like the rest, just a little better at hiding it. “I’ve been busy doing other things with my life and haven’t the time or inclination to spend energy wooing a silly female.”
Only the disappearance of her smile indicated that Bronwyn had heard him and the bitterness in his voice. Picking up the needle and the cloth, she came to sit down beside him. “First I am going to sew that wound up. It is going to hurt. Normally I would give you some ale, but it might not be wise with an impending fever.”
Her playful banter in both expression and tone had vanished. His harsh words were the cause and it bothered him. “I don’t have a fever,” he countered, reminding himself that she was duplicitous not only in nature but in identity.
“Not yet, maybe, but with this wound, you will have one.” Bronwyn reached out to pull back the opening to his shirt and hesitated when his hand covered hers. “Do you need some wood to bite down on?”
“Do you?” he demanded, knowing that a deep puncture wound could be unsightly, but nothing compared to the burned scarred flesh that surrounded it.
“No, my lord. I’m not afraid, and I promise, I have seen worse.”
The seriousness behind her words could not be faked and Ranulf released his grip, understanding at last just why this woman could be so unperturbed with his appearance. He had been drenched in the obvious since the moment Bronwyn had first looked at him with her steadfast gaze, seeing his mottled skin and missing eye. She had to have seen something—something far worse than his injuries—to be so unaffected. And if that was true, the sight had to have been grisly, far too grisly for a lady.
Freed, Bronwyn bent over him and started cutting away the material around his flesh. “Once I’m done here, I’ll apply that poultice, which I warn you, can be very painful, but it will help with the bleeding and accelerate healing. Unless the fever takes too strong of a hold, you will live.”
Ranulf shook his head. “I don’t get fevers.”
“We’ll see,” Bronwyn murmured as she dipped a clean cloth into some water and started to cleanse the wound. Then she picked up the needle and asked, “Are you ready?”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, don’t worry about Constance if you do hit me. There’s a good chance you will and I won’t hold it against you. I’ll know it was just the pain.”
Ranulf’s mouth twisted with pride. “I’ve been injured before and I’ve managed not to hit anyone.”
“If you say so,” Bronwyn replied.
Ranulf felt the painful pierce of being stabbed and let go a grunt. Ashamed she should see him so weak, he closed his eyes and counted each sharp prick and pull. After twelve, she tied off the string and sliced the end off with a dagger.
Then, a minute later, white hot agony seared his skin and wound. Ranulf fought from crying out but his hand instinctively reached out for hers and squeezed. His grasp had to have hurt and yet she held on and he didn’t feel so alone. Her father had made him feel that same way. “I’m so sorry, angel. I tried everything to save him. I didn’t know…”
“Shhh, whatever happened, no one blames you.”
“Angel…”
Bronwyn felt him suddenly relax and knew he was unconscious once again.
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