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 human, 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.’
