to deal with it? By sweet Mary’s grace, what were they trying to protect her from?
Mayhap, she pondered with a frown, they thought her a weak, cowardly woman, unable to bear the slightest pain or misfortune.
She bit back a wry laugh at the idea. Men! If they’d ever any idea how strong women really were, they’d no doubt be terrified.
She should simply ask them what they were so concerned about….
Or was she better off not knowing?
Whatever they had in mind, she had heard them say they were moving her out of this pit. At the moment, getting out of this vile place was all she cared about…and was as far into the future as she would allow herself to think.
She didn’t know how much longer she could continue to sit here and hold herself together. It took all her energy to simply carry on a conversation and try not to shake as if she were about to fall apart.
“If you’ll help me, milord,” she began, holding out her left hand to Sir Padrig. “I’d like—”
All of a sudden she could feel her chest tightening, her breath coming in short, hard gasps, her heart thundering until she thought ’twould burst. She tried to bring her right hand up to her throat to ease the tightening noose of muscles choking off her air, instead setting off a wave of agony as her arm remained limp at her side.
“Alys!” His voice sharp, his touch firm, reassuring, Padrig caught hold of her by the waist and hauled her up from where she had slumped against the wall of the pit.
She heard Padrig telling Rafe, “You needn’t have tried so hard to get her to drink more whiskey. All you needed to do was talk her into insensibility!”
Then sight and sound faded away.
“Jesu, what a stubborn wench,” Rafe muttered. “Not a bad thing, I suppose—”
“Unless