no right to keep me here.”
“Just as you had no right to force me to your ministrations, when I had no want of them.”
“Is this some manner of revenge, then?”
“Nay, not in the least.” He lifted a small pewter jar from the chest before closing the lid. “’Tis merely thankful repayment. Like for like.”
Rising to his feet, Kayne fetched a bowl and filled it with a small measure of water, then found a clean cloth and tossed it over his shoulder and returned to kneel before her.
“Sit still,” he commanded. He leaned closer to examine her wounds more carefully, then lightly fingered her sleeve. “Pull this down a little.”
“There’s no need,” she told him, frowning.
He gave a light shrug and began to wet the cloth in the basin. “As it pleases you, mistress. The wounds will seep for a time, and your surcoat will be bloodied.” Gently, he began to bathe the long, red marks. “You’ve already lost another surcoat to these grievous wounds, I would wager.”
“Aye,” she admitted unwillingly. “’Tis soaking now, to remove the stains.” She sighed and began to unlace her gown. “Wait,” she said. He obeyed, and she loosened the top of the garment enough to pull the sleeve partly down. Her cheeks heated with embarrassment as the cloth revealed her shoulder and arm.
Kayne took note of her distress and kept his gaze impersonal as he continued to press the cloth against her skin.
“’Tis worse along the back of your shoulder,” he said. “Whoever did this possesses strong fingers. He dug deeply, intending to draw blood.”
“How do you know?” she asked, searching his face. “Could it not have been accidentally done?”
He lifted the cloth away, looking her full in the eye. “Was it?”
She was silent, as if she would not answer, but at last replied, softly, “No.”
Kayne expelled a slow breath, mastering himself. It was on his tongue to demand who the culprit was, but he knew that Sofia Ahlgren would never reveal such information. She was far too proud to speak of her private troubles. But Kayne had an idea who had committed the crime. Sir Griel Wallace, the lord of Maltane, had made his intentions to wed Mistress Sofia so clear that even a man who never heard the village gossip, as Kayne did not, would know of it. Kayne had met such men as Sir Griel before, and had no doubt that he was capable of every manner of cruelty, even to the woman he desired for a wife.
He reached to open the pewter box that he’d dug from out of the chest, dipped two fingers inside, and withdrew a small amount of a pale, white ointment. It smelled lightly of mint and honey.
“What is that?” Sofia asked as he began to apply it to the first angry stripe on her shoulder.
“Do you not recognize your own healing potion? You used it often enough on my burns, when I suffered them.”
“Oh, of course. How foolish of me.”
“You are quick to take care of all others, mistress, but not yourself. ’Tis clear that you stopped the bleeding and changed your bloodied clothes, but nothing more.”
“I’ve already told you that I had no time. There was so much to take care of in the village. So many chores.”
“Aye,” Kayne agreed. “I understand very well. It is easier, in such times, to push every thought and remembrance aside. To be done with it and go on.”
She lowered her head once more. “Yes, that is the way of it. I want never to think of it again. ’Tis foolish, I know, but it is my prayer, all the same, to forget entirely.”
Kayne smoothed the ointment with a delicate touch over each separate wound, making certain to cover them well.
“You’ll not forget. ’Tis an impossibility. But, in time, you may come to know that the fault was none of your own, and this will ease the memory.”
“I do not know that I will ever be able to do so,” she said. “I was headstrong, as I ever am. A grave sin and weakness, just as the priest has so often told me. I brought this affliction upon myself. That is the truth of it, and it cannot be forgiven.”
At this, Kayne ceased what he was doing and set his other hand beneath her chin, lifting her eyes to meet his own.
“It is hardest, often, to accept and forgive our own frailties. But harder still to claim ourselves as prey to another. You are indeed strong of will, Mistress Sofia, but sin or not, such as that does not give another just cause to inflict harm upon you. In this matter, you are fully innocent.”
He returned to his ministrations. Sofia remained silent.
When Kayne was done, he laid a thin, clean square of soft linen over the wounds, then carefully pulled Sofia’s sleeve back up. When she began to lace the top of her surcoat, he rose and busied himself with putting everything away.
“Thank you, Master Kayne,” she said, standing. “I cannot properly repay you for such kindness.”
Kayne closed the lid on the chest and stood full height, turning to look at her.
“There is no need. It was small service in exchange for all you did for me following the fire at Harold Avendale’s.”
“Nay, ’twas far more than that.” Lifting a hand, she gingerly touched the shoulder that he’d cared for, her beautiful face filling with indefinable emotion. He wondered if anyone had ever performed so simple a service for her before. Mistress Sofia was always the first one called upon when others were in need, always so strong and capable, even caring for matters that should have fallen upon her father’s shoulders. But perhaps no one ever thought that she might welcome help once in a great while, too.
“Thank you,” she said again, and abruptly turned and departed.
Kayne watched through the door that fell open upon her leaving as she made her way through the shadowed stable, her skirts swaying gently back and forth as she walked in her usual steadfast and upright way—the lady of Wirth again, and no one seeing her would ever notice that aught was amiss.
Chapter Three
A week passed before Sofia returned to the blacksmith’s shop, striding alone through the village in the late morning with a basket swinging on her arm.
She had dressed with particular care, glad to see the long, red streaks that Sir Griel had placed upon her finally beginning to fade. But she no longer looked at them with the same measure of fear and rage that had possessed her after Sir Griel’s unwelcome visit. Nay, not since that afternoon, when Kayne the Unknown had so kindly—and tenderly—cared for her, had Sofia looked upon the wounds in such a manner. Now, when she saw them, or ran her fingers across the healing scars, she did not even think of Sir Griel, but only of the blacksmith, his handsome face so close to her own as he bent over her shoulder, his warm breath caressing her skin, his white-blond hair falling forward over his brow…and, most of all, the sure, steady touch of his hands on her bare flesh.
Sofia knew herself too well to deny the truth of what she felt.
