do something about her uncomfortable soggy bandage—and most important, to find a way to get him to be straight with her.
What, exactly, was he up to here? He refused to stop lying and take her to her brother—a fact that she realized might very well be because Valbrand wanted it that way.
But it wasn’t only the big lie he kept telling.
It was also that he was just… such a hottie. And she kept getting the feeling that he was very subtly coming on to her—which was something she so didn’t need at this point in her life. It would only muck up her focus, add complications she wasn’t up to dealing with.
Plus, if he really was coming on to her—which, face it, could very well be nothing more than a sort of contrary wishful thinking on her part—why? Because their fathers wanted them to get married and settle down to rule the country? Doubtful. Because she was so incredibly sexy and alluring, with a hole in her shoulder and bruises on her bruises, no makeup and, until about fifteen minutes ago, very dirty hair and serious morning breath? Not.
The deal was, she couldn’t figure him out. And until she did, she was going to be wary of him. She didn’t trust him. And yet…
It had been nice of him to wait. And his arm was warm and strong and steady, his body heat comforting.
They passed a few people as they made their way to Asta’s house. A man carrying firewood. A woman with a baby in a papoose-like contraption on her back. Eric nodded, and the villagers nodded back, sparing smiles for Brit, along with murmured Your Highnesses and expressions of pleasure at her improving health.
In the longhouse Asta still slept—a lump beneath the furs, curled up and turned to the wall.
Brit whispered to Eric. “The man she was nursing?”
“It appears he’ll survive, after all.”
She smiled at the good news as she took off her coat—easing it carefully over her bad shoulder—and hung it on one of the wooden pegs near the door. The clogs made too much noise, so she slipped them off and set them with Asta’s pair, beneath the coatrack. In her heavy socks, she padded to her sleeping bench, where she stowed the rest of her things. When she turned back toward the center of the room, Eric was watching her, his gaze tracking to where the water from her soaked bandage was seeping through her shirt. She wondered what else he was looking at. She hadn’t taken a bra to the bathhouse. Right now, with her shoulder so stiff, it would have hurt like hell to get into one. And she’d only be taking it off again, anyway. Because as soon as she rebandaged her wound and ate something, her hair should be dry enough that she could climb back into bed.
“Let me change that.” His voice was so soft, the verbal equivalent of a caress.
They gazed at each other. It was another of those edgy, what-is-really-happening-here? moments. She blinked and started to tell him no.
But the bandage had to be changed. Asta was asleep. Brit would probably make a mess of it if she tried to do it herself—and, hey, at least her thermal shirt had a zipper front. She should be able to get it out of his way and still keep the crucial parts covered.
“All right, I’d appreciate it—just hold on a minute.” She turned for her pack beneath her bed. In a side pocket she had three precious bags of peanut M&Ms. She took one out, opened it and got herself a nice, fat blue one. She held out the bag to Eric. Looking puzzled, he shook his head. She put it away.
When she approached the table again, he asked, “What is that?”
She held up the blue candy. “M&M. Peanut. I love them.”
For that she got a lifted eyebrow. “And you must have one… now?”
“I find them soothing—and don’t worry. It’s not drugs or anything. Just sugar and chocolate and a peanut at the center.” He still had that I-don’t-get-it look. So all right, she was nervous, okay? There was something way too intimate about him tending her wound. “Could we just… do this?” She stuck the candy in her mouth.
“As you wish.” He gestured for her to sit at the table. Then he turned toward the sink area—presumably to get fresh bandages and tape.
Brit seized the moment, perching with her back to him at the end of one of the two long benches, and swiftly unzipping her shirt. She heard the slight creak of the sink pump. He must be washing his hands. She pulled the shirt down her left arm—too roughly, hurt like a mother—and got into trouble trying to reinsert the slide into the stopper thingy.
He was finished at the sink. She heard him approach behind her, moving quietly, halting at her back.
“Just a minute,” she muttered, already chewing her only half-sucked M&M, hunched over the zipper, feeling exposed and ridiculous and still battling to get the damn thing to hook.
“No hurry.”
She felt her face flaming as she continued to struggle, the pain an extra irritant as her injured shoulder complained at the tension. At last she got it in. With a sigh of embarrassed relief, she zipped until she had her breasts covered, the left arm of the shirt hanging beneath her own arm.
She turned to him, certain she would find him smirking or quelling a smarmy chuckle. He wasn’t, on either count. He was, however, staring at her chest. He shifted his gaze up to meet her eyes—and she understood.
He’d been looking at her medallion.
She might so easily have lifted it on its chain and mentioned that his father had given it to her. But she didn’t. Somehow, the idea of drawing attention to it seemed unwise, even dangerous. “Okay. Do it.”
He set his equipment on the table: a roll of gauze, tape, scissors and a tube of ointment. Then he returned to the sink, where he grabbed a cloth from a shelf and filled a wooden bowl halfway with water. At the stove he took the steaming kettle and poured hot water to mix with the cold in the bowl. He returned to her, setting the bowl down, dropping the cloth into it.
He went to work. Once again, with him so near, she became way too aware of the fresh, outdoorsy smell of him. His hands were gentle—quick and skilled. She found herself wondering how many wounds he’d bandaged.
“It’s just as well you got it wet,” he whispered. “It’s not sticking.”
She averted her eyes through most of the process, but when he had the soggy bandage off, she looked down at the damage. It wasn’t pretty—ragged and red, still draining a little. There was going to be a scar, for sure. “I guess I won’t be going strapless to the ball.”
He gently cleaned the wound with the warm, damp cloth. “Wear your scars proudly. They speak of what you have faced—and what you have survived.”
She looked at him then. Straight on. There were perhaps four inches between his mouth and hers. And his mouth was… so soft looking. Four inches. No distance at all. The slightest forward movement on her part and she would be kissing him.
Oh, now, why did she have to go and think of kisses? She pointedly shifted her gaze to a spot beyond his shoulder.
He went on with his work, finished swabbing the wound with the warm cloth, applied the ointment, which soothed the soreness and gave off a faint scent of cloves.
Finally,
