Blood Sword Legacy 04 - A Knight to Remember by Karin Tabke Page B

forbid a strange man to take refuge inside Wendover. The man moaned, moving slightly in the skiff. Mercia bent down beside him and nearly lost all composure when two eyes the color of smelted silver stared back at her. Something deep inside her moved at that exact moment, all the way to her womb.
    His hand touched hers. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a hoarse curse came forth. Pain radiated from his eyes, and something else. A silent plea for her help. He reached out a shaky hand. “Help me,” he said hoarsely. The quiet desperation in his voice turned the tide. She could not deny him. Slowly Mercia stood and looked around, unsure what to do. There was an abandoned hut upon the cliff, where she had gone many times as a girl and watched the waves crash against the sand. But there were also the caves.
    “Let me find shelter for you,” she said. As she moved from him, his fingers wrapped tighter around hers. Another jolt of something so unfamiliar speared through her nether parts. She felt her cheeks flame as hot as his skin. “Please, sir,” she begged. He released her hand and closed his eyes. Quickly she ran to the bottom edge of the cliff and through the scrub, found the opening to one of the many caves she had hid in as a child with her sister. Rowena had not been nearly as intrigued as Mercia, always complaining of ghosts and pirates. But Mercia had found them fascinating. And as the youngest daughter, her poor aging sire had not reined her in as sharply as her sister.
    Mercia ran back to the man who lay as still as stone. “Sir, I will need your assist. I cannot drag you nor can I carry you. Can you stand?”
    His eyes slowly opened. He swallowed and nodded. In what was a Herculean effort, Mercia managed to drag the wounded man to the cave. She pulled her cloak from her shoulders, laid it upon the sandy floor, and settled him. “A drink,” he said in broken English. She could tell from his accent that it was not his native tongue. Though she could not place it, it was vaguely familiar to her.
    There was a small shallow pool just beyond the cave, fed by an underground spring. In the summer time, she had spent many hours in it, splashing and swimming, fending off the oppressive heat. “I must go for it. But I will return.”
    Mercia flew from the cave. As she came to the foot of the path, she nearly collided with Agatha, who thankfully had insisted upon bringing a small basket of food and wine. She snatched it from her nurse’s hand and was rewarded with a glare. “Stay here, Agatha.” Then she hurried back to the man.
    He was as she had left him. She dropped to her knees and pulled the wineskin from the basket. Gingerly she lifted his head and dribbled some of the brew between his parted lips. He coughed, grabbing her hands, startling her. But once his convulsions eased, he released her and drank in small sips. When he had had enough, he pushed the skin away. Carefully she lowered his head to her cloak.
    The snapping of a twig caught her attention. She hurried to the opening of the cave to find Agatha peering in. “What are you about, lass?”
    For a long moment, Mercia stood silent, debating on sharing her secret with the old nurse. In the end, she decided Agatha would be a good foil to keep her father from nosing around. For Mercia would come here daily to see to the handsome stranger’s welfare. Not only because she could not leave him to die, but because when his hands had grasped hers, her entire body warmed at the thrill of his touch. And while she knew she played a dangerous game coming to him, she could not help him if she stayed away. Her gut told her he was not a nefarious man, but one who had suffered grave injuries, and without her assist, he would surely die. Had there not already been enough death since William’s invasion? Aye, and there would be more, she was sure, but she would do her small part to save even one life.
    “Come, Agatha, ‘tis a man, he is hurt.”
    Mercia grasped the