An Oath Taken by Diana Cosby Page A

began to snore.
    Tears burned her eyes as she made her way to her pallet, missing his touch, and shamefully, wanting him still. She’d been a fool to dare even a simple kiss. A rough laugh fell from her lips. Naught about that kiss had been simple.
    Regardless of how much she wanted him, he was English, an enemy who held her brother within his dungeon, and a man she must keep at a distance.

CHAPTER 8
    A dagger plunged through his skull. Nay, ’twas more like a mace. As his head pounded and nausea wrenched in his gut, with great care he brought the back of his hand to rest over his brow.
    What a pathetic state.
    On a groan, he drew in a slow breath, struggling for the next. The distant shrill of a morning bird shattered through the wash of pain.
    God’s teeth!
    Nicholas braved opening one eye, then the other. Firelight flickered over the room in a soft glow. Through the window, streaks of dawn caressed the sky, silver through gray, orange through black; but the throb of pain obliterated the beauty before him. He closed his eyes willing the hours, like his misery, to flee.
    â€œWould you care for water?” Thomas asked, his voice a beacon in this storm of misery.
    â€œMy dagger,” he forced out, wincing at the cost. ’Twould be the only way to end this agony.
    â€œI . . . Your dagger?”
    If not for the pain the gesture would bring, he would have smiled at his squire’s confusion. “Fetch me the water.” His whispered words slammed through his head as his mind remained under siege.
    The soft pad of footsteps moved away.
    Blast it, but he was too old to endure this living hell. He opened his eyes and sat up. The room spun. Even the quiet glide of the sheets against his skin hurt.
    As Thomas approached, he stole a covert glance toward him then dropped his inquiring gaze, but not before Nicholas caught the concern etched there.
    His squire held out the wooden cup.
    â€œMy thanks.” Nicholas curled the mug in his hands like a lifeline, then downed the contents. The bitter liquid slid down his throat, igniting a fresh wave of pain to assault his head. He tossed the cup; it bounced on the floor with a mind-screaming clatter. “God’s teeth, what was in there?”
    With an appraising glance, his squire retrieved the cup, clutched it to his stomach. “Herbs to aid thee.”
    Nicholas laid his palm over his brow and willed the pain away. “Herbs?”
    â€œIceland moss for your stomach and feverfew for your aches.” Thomas refilled the mug and held it before him. “This time ’tis only water.”
    Nicholas debated accepting the brew, but the bitter aftertaste in his throat won over. He emptied the cup, thankful for the cool slide, then returned it to his squire.
    The lad walked to a corner table where two small leather bags sat. Without looking back, he cinched the first sack then stowed the cup inside a nearby pack.
    Unsure if he should be grateful to be so accurately read, he studied him for a moment. “You have done this before?”
    Thomas shrugged but didn’t turn. “I do what is necessary.”
    â€œAnd am I necessary?” Each word fell out with a measured calm. Whatever existed between them was a hell of a lot more than necessary. He wanted his squire’s respect, and to make a difference in his life.
    Thomas’s fingers fumbled as he tied off the second sack. Once secure, he stowed the pouch. “I . . .”
    Why was getting answers from him like pulling an ox from the mud? “Face me when you speak to me!” Pain rushed him with merciless force. Nicholas cradled his head in his hands. If he lived through this he would never imbibe to such limits again.
    With a hesitant move, his squire turned. Firelight fluttered across his face, haunting his eyes and the apprehension swirling within.
    Silence, broken only by the crackle of flames and the hush of the soft breeze, filled the chamber. Tension thrummed through