by Nicole Locke
‘He...er...showed to the party.’ Nicholas’s grim expression looked almost amused as he returned his attention to her stranger. ‘He’ll be waking with a headache. When he wakes. It’ll also take him a while to return.’
‘How far?’ Her shadow man sheathed his sword.
‘To that thick of trees we passed to the South. I would have taken him further, but didn’t know if there’d be any more guests.’
‘There aren’t any more,’ she said.
Both men inspected her briefly. ‘Give me a moment,’ her stranger said, as he stepped outside.
She heard the men talk, but not the words. It was enough for her to know they’d spent many years together. Nicholas’s voice was laced with amusement like he relished hurting his guests. Guests. Words she never would use with those men. But the word was significant because these men, these mercenaries, knew she was listening and used gentler words around her.
Kindness again. She was unused to it since the innkeepers passed away. Agnes, the healer, had cared for her, but hadn’t shown her the same gentleness for her feelings.
She hadn’t thought of the healer this much in years. But instantly knew why she was reminded. It was the men now talking behind the half-opened door.
Their words were efficient. Practical. The healer had cared for her in much the same determined manner. When the pain was bad, it was the healer’s firm voice that broke through it and made her carry on. Like here. Scars or not, her ribs demanded she carry on and so she made a decision.
Her stranger stepped back into the room and closed the door. ‘You won’t have to worry about those men. They’re gone.’ He turned to her and stopped. ‘Your dress.’
‘I took it off. I’m having trouble breathing and I know nothing about broken bones. But it’s sharp and stabbing me worse than their knife point. Will you be able to feel through my chemise?’
With the door closed, he was all in darkness. ‘Yes. Sit, but do not lie down.’ He grabbed the candlestick in one hand and the small table with the linens and water in the other.
The echoing scrape of the table as it was brought closer was unnaturally loud in the small room. Nervous, she ran her hands down her chemise and sat. It immediately constricted her breathing, but eased the shaking in her legs.
She wasn’t prepared at all when he stopped pulling the table. Wasn’t prepared as he lowered the candle so he could inspect her face...and revealed all of his. The lone candle flickered and dimmed with his movements, but she could see him and she was stunned.
Perfection. His hair was cut short on the sides and long on top. Blond, but with a gold tinge like honey in the sunlight, his brows were darker. His lowered lashes were darker yet and absurdly long and thick as he regarded the injuries to her lip and cheek.
His cheekbones elegantly framed the square jaw and slight cleft in his chin. And lips, light pink, almost full if not for the sardonic masculine curve to them. A man who knew humor...or at least once had.
His brow furrowed and there was a twitch to his lips before his eyes flashed to hers as if to determine something. She didn’t know what because it took all she had not to react to the further reveal.
There was no way not to react. Her eyes widened and watered from not blinking. Her lips parted, her breath hitched and she experienced every surprise reaction anybody would under the circumstances.
Beautiful? He wasn’t real. His eyes...they were amber colored. If his hair was light like the tips of a flame, his eyes were dark like honey heated by that fire.
As she watched, they darkened more, his chin tilting almost defiantly.
It was the defiance that broke whatever spell he cast. Defiance. As if he dared her to stare more. It was a look she had given many times when someone had gaped at her marred face. His made no sense to her. She forced people to look so they’d leave her alone.
Why defiance from him when he was perfection? He shouldn’t need to be left alone. She didn’t know the answer to that, but he had showed her only kindness and she was being rude. ‘I’m Helissent.’
He quickly set the candle on the table and was again cast in shadows. But he hadn’t set the candlestick aside fast enough. The defiance in his eyes had eased; however, his look remained guarded or trapped as if he didn’t trust her introduction. It was an odd look coming from a mercenary, who just took down two men and made another run for his life.
* * *
Rhain almost groaned. Nicholas was right, he shouldn’t be here. Neither in this part of the country, nor this tiny village and certainly not in this woman’s home.
Restless, he kept his shift patrolling the town, which had no gates or walls for protection. Any of Reynold’s men would have access to the buildings here. It was the perfect place for an ambush.
He should be proud he stopped an actual ambush even though it wasn’t for him or his men, but this lone woman, who made cakes in the middle of the night when she shouldn’t.
But he wasn’t proud; he was a fool. He hadn’t thought before he attacked. He reacted as he had in London. This time though he should have known better.
At first he did. The men’s menacing voices meant nothing...until he heard hers.
Then he’d stopped. Her voice carrying on the wind. He shouldn’t have recognized it because he’d never heard it above a soft whisper. But he did, and it wasn’t just the tone of it, but the stridency. She was afraid.
Still, he intended to walk away. Nothing in this village was his concern. Especially not Rudd’s more easily understood words about the innkeepers’ debts.
When she screamed, when the piercing cry was cut short, nothing else mattered except getting to her.
But that led him to here. Alone in her home, telling her he would tend to her like he was some caretaker. Worse, she sat on the bed garnering full view of his face and all but asking for his name. He had enemies and his enemies had spies.
He was giving this poverty-stricken woman information that could make her rich, and for Reynold to find him that much faster.
He could rationalize his actions only so far. That she had no one else. That he had some skill with this and it wouldn’t take long. Except he’d already been here in her room longer than logic or reason dictated.
Now she was introducing herself, and somewhere inside him insisted he answer. Maybe it was his breeding, certainly it was his manners; none of it was his instinct for survival.
‘Rhain,’ he replied.
Her wariness eased and her eyes lit. ‘You’re from Wales.’
More than foolish. He had not told her where he hailed from. Had purposefully kept the information, but she lived in an inn, and recognized his accent.
She probably expected him to talk of his homeland as he tended her injuries. As if all of this was some common occurrence.
Reynold on the manhunt to kill him aside, he felt no part of Welsh soil any more. He’d been gone only five years, but when he left, he severed that part of him. That home was dead to him. Should have been dead to him, except he carried a Welsh name, and carried the country in the cadence of his words.
He should have hidden it from her. His name was enough to harm him if he was caught. Hurt her if Reynold so decided. The irony was not lost on him. He’d saved her, only to get her killed. ‘Have you no pillow?’
Not waiting for her response, Rhain abruptly strode to the other room before he emerged again with Rudd’s pillow.
* * *
Helissent knew when to keep her mouth shut. She’d had years of biting her tongue against rude or cruel taunts, but she wasn’t prepared for any of this.
She’d gone from elated exhaustion to abject terror. Then he’d swooped in like some avenging angel, who now insisted on caring for her. Her body felt like it was all real, but her mind felt that this must be some dream. Yet, his accent made him at least h
uman, and she reached out for the little familiarity between them. To make sense of everything.
Now she feared she had made him angry. Her violent trembles had ceased but her entire body could not stay still. ‘I’m sorry, I only meant... I do not know you and tonight has been...’
He cursed low and fast and threw the pillow on her bed. He did not finish her sentence or add words of his own to ease her tumultuous thoughts.
Pain stung her, and her breaths hurt more since she sat down. The silence between them stretched out as if he was coming to some decision. She felt the flickering of the candle on her and his studying eyes. The air between them thickened. She didn’t even know what it was. Anger. Wariness. Danger...it felt dangerous. As though she was in the dark and her feet were walking a cliff side.
He let out a gust of breath. ‘Your cheek is swelling. I may need to nick it to ease the pressure. Your lip will heal with salve. There are burns around your wrists. Any other injuries besides your ribs?’
He had not answered her questions, but talking of injuries was something familiar. She shook her head. Nothing serious. There were parts of her body that she could not feel. But when she took off her gown, she felt her body through her chemise and nothing bled.
‘If you place your hands to your sides, I can check your ribs. I may hurt you.’
Did he think she’d balk at pain? She’d lived through fire. She placed her hands to her sides so her elbows stood out from her and he’d have more access.
He shifted his sword and sat next to her.
She’d only ever been this close to the innkeepers and healer. This man was neither of them. When he placed his hands flat on her back she felt every bit of that difference. Warm palms, elegant widespread fingers. All held flat, and steady. Maybe he was getting her used to his hands as if she’d claimed some modesty she had never felt. Then he slid his hands down her back, his fingers doing a fluttering walking movement, and she gasped. He immediately stopped.
‘Did it hurt? Is it your ribs?’
No, it was his hands on her. Terror from Rudd, pain from the men, and now this suspended moment with this stranger. A moment that held even longer until she shook her head.
‘Is it from the other injuries?’
Injuries, she had no other injuries, and then she remembered. He talked of her skin. Her skin. She had never forgotten it in the past. Every movement, every stray glance in the inn, every night when she used a salve she was reminded of it.
How could she forget even for a moment? Was it him? No, it couldn’t be. Maybe she forgot because she was in shock or pain. It couldn’t be because for a few moments in the dark, with him and his touch, her scars didn’t matter. Right now her skin was fine, her ribs were hurting.
‘No, it’s not the other injuries.’
He moved his hands again, but watched more carefully for her response. Consequently, she tried to hold them in. Then his finger prodded and she couldn’t.
‘There,’ she gasped.
He prodded again, maybe more gently, but it didn’t feel like it. ‘And there.’
He made some sound like distress or agreement. Then he fluttered his hands low around her front and the burning continued until she was panting to get air into lungs that refused to expand.
He yanked his hands away. ‘Does the pain go further up?’
The pain was everywhere, she nodded her head.
‘Feel them as I did.’
She hesitated, her body didn’t want to move.
‘I can’t touch you there. Surely you know I can’t touch you there?’
He looked more confused than she felt. Then she remembered, he worried for her modesty again. It wasn’t something she had to practice, let alone realize she was supposed to feign.
‘Of course.’ She felt along her ribs, both her hands and fingers doing the spider-walking movement he had done.
‘Nothing’s moved?’ he said. ‘Your ribs, do any feel loose?’
‘The pain radiates on my right. Am I to press harder?’
‘No, don’t. You’d know immediately if anything was broken.’ He let out a breath. ‘You’re bruised, maybe fractured. We won’t know that unless you are further harmed or the healing takes longer than a few weeks.’ He stood and grabbed the pot. ‘This salve is for your skin. Does it have other healing properties?’
‘It helps with pain.’
He nodded his head. ‘You can apply it to your front, but you’re in no condition to apply it to your back.’ He stopped, looked over her shoulder briefly. ‘Will you permit me?’
His hands had seared through her chemise. Warm, large, unfamiliar and yet like everything about him, something that calmed and reassured her. A mercenary. A knight. So far from her realm of familiarity, she should be as terrified of him as she was of the men he chased away.
She felt no such fear, but she knew what her skin felt like. Did she dare let this man touch her?
‘My mother...’ He turned the pot in his hand. ‘My mother was a healer. This smells familiar.’
Helissent licked her swollen lip. ‘Did she work with burns?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like mine?’
He looked over at her then, his eyes locked with hers. ‘No, but I watched her.’
What was he telling her? Nothing. He neither knew how to care for burns such as hers, nor had he ever done it himself. But there was something in the way he said it that put a sentiment she understood. Pain. He understood pain and that was enough.
She untied the lacing that bound her breasts within her chemise. When it was loose, she moved to shrug it off her, but his hand suddenly pressed upon her shoulder.
‘Stop.’
She’d been avoiding looking at him when he had sat so close. When he touched and inspected her. She had completely averted her head as she felt along her breasts though she was sure he had not averted his eyes. She had been tended before, this should have been nothing but a normal everyday occurrence.
This wasn’t like those times. He wasn’t like those times. He was like no one she had ever met before and everything in her knew it.
Looking at him confirmed that now. The candle was behind him, but she caught glimpses of his perfect symmetry within the flickering flame.
He was stunning, he was standing close and his hand was on her shoulder. She was terrified, hurting, but whatever her body was feeling was none of those emotions.
‘Your chemise is loose enough.’ He poured some of the pungent mixture in one hand, as he peeled the chemise away from her back. ‘Hold the front as I apply this.’
It was dark, the chemise would further shade her skin. He couldn’t see her scars, but in a moment he’d feel them. Her torso was much worse than her face. Terribly worse and he seemed to sense it when he leaned a knee on her bed, laid his hands on her back and stopped.
He held his breath. She knew she held hers until she cleared her thoughts at being touched again like this.
She’d never been touched like this. But she needed to let him know he wasn’t harming her.
‘It’s all right... You can’t hurt me further. My skin. I hardly feel anything on that side,’ she whispered frantically. She wanted this suspended moment over. It had gone on too long. His man was outside guarding the door. Rudd could appear and she shouldn’t have a man in her home. All of that didn’t matter, because her shock was wearing off, but not the pain.
He made a sound as though he was stopping himself from saying something, then he slid his hands along her back, slowly, gently, efficiently. Practical.
It didn’t feel practical. She lied when she said she couldn’t feel anything. On her left, she felt everything. The roughness of his callouses, the heat from his hands. The gentle, gentle pressure that radiated something deep within her.
When he reached
the lower part of her back, he let out a breath, but she couldn’t seem to release hers.
Then she felt his studying gaze again and realized his hands had reached the deepest grooves of her skin. She was used to them, but she should have prepared him more. He confessed his mother hadn’t treated anyone as bad as she.
‘They don’t hurt; it merely feels as though it does.’ Her voice remained steady. Efficient, as his hands.
He huffed out another breath, but he widened his fingers and smeared the mixture until it started to stick, then abruptly he removed his hands.
Just as abruptly he stepped away and out of the candle’s light only to loosen his belt and yank his fine linen tunic off. ‘You need to apply the salve to your front,’ he said as he began to rip his tunic into jagged strips. ‘I need to bind your ribs. It’ll help secure them if they’re fractured; remind you that you’re hurt before you move too fast. Tie your chemise’s laces and stand.’
His request was kind, but his words were rough, like orders. Dipping her fingers into the pot, she wondered about his past that made him like this. She knew he wasn’t always so rough or direct. She’d watched him for days. He had made jokes with the other men, drank ale from the goblet like it was wine.
Then there was an innate sense of elegance in every movement he made. Pulling her chemise away from her body and gently rubbing the familiar salve over her sore ribs. Refinement even in something as simple as tying his tunic scraps together.
He came back into the lone flickering light. The linen tied around his right fist, a strip in his left. A look of gentle determination about his face as he looked everywhere but at her eyes. Her eyes which took him in. It was as if the candlelight wanted her to see him for it flared brighter when she stood. The fit of his breeches, the low-slung angle of his belt and scabbard, the bareness of his torso. He was golden all over like heated honey. Like shadows, like light.
Eyes lowered, he kept his silence, though it seemed troubled now. She remembered his wary defiant look from before and raised her arms so he could press the end below her collarbone. Then he took her hand to hold it there before weaving the fabric tightly around her.