Dragon's Daughter

She felt raw and exposed,

too aware of her own mixed feelings about this enigmatic stranger.

Without warning, he caught her wrist and she winced. Christian raised it up and examined the bruise. His voice was filled with regret as he spoke softly, “I did this last eve when I grabbed you, did I not?”

She nodded hesitantly, “I…Yes, you must have.”

He grimaced. “I am very sorry, Rowena. It was never my intention to cause you pain of any kind.”

Rowena could no more look away from that earnest and compelling blue gaze than she could fly. His hand seemed to near burn her where it rested on the delicate skin of her wrist. But when he broke the contact of their eyes to place his warm mouth against the spot, she gave a start at the streak of heat that flashed through her body….

Praise for Catherine Archer’s titles

Dragon’s Dower

“This is a nonstop read!”

—Rendezvous

Winter’s Bride

“A compelling, innovative tale…

with lush details and unforgettable characters.”

—Rendezvous

Fire Song

“This finely crafted medieval romance…

(is) a tale to savor.”

—Romantic Times

#639 LADY LYTE’S LITTLE SECRET

Deborah Hale

#640 THE FORBIDDEN BRIDE

Cheryl Reavis

#642 HALLIE’S HERO

Nicole Foster

MILLS & BOON

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and

CATHERINE ARCHER

Rose Among Thorns #136

**Velvet Bond #282

**Velvet Touch #322

Lady Thorn #353

Lord Sin #379

Fire Song #426

*Winter’s Bride #477

*The Bride of Spring #514

*Summer’s Bride #544

*Autumn’s Bride #582

†Dragon’s Dower #593

†Dragon’s Knight #606

†Dragon’s Daughter #641

This book is dedicated to the most recent additions

to my family:

Steve Krug, Justin Bennett, Jimmy Bennett,

Marty Brace, Diane Brace, Kailynn Brace

and Christopher Brace,

with love and gratitude for you all.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

With a frown of pity, Rowena looked down at the man who lay on the windswept beach. His face, which she imagined might normally be handsome enough, was gray and lifeless. His dark hair was matted with seaweed and sand. His garments were in tatters, though because the fabric was a rich, dark blue velvet, she knew they once had been fine.

He was indeed breathing, as young Padriac had said when he came bursting into her cottage with the wild tale of finding a stranger on the beach. But just.

Urgently Rowena turned to the boy, who looked up at her with wide, fawn-colored eyes, his round cheeks flushed with concern and excitement. She spoke with deliberate calm. “We must get him to my cottage.”

But how? she wondered. The very reason Padriac had come for her was that all the men, including his own father, had already gone out in their fishing boats for the day. They were not due back for many hours.

The trail up to the village from the shore was steep and slippery. It would not be possible for Rowena and Padriac to move the man without assistance.

“We canna carry him.” The round-faced child echoed her thoughts.

Again she looked down at the stranger. There was no telling how long he had been lying here, but surely it could only have been since this very morn, for someone would have seen him the previous day. ’Twas a deserted stretch of coast indeed, with rocky cliffs jutting steeply above the narrow shoreline, but the village children did roam it searching for gulls’ eggs, as Padriac was surely doing when he found the man.

Rowena said, “Go to Hagar and tell her to bring some of the women here to help us. He is a big man, but methinks together we can move him.”

It was the way things were done in Ashcroft. The village being so remote and small, its occupants were more family than neighbors, for the most part. This fact had helped Rowena to get through the grief and loneliness of losing her mother some three years before.

As Padriac scampered off, Rowena felt a tug of melancholy. Her mother, sad and bitter as she was, had been the center of Rowena’s world. She had hardly a clear memory of anything before the two of them had come here to Ashcroft, when Rowena was not quite four.

One of the two memories she did have was of looking up at a high stone wall. So vivid was this recollection that she could almost feel the rough, cool texture of the stone against her fingers. The other was less clear a vision, but more compelling. She believed it was of her father, for she had a sense of being held close to a broad strong chest and hearing the steady and comforting beat of a heart as she inhaled the combined scents of sweat and leather and fresh air. The warmth she felt at the recollection brought up such feelings of love and safety that she was sure it could only be of her father.

The fact that her mother had become so disturbed each time they’d spoken of him, of the fact that he had been a knight, and in the business of making war to protect lands, always kept Rowena from asking about it. Agitated and distraught, her mother would lament the fact that he would still be alive if he were a common man, concerned with no more than his livelihood and family. When Rowena had grown old enough to wonder why they had come to Scotland rather than go to other relatives upon his death, her mother had become hysterical, blurting out that her family were all dead and her husband’s family did not want them. She had never been more than a servant in his home, she’d said, never his wife.

She had begged Rowena to let the past remain there. And she had seemed more disturbed by his position as a noble than by the one detail that troubled Rowena most: his failure to legitimate her.

Leave it in the past was what Rowena had done, though in her deepest heart she continued to wonder about the man who had fathered her. In spite of her own anger at his refusal to wed her mother, Rowena would have given much to know him. She wished to know if the memory that lived in her heart was truly of him. For it was the one thing she could not set aside. He may have been mistaken in his loyalties, may have failed to give her his name, but perhaps he had loved her to some extent.

That question would never be answered, for all who might have known had gone on to the next world, or were lost to her because of her illegitimacy.

Rowena looked down at the man before her. He might have someone, somewhere, who would grieve should he fail to return. Perhaps even nobles like her father, if his clothing was any indication. ’Haps it was this that had brought her these unwanted thoughts of things best left forgotten.

With determination, she knelt to run her sure hands over the man’s large form. There was an unnatural coldness to his flesh that told her he had been exposed to the elements for too long.

She knew he must be warmed, and without delay. More than one death had been brought about by extended exposure to the cold.

Hurriedly she continued to run her hands over him, searching for injuries. She found nothing more than a prominent lump on the back of his head. And though she tried not to think on it as she slid her fingers over the smooth skin beneath his woolen tunic, she had an unaccustomed awareness that the man’s body was hard and lean, the muscles well developed. Rowena felt an odd stirring, a sense of him as a man that was far different than what she usually experienced in her work as a healer.

Even as uncertainty coursed through her, he groaned and opened his eyes.

Starting, Rowena looked up at his face, into the most unusual blue eyes she had ever seen in her life. They were an oddly compelling shade, light and yet dusky at the same time, like periwinkle blossoms.

Rowena’s heart thudded in her chest.

As she continued to return his gaze, she noted that although the man was looking directly at her, he did not appear to be focusing. He was seeing but not seeing, his expression troubled by some inner vision. Even as she noted his distress, she saw that it was softened by compassion and yearning.

He opened his pale lips, murmuring, “Rosalind.” His lids drifted closed once more.

Rosalind? For a brief instant Rowena felt a stirring of familiarity in hearing that name. She quickly dismissed it. There was no one hereabouts named Rosalind.

Clearly this unknown woman meant something to the man with the unusual and compassionate blue eyes. What an enigma he was. Unless she was completely mistaken, her examination of that powerful, lean body told her he had been in the best of health and vigor ere he had washed up on their beach.

Though she wondered once again how he might have gotten here, the way to Ashcroft being arduous and seldom traveled, Rowena knew that would be determined only if the man regained consciousness. He could have fallen from a passing ship, but few ships sailed this close to their treacherous shores, for the sea was far too shallow for any vessel larger than a fishing boat.

She stood, looking up along the cliffs, as the sound of voices came to her. A group of women led by Hagar, who had become something of a mother to Rowena when her own had died, and the excitedly prancing Padriac, hurried along the path. It looked as if most of the women in the village had come to her aid. They picked their way carefully down to the beach, continuing to ply young Padriac with questions about the man he had found.

Rowena smiled with gratitude. As always, there would be enough hands to accomplish the task. Here in this quiet village were folk who cared for one another. They did not value land or position above life or family.

In a relatively short time, Rowena and the other women had the stranger on the bed, covered with blankets, in Rowena’s small but tidy cottage in the wood. He had begun to moan and murmur under his breath, but his words were indecipherable, though the distress behind them could not be mistaken.

It was Hagar who finally stood back and surveyed the man with hands on her narrow hips. “I can make out none o’ that. Where do you ken he might come from?”

The elderly widow Aggie answered, “I canna reason it, neither. ’Haps his mind be addled.” She sighed. “We won’t be finding out, if he dies. And he may indeed, for he’s got the look of one not long for this world.”

Rowena knew a renewed sense of disquiet at the thought of this powerful man having lost his mind. But she made no mention of the name he had uttered with such clarity. She wished to give them no false sense of hope for his recovery. “’Twill be Rowena who brings him ’round if anyone can,” Hagar replied with some uncertainty. “Ye mun recall how bad off was young John last fall when he fell overboard and breathed in all that seawater.”

There were nods of agreement as all eyes turned to Rowena. She knew not what to say to this, and covered her disquiet by addressing Padriac. “Pray fetch me an extra bucket of water from the stream.”

She then began to clear the table of the roots she had been preparing for drying when Padriac came to fetch her. As she did so she listened as the women continued to discuss the stranger and the severity of his condition.

They might indeed have great faith in her, but their very likely accurate assessments of the man’s chances of recovery were trying Rowena’s self-confidence. As soon as Padriac returned with the water, she stated gently, “Thank you all so very much for your assistance. I am certain you must all have more pressing duties to attend than this. I do promise to let each of you know if there is some change in his condition.”

It would indeed be best if they all went back to their own work. Except for Hagar.

Rowena stopped the older woman with a hand on her arm. “Pray, would you stay and help me to tend him?” The request had nothing to do with the odd awareness she had had of the man as she examined him on the shore, she told herself. “I would greatly appreciate your doing so, for there are some plants I must gather in order to treat him.”

The older woman nodded and said, “I will warm some water whilst you are at it and clean him up, lass. He’s needing a bit of a wash.”

“I…yes, he is.” Uncertain as to why the thought of washing the man was so very disturbing to her, when she had seen many a man in various states of undress while treating them, Rowena put water on to heat. She then hurried out into the wood to gather some fresh mandrake. Only when she had gathered what she required did she return to the cottage.

Giving Hagar a brief nod as the older woman looked up from the large wooden bowl of water and the cloth she held, Rowena could not help taking in the long form on the bed. Quickly she set about brewing an infusion that would help to strengthen the stranger’s blood as well as calm his unrest.

As she did so, Rowena was infinitely conscious of the fact that Hagar had removed the man’s wet and bedraggled clothing, for it lay in a filthy heap upon the floor at the foot of her bed. The sounds of her wetting and wringing out her cloth could not be mistaken, nor could the soft but incoherent sounds he made as he stirred restlessly from time to time.

Rowena did not allow herself to even glance toward the bed again, though she was not certain why. As she had told herself earlier, she had examined and treated more than one man, despite her somewhat tender years. It had been her mother who had taught her about plants and their medicinal properties. Yet she had soon confessed that Rowena’s natural aptitude far surpassed her own abilities.

Fascinated as she was with trying new and varied combinations of plants, Rowena had taken what her mother had taught her and expanded her knowledge by trial and error, as well as by searching out every other healer in the surrounding countryside.

Rowena’s knowledge and skill had grown until she was often called upon to minister to those in nearby villages. She took great satisfaction putting her life to some use in the community that had taken in a bastard child and her English mother, making them their own when they had had no one.

After what seemed a very long time, Hagar said, “You can get a better look at him with all that muck washed away.” She stepped back, the bowl of water held before her, murmuring, “What a pity,” as Rowena drew near.

The man was so pale without that covering of sand and dirt that his tenuous hold on life was obvious. As Rowena stopped beside the bed, it seemed as if his incoherent muttering had grown louder, though she still could make out none of what he was saying. Again she felt a sense of regret. At the same time she could not help acknowledging that the face was undeniably a strong one, the features quite pleasingly formed.

She remembered the expression in his eyes when he had opened them on the shore. Rowena realized that those eyes would soften that broad forehead, proud nose, high cheekbones and lean jaw. His face would be a compelling mixture of strength and gentleness.

Hagar distracted her from these thoughts, saying, “I’ll warrant there’s a broken heart that will never mend, should he die.”

“Rosalind.”

The name flitted through Rowena’s mind and she did not know she had said it aloud until Hagar replied, “What say ye?”

Rowena shrugged. “Just a name he said.”

The older woman frowned. “Ye spoke with him?”

Rowena did not look at Hagar as she recalled how the concern and compassion in his gaze as he’d spoke that name had moved her. “Nay, he came ’round only long enough to say that one thing. You see how he has been since.”

The older woman moved to the door with the bowl. “I’ve heard naught of a Rosalind.”

Rowena answered softly, “Nor I. He seemed so…If I could I would find her and bring her to him, for there was such a look to him when he said it. Her presence might help him to come through this alive.”

Hagar’s gaze was kind but measuring. “Aye, love will do such things.” She went outside to empty the bowl.

Quickly Rowena returned to the hearth, where the medications she was preparing would soon be ready. In one bowl she had mixed rue with wine she obtained from a monastery some miles away, for any pain he might be having in his head. She had also made another concoction of the mandrake to further aid in relieving any pain, as well as aid in sleeping, though the man had not fully regained consciousness thus far. Lastly she had prepared another bowl with a mixture of rue and vinegar, beside which she’d laid a scrap of clean white cloth.

Hagar, who had now returned, said, “You will bathe his head in rue?”

Rowena nodded. “’Twill perhaps help him to regain his wits.”

The older woman nodded in turn.

When Rowena was ready she moved to the bed and, trying not to show that she felt strangely self-conscious about touching this man, put her arm under his head and tipped the first bowl to his lips. To her relief he took it easily enough, swallowing whilst not fully rousing.

When the second bowl was empty, and Rowena had rubbed the rue and vinegar across his wide brow, Hagar said, “Now all we can do is pray.”

Rowena sighed. “Aye. Though I will continue to give the medicaments.”

Hagar answered softly, “May God’s own hands be with ye, lass.”

Rowena bowed her head humbly. “I pray that it be so.”

The older woman sounded weary as she sighed and said, “I mun go home and get the meal ready for my Sean now, if you’ve no more need of me.”

Rowena nodded quickly, feeling guilty for keeping the older woman from her work for so long. Hagar’s son was Rowena’s closest friend and had been since the day Rowena had first wandered down the forest path to their cottage. Of late Sean had seemed somewhat agitated and demanding, wanting her to take long walks and such when she was quite busy. He was wont to talk endlessly of a lass named Berta, whom he had met while delivering fish to a village farther inland. Rowena had no quarrel with his preoccupation, only his insistence that she hear his every thought. But she loved Sean wholly, and he would be hungry from his morning’s work. “I will keep you no longer. Thank you so very much for all you have done.”

The older woman shrugged as she moved to the door, her face filled with affection and approval. “I’ve done no more than yersel, my lass. You’ve a good heart in ye. If ye have need of me I will come.”

Rowena felt a rush of both happiness and self-consciousness. She whispered, “I love you as well.”

Hagar smiled, flushing with pleasure, and nodded, closing the door behind her. Her cottage was just a short distance away and close to the main path through the village. It would be no great effort to fetch Hagar if she was needed, but Rowena was determined to manage on her own.

No more than an hour had passed when Rowena was given cause to put her skills to the test. The man in the bed had begun muttering to himself again. By the time a new batch of potions was ready he had grown far louder, tossing and turning as she moved toward the bed to give them to him.

When Rowena reached out to put her arm around his neck to lift him up, he shocked her by grabbing hold of her wrist and rearing up in the bed, those blue eyes flying wide. The bowl fell, spilling the contents upon the coverlet, even as fear raced through her.

Her terror grew as the man cried, “Ashcroft…must find Rosalind….” He shook his head violently. “Dragon dead…the babe dead…not dead…”

Ashcroft, for the love of heaven—the stranger knew of Ashcroft and clearly connected it to this unknown Rosalind. But the references to dragons and dead babes were utterly incomprehensible. Desperately Rowena forced herself to break free from the terror that gripped her. Yet it took all her strength to pull her arm away from his.

Just as suddenly as he had risen up the sick man fell back upon the bed. His eyes were closed now, but the ravings continued, as did his thrashing about. With shaking fingers, Rowena grabbed the bowl and clutched it to her, backing away from the bed.

Calm, she told herself over and over again, she must be calm. Breathing as evenly as she could, she moved to the table to refill the bowl.

And all the while she could hear him repeating the same disjointed phrases. Her chest ached as she realized that he had obviously gone mad, as the other women had feared. It was such a pity for one so strong and virile to be brought so low.

How much of his mind might return when, and if, he recovered, she could not say. All she could do was attempt to keep him quiet, not only for his sake, but for hers.

By the time Rowena had returned to the bed with the bowl and a spoon with which to feed him the liquid, the sick man had quieted somewhat. That strong, tanned forearm lay across his brow, and though she was watchful, he made no effort to take hold of her again as she fed him a strong dose of the mandrake potion.

That done, she rubbed more of the rue upon his forehead and placed a bag of dried rosemary beneath his head to ward off anxiety of the mind. Finally he fell silent once more, his arm dropping to the coverlet.

Rowena stood for a long moment looking down at him. As when she had first seen him on the beach, she felt a deep sympathy for those who loved this man. Who would grieve for the loss of him? Did they even know that he had come to Ashcroft, and thus know where to search for him? If he died having never returned to his right mind, she would not know whom should be sent word of his passing. His people would never know what had happened to him.

He might have a young child—a daughter who would always…

She stopped herself there. She had no reason to think he had anyone, even this Rosalind, who could be as much a product of his addled mind as the dragons he raved on about. Rowena would be far better served by not getting overly involved in what happened to this man. She would tend him, as any other, and accept what came.

Rowena barely glanced up as the door opened without ceremony some time later and she heard Sean’s voice say, “What is my mother on about? A stranger washed ashore? And you tending him?”

She spoke with deliberate calm. “Aye, Sean, ’tis true. And here he is.”

Hagar’s voice was filled with exasperation as she spoke from behind Sean. “As I told ye.” Obviously his mother had accompanied him.

Rowena kept her gaze on the strong column of the stranger’s throat as he swallowed without fully rousing. She felt strangely self-conscious about holding his head against her breast as Sean moved to stand beside the bed, exclaiming, “Dear God, where could he have come from?”