she wasn’t in the mood for questions, he handed his money over.
She gave the coins to the mother, dug into her bag once more and produced even more gold and silver. “Use the coins to purchase whatever food you need for Maria and others in the village. If you eat well, you are less likely to fall ill.”
“I could never accept so much.”
“You can and you will. Señor Don Enrique insists.” She glanced over. “Do you not?”
He lifted his hands. “Of course.”
She fought a smile. The mother wept.
“Do you leave now?” Enrique asked Sancha.
She regarded Maria. “In time. I want to wait and watch. You may go, of course.”
He would stay.
Chapter 3
Sancha tried to concentrate solely on Maria, as she should, but kept failing to do so. With the child quiet for the moment, Enrique’s presence was too potent for her to deny. Each time she glanced over, he regarded her, his gaze thoughtful rather than possessive or filled with disdain.
She bathed Maria’s face to keep her cool. He drew near, watching the child, then her. The moment Sancha sank to her knees and gathered the soiled napkins, Enrique joined her, seeing to the task.
Turned to Maria’s mother, he lifted his hands filled with filthy linen most nobles would have been loath to touch. “Where should I put these?”
The woman was far too concerned about her daughter to answer him. Maria’s uncles sat on the floor, backs against the walls. Their heads repeatedly fell forward. They flinched each time and tried to stay awake.
Seeing no receptacle for rubbish, Sancha held out the sack she’d brought. “Use this.”
After dropping the napkins inside and washing his hands in the pot, he pulled a chair over and gestured to Maria’s mother. “You should rest.”
She regarded him gratefully, tears in her eyes.
Enrique placed his hand on the woman’s arm, guiding her to sit. “Maria will be fine.”
He brought the other chairs over and offered Sancha one. “You should also relax while you can. Maria may need you later.”
Sancha didn’t argue. Her shoulders and legs ached with tension even as weariness washed over her. After tending the ill, she always experienced crushing fatigue driven by her intense concentration over their maladies, coupled with worry that she wouldn’t succeed in keeping her charges alive and whole.
The moment she sank to the chair, Enrique grabbed two clean napkins and dampened one with vinegar.
She couldn’t imagine what he was doing and hoped he wasn’t planning to treat Maria.
He dropped to one knee in front of Sancha. “Give me your hand. Either one, as I intend to see to both.”
She buried her fingers in her homespun shirt. “My hands are fine.”
“You hurt them. How?”
She wasn’t about to say until he glanced at the table, its rough wood possibly the source of her injury. “Whilst I was at the castle collecting the items I needed for Maria, I moved too quickly and tripped. Not wanting to drop anything, I scraped my hands on the kitchen wall.”
He accepted her lie without challenge, taking great care in cleansing her fingers with the vinegar. At the first sting, she winced. He blew on the hurt, easing her pain.
Moved by his tender care, she curled her fingers around his.
After giving her a fast smile, he used his dagger to cut the other napkin into strips and wrapped the linen around the scrapes to protect them from further damage.
“You should take more care with yourself.” He knotted the last strip. “You know what an injury can do.”
Her hands weren’t her biggest concern. Her future was at stake, and yet she wanted him more with each passing minute. Already she’d allowed Enrique far too many liberties with their relationship. As she would a husband who had the right to follow her, remain here, and see to her physical comfort.
How pleasant she found his touch. He was a good man. Certainly chivalrous. But he wasn’t her destiny. People like Maria and others in this village were. They needed her more than he ever would. There were countless women who’d want him, giving him heirs.
Too few saw to the needs of the ill and poor.
“Gracias.” She eased her hands from him and gestured to his chair. “You should rest.”
With a sigh, he sat. “This evening has been long.”
She smiled. Given his stricken expression earlier, she was surprised he hadn’t swooned as the child had. Although the scene had disturbed him, he’d kept his peace, affording Sancha the same right to do what she wanted as he would a man.
Because no vows bound her to him. He had no right to demand anything. Yet he had helped. Wanting to reward him for his kindness, she left her chair.
He stood. “Where are you going?”
She pointed at the table.
He sank back to his chair, let out what sounded like a relieved sigh, but remained alert.
Perhaps she was too hard on him. She leaned down to Maria’s mother and kept as quiet as possible. “May I take a piece of your bread?”
“Of course. Let me get it for you.”
“Stay with your daughter.” She patted the woman’s thin shoulder and made certain to take a modest piece of the loaf.
Once seated, she offered the bread to Enrique. “Given how little you ate at the gathering, you might get hungry.”
His face lit up with such delight, she might as well have offered her heart rather than such meager sustenance. A thread of disquiet along with too much desire filled her. She warned herself not to let him believe he’d have what wasn’t possible.
He broke the bread in two, giving her the largest portion. “You barely ate either.”
His size, heat, and scent hadn’t allowed her an appetite, the same as now. She warned herself to refuse his offer.
His warm smile defeated her. In taking the bread, their fingers brushed. She came alive instantly, in a way she hadn’t before, her skin exquisitely sensitive to even the lightest touch, making her want more of whatever he could give. “Gracias.”
He didn’t seem to notice how her voice trembled. He ate his bread eagerly, like a man starved or one who’d never tasted anything better, marking this as one of the happiest moments of his life.
She’d never enjoyed an evening more.
They were losing control and Sancha
