Dark Champion by Jo Beverley Read Free Book Online Page A

his head in a worrying way, then set to work, cleaning the weeping flesh then smearing salve and applying bandages. It hurt.
    Throughout the painful ordeal Imogen’s awareness of FitzRoger’s impassive observation firmed her courage. She’d pledge her soul to the devil before she’d whine with those cold green eyes on her.
    “How bad are they, Brother Patrick?” FitzRoger asked as the monk began to bind her feet.
    “Not as bad as they look, my lord. As long as no infection sets in, they will heal.”
    Imogen caught her breath at the very notion that they night not heal. She remembered her father dying in agony from a festering wound and a chill swept through her.
    She looked up and her eyes were caught by FitzRoger’s. “They will heal unless you are foolish,” he said. “I’ve seen enough wounds.” Despite the brusque tone, it was almost as if he realized her fears and was offering comfort.
    He strolled closer to the bed. “You improve with washing,” he said casually, “no matter who you are. You do fit the description of the Carrisford heiress.”
    “That is hardly surprising.”
    A light flickered in his eyes. “Robust,” he said, “with gingerish hair.”
    Imogen gaped. “It is not ginger !”
    He picked up a strand, letting it fall before she could slap his hand away. “If it’s not, then perhaps you are not the Carrisford heiress. I wonder what the penalty should be for impersonating a highborn lady?”
    Despite the fact that she could never be found guilty of such a crime, Imogen felt a tremor of fear. “You have no right to punish me.”
    “You have placed yourself under my governance.”
    She glared up at him. “I have not. I have come to you, equal to equal, for aid against my enemies. My father was always an ally of Cleeve.”
    The monk finished his work. “Please do not walk on those feet for at least two days, Lady Imogen,” he said, “and send for me if there should be any increase of pain or swelling of the legs.”
    At least her confrontation with FitzRoger had distracted her from Brother Patrick’s final ministrations.
    But two days? “I can’t stay off my feet for two days,” she protested.
    “You must if you want them to heal,” said the monk. “And don’t try to wear shoes.”
    Brother Patrick left and Imogen looked down with disgust at the bandaged lumps at the ends of her legs. How could her body betray her at this crucial time?
    Then she realized the women had also left.
    She was alone at the uncertain mercy of Bastard FitzRoger, and forbidden to make any attempt to escape on pain of death from festering feet.
    She could feel the pounding of her heart but kept her chin up and her expression stern.
    At least FitzRoger moved away from her, going to sit on a bench beneath the narrow window. The sun was low now and fiery. It touched his dark hair and tunic with red, so that Imogen was reminded of the devil.
    He raised a thoughtful finger to his lips as he studied her. “There are stories,” he said at last, “of secret ways into Carrisford. Do you know those ways?”
    Imogen’s heart skipped a beat. This was not what she had expected. Even the existence of those secret ways was a family secret, a sacred trust. How had he heard of them? She remained silent.
    His expression hardened. “If Warbrick holds the castle, you want him out of there, do you not?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then you must tell me all you know about the place.”
    It made sense, but it had always been strongly impressed on Imogen that a secret escape is also a secret entrance, and a known secret is no use to anyone. “You said you were taking me with you to Carrisford,” she said at last.
    “Hardly practical anymore.”
    Imogen wanted nothing more than to stay in this bed and be taken care of, but she could see her duty. “I can ride,” she said.
    She expected an immediate protest. No one ever allowed the Flower of the West to put herself in danger or discomfort. If had often chafed her.
    Instead he