The Black Knight's Reward by Marliss Melton & Sydney Jane Baily

Author:Marliss Melton & Sydney Jane Baily [Melton, Marliss & Baily, Sydney Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: knights, UK, Warriors, Historical, medieval, witch, Romance, middle ages, york, England
ISBN: 9781938732201
Google: VmxDvgAACAAJ
Amazon: B01M1DVRBG
Goodreads: 32189423
Publisher: James-York Press
Published: 2003-07-01T00:00:00+00:00

“How does he?”

Glancing up from Luke’s bedside, Merry found her oldest sister, Clarisse, standing in the doorway. She hadn’t even heard the hinges groan, so exhausted was she. The four thick candles in the chamber had burned low. Yet they still cast enough light to gild the golden-red tresses of Clarisse’s unplaited hair. She wore a wrap over her nightdress, indicating to Merry the lateness of the hour.

“He’ll live,” she said, tipping her head to one side to relieve the knot in her neck.

It was her standard answer, one from which she’d refused to deviate in the last three days, or was it four? Her refusal to let Luke die seemed to be all that had kept him alive. She’d heard the rumor that his soldiers thought him dead, so pale and still had he been at their arrival and so shallow his breath. After that, she’d let no one but Clarisse close to him, assuming the Phoenix’s soldiers would be cared for and housed alongside the Slayer’s men in Helmsley’s vast garrison.

Merry had stood vigil over Luke in all that time, scarcely remembering to eat or sleep, except when her sister forced a cup of broth and a plate of bread into her hands, or insisted she close her eyes for a moment.

She’d treated his wounds with the finest herbs from her sister’s garden, with crosswort, knotgrass, and Saint John’s wort. She had cleaned him, stitched him, and bandaged him. She’d made a healing poultice and brewed an antiseptic tincture. She’d trickled lukewarm broth down his throat and hearty ale. When his fever soared, she’d cooled his skin with a wet cloth and teas of sage, elder flowers, and yarrow.

Indeed, she’d done everything except stand in the light of the moon and call upon the angels to help—and she was about ready to do that.

Clarisse closed the door quietly behind her and came to stand by Merry’s chair. For a moment, they both watched the dark-haired warrior sleep; for truly, it seemed that he was finally in a comfortable slumber, breathing easily, no longer unconsciously wincing in pain.

A coal-black growth of beard obscured the lines of his jaw. His chest rose and fell beneath a blazing white sheet. Except for the bandage on his leg and the sunken appearance to his cheeks, there was nothing about his appearance that bespoke the severity of his wound nor the amount of blood he’d lost. To Merry, he was still as striking as the day she met him.

“How is his fever?” Clarisse inquired.

Merry put a hand to Luke’s forehead, brushing back the silky, raven locks.

“It lessens,” she said, trying to sound hopeful, “but it lingers all the same.” The tremor in her voice bespoke of her overarching worry. She had struggled to keep the humors of his body in balance, and yet the fever would not leave him, likely because he lacked the moisture to combat it. “Not a terrible fiery burning, yet . . . it is there.”

Her fingers feathered through the hair above his ear.

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