‘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.’
Helissent licked her swollen lip. ‘Did she work with burns?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like mine?’
He looked over at her then, his eyes locked with hers. ‘No, but I watched her.’
What was he telling her? Nothing. He neither knew how to care for burns such as hers, nor had he ever done it himself. But there was something in the way he said it that put a sentiment she understood. Pain. He understood pain and that was enough.
She untied the lacing that bound her breasts within her chemise. When it was loose, she moved to shrug it off her, but his hand suddenly pressed upon her shoulder.
‘Stop.’
She’d been avoiding looking at him when he had sat so close. When he touched and inspected her. She had completely averted her head as she felt along her breasts though she was sure he had not averted his eyes. She had been tended before, this should have been nothing but a normal everyday occurrence.
This wasn’t like those times. He wasn’t like those times. He was like no one she had ever met before and everything in her knew it.
Looking at him confirmed that now. The candle was behind him, but she caught glimpses of his perfect symmetry within the flickering flame.
He was stunning, he was standing close and his hand was on her shoulder. She was terrified, hurting, but whatever her body was feeling was none of those emotions.
‘Your chemise is loose enough.’ He poured some of the pungent mixture in one hand, as he peeled the chemise away from her back. ‘Hold the front as I apply this.’
It was dark, the chemise would further shade her skin. He couldn’t see her scars, but in a moment he’d feel them. Her torso was much worse than her face. Terribly worse and he seemed to sense it when he leaned a knee on her bed, laid his hands on her back and stopped.
He held his breath. She knew she held hers until she cleared her thoughts at being touched again like this.
She’d never been touched like this. But she needed to let him know he wasn’t harming her.
‘It’s all right... You can’t hurt me further. My skin. I hardly feel anything on that side,’ she whispered frantically. She wanted this suspended moment over. It had gone on too long. His man was outside guarding the door. Rudd could appear and she shouldn’t have a man in her home. All of that didn’t matter, because her shock was wearing off, but not the pain.
He made a sound as though he was stopping himself from saying something, then he slid his hands along her back, slowly, gently, efficiently. Practical.
It didn’t feel practical. She lied when she said she couldn’t feel anything. On her left, she felt everything. The roughness of his callouses, the heat from his hands. The gentle, gentle pressure that radiated something deep within her.
When he reached the lower part of her back, he let out a breath, but she couldn’t seem to release hers.
Then she felt his studying gaze again and realized his hands had reached the deepest grooves of her skin. She was used to them, but she should have prepared him more. He confessed his mother hadn’t treated anyone as bad as she.
‘They don’t hurt; it merely feels as though it does.’ Her voice remained steady. Efficient, as his hands.
He huffed out another breath, but he widened his fingers and smeared the mixture until it started to stick, then abruptly he removed his hands.
Just as abruptly he stepped away and out of the candle’s light only to loosen his belt and yank his fine linen tunic off. ‘You need to apply the salve to your front,’ he said as he began to rip his tunic into jagged strips. ‘I need to bind your ribs. It’ll help secure them if they’re fractured; remind you that you’re hurt before you move too fast. Tie your chemise’s laces and stand.’
His request was kind, but his words were rough, like orders. Dipping her fingers into the pot, she wondered about his past that made him like this. She knew he wasn’t always so rough or direct. She’d watched him for days. He had made jokes with the other men, drank ale from the goblet like it was wine.
Then there was an innate sense of elegance in every movement he made. Pulling her chemise away from her body and gently rubbing the familiar salve over her sore ribs. Refinement even in something as simple as tying his tunic scraps together.
He came back into the lone flickering light. The linen tied around his right fist, a strip in his left. A look of gentle determination about his face as he looked everywhere but at her eyes. Her eyes which took him in. It was as if the candlelight wanted her to see him for it flared brighter when she stood. The fit of his breeches, the low-slung angle of his belt and scabbard, the bareness of his torso. He was golden all over like heated honey. Like shadows, like light.
Eyes lowered, he kept his silence, though it seemed troubled now. She remembered his wary defiant look from before and raised her arms so he could press the end below her collarbone. Then he took her hand to hold it there before weaving the fabric tightly around her.
He circled her while she kept her eyes straight, trying not to see, at the same time he kept his lowered as if he was trying to hide from her. But always, always his methodical movements flared the candle so that each swing around, his body was revealed to her more.
Utter perfection. Utter beauty. If a man could be called that. If a mercenary dared. Not even the few scars she glimpsed or one bruise that darkened his side marred the contours of his splayed back, the ridges of his abdomen.
She dropped her arms after the second turning. Saw him drop his shoulders as the linen bound tightly around her breasts, around her middle.
Collarbones that jutted. Shoulders curving with sinuosity even in the refrained movements of his hands.
All of it golden, all of it in shadows in the flared light. All of it too much as he finished the task and tied the knot.
‘Your cheek is swollen, but not overly so,’ he said. ‘I will leave it.’
Then there
