na’ got time,” she spoke, divining his thoughts again. “The wound festers. You may lose your leg even with my help. If you dinna’ believe me, question it when you arrive. Dinna’ tempt fate or question what brought you to me. You need the gifts from a healer? I am one. I swear it on all the gods. I’ll return. Dinna’ move! I will be very angry if you do. I swear to that, as well.
“You dinna’ want to see me when I’m angry,” she continued. He watched her stand, gather the wet folds of her cloak closer about her, and look down at him. Then she sighed loudly. “You’re na’ a very good patient. I understand that about you. You’ve na’ had anyone command you. You command others. I understand that, too. I do. I’ll still be angry if you dinna’ obey me. You ken?”
He nodded and kept his eyes on her until she disappeared. He’d never felt as defenseless and open to attack as he did then, sitting amid the grasses, with his tunic pulled down for modesty, his tights about his ankles, and no weapon handy. He was called the Lion of Ramhurst, yet had been brought to a state of vulnerability, and sat half-dressed, docilely awaiting the command of a child-woman weighing about a third of what he did. He still couldn’t believe it.
Chapter Two
Aislynn’s hands were shaking before she had everything gathered and she was beginning to doubt she could work on him. That led to questioning her own abilities and that wasn’t good. She believed in her healing gifts and the extent of them even if she was the only one who did.
It took longer than she wished it to but that was because she hadn’t a spark handy for a fire, or mead for him to drink. She knew he shouldn’t face what she had to do in a completely sober state. That meant a trip home. Even at a full run, she didn’t think she could get there and back before the sun moved. She decided time must be changing on her, however. The sun didn’t seem to have moved as she fished two coals from the fire for a small torch and opened her father’s ale keg to dip a wineskin out, careful not to awaken anyone.
Her arms were full, her breast was burning with the exertion of running, and she was half-afraid he wasn’t going to be there when she returned, but he was.
Aislynn stood just outside the fringe of shrubbery ringing the glade she called hers and waited for her heart to calm. The Norman giant was still where she’d left him. He didn’t seem happy about it. She watched as he plucked a blade of grass and ran it through his fingernails to make it curl. She took a deep breath, assumed her confident Lady of the Brook image, and stepped in.
He looked up and stole her breath again with the clear-water blue of his eyes. Aislynn swallowed and looked away before he noticed. It was better to stay busy. She knew he watched as she stacked a small pile of broken twigs near the stream bank and tipped the coals onto it. She fed grasses into it until the fire was strong enough to keep going by itself. Then she set the small iron rack atop it, dipped a pail full of water, and set it atop the flames.
The indecision over whether or not to heat her knife ate at her, but she wasn’t going to let him know. His wound was trying to knit, it was full of poison, and it would be easier to slice if her blade was warm. She opened the knife into its half-circle shape and placed the tip in the center of her blaze.
Though she knew he’d be watching her, it still made her start when she turned and caught those blue eyes on her as intently as they were. Aislynn looked down at the ground as she approached where he sat. She couldn’t believe she’d actually stepped up and stomped on the expanse of chest facing her, but he’d frightened and startled her. Nobody saw her at her morning blessing. Nobody. It would start the whispers again. She assured herself it hadn’t mattered. He hadn’t even acted like it was of any consequence.
“I’ve brought ale for you.”
She pulled the skin of it from where she’d tied it about her waist and put it in the grass beside him where it went to a bulge shape. “You may need it.”
“I won’t,” he replied in that soft whisper of his.
Aislynn shivered. She wondered if he always spoke like that or if he was doing so for a reason. She cursed her own lack for not checking to see if he had further injury. “Have you hurt your throat?” she asked.
He jerked his head slightly, his eyes widening with the same odd look he’d given her on several occasions already. She wondered why he did that, too.
“I…no,” he replied.
“You possess a voice?” she continued.
He nodded.
“Why dinna’ you use it?”
He shrugged. Aislynn’s lips tightened. It wasn’t her business but she could guess. He had an enormous, well-muscled physique. He was easily a head taller than she was. The lower leg she was about to work on looked larger than both of her thighs put together. He probably had a voice to match. It would be loud, captivating, and strong, just like he was. She instinctively knew that was why he wasn’t using it.
“I understand,” she said. “It will give you away.”
This time his mouth dropped fully open. Aislynn nearly giggled. He was going to think she was a witch yet. She bent to check her knife. The blade tip was glowing red. She wrapped a bit of her cloak about her hand, lifted the blade, and walked over to him. He was very trusting, she decided, as she knelt beside him. He was also in the stiffest position a body could possibly be in and still be breathing. Aislynn put the blade against his skin and sliced.
Then she knew he definitely had a voice and it was massive, as his curse and groan filled the air. She ignored it. She had work to do. She was going to drain the pus-filled poison from him and then she had to find the lance tip he still harbored.
Aislynn put her fingers against his skin and lightly grazed until she felt where the metal had to be. It was lucky for both of them that it hadn’t reached bone. She didn’t think herself capable of extracting anything that deep.
She was beginning to think she couldn’t retrieve it, before she had it, and the act of sliding it out was worse. The blond man was quiet the entire time. He looked intent on drinking the wineskin dry. Aislynn looked his way once and then bent back to her task.
He’d not only been carrying the entire lance tip in him, it had binding still attached. Aislynn put it to the side of her and tipped his leg so he’d bleed freely onto the grass. Then she squeezed the wound until no more poison came out with the blood. He didn’t complain. Another quick glance showed he was still gulping, although the ale was in danger of sliding over his cheeks with the speed with which he was drinking it.
Aislynn picked up his souvenir and her knife and walked over to the burn to rinse everything off. Once the lance tip was clean, she realized the obvious. It wasn’t a keepsake. It was too dangerous. She dropped it into the water and watched the current rinse it away. Then she busied herself with crushing a palm-sized portion of brittle, dried orange amica flowers into the pot of water. She whispered as she did so, begging the water goddesses to assist with their healing powers.
When the pot was steaming the aroma into the glade, she knew it was ready. She needed it warm, not burning. Aislynn lifted it and turned to him. His eyes weren’t as crystal-clear, they were a more vivid blue, with red-rimmed flesh around them.
“You had poison to your wound. I’m going to wash it. It should na’ hurt. Worse,” she finished.
“Don’t stay…the work on…my account,”
