The girls came to stand on the other side of Raffaela and watch him. Sophie held Angelica’s hand as their wide eyes were fixed on Raffaela.
“Does it hurt?” Angelica asked, kneeling down beside Raffaela.
“Not much,” Raffaela answered brightly, and he knew she was lying through her teeth.
“Raffaela,” he said, hating what ought to be done, but knowing she would have a worse scar if he didn’t. “You have a gash here that needs stitches. I can spray something on it that will numb it slightly, but it will still hurt some if I take stitches. If I don’t, you’ll have more of a scar.”
She turned her head, twisting around and partially raising herself up on her elbows. The thick braid was over her shoulder, and suddenly he imagined her without his shirt, and with all that auburn hair tumbling loose. His mouth went dry, and he tried to focus on what she was saying. She frowned.
“I’m sorry, I was thinking about your cut.” Now he was lying. “What did you just say to me?”
“Do you know how to stitch up a wound?”
“I’ve done it before.”
She nodded. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve got a bottle of whiskey in my pack. Want a drink?”
She shook her head. “Just go on and get it done.” The tail of his shirt covered the top of the cut. “I have to move the shirt up slightly.”
“Do what you have to.”
Sophie knelt down beside Raffaela, and she turned away from him. “Mama, Aunt Rachel,” she said, promptly correcting herself, “do you want me to hold your hand? I’ll tell you a story, if you’d like,” she offered.
“You tell me a story, Sophie,” she answered.
Micah paused when Sophie used both Mama and Aunt Rachel. Was there a possibility this wasn’t Raffaela? He thought it was more likely that Sophie was confused. This woman wasn’t shy. His throbbing head attested to that. And even though she had removed her wedding rings, she wore the ruby pendant.
Returning his attention to Raffaela, Micah scooted the shirt higher and felt sweat pop out on his forehead. It was steamy hot in the forest, but he knew that wasn’t what was causing his temperature to jump. It was sexy as hell to have this woman stretched out beside him, wearing only his shirt and her underclothes.
He tried to focus on her injuries. He didn’t want to hurt her. When he had taken stitches before, it had been in tough men who had been fighting with him. Not in a beautiful woman with the longest, shapeliest pair of legs he had ever had the privilege to touch.
Silently swearing, he went to work. He saw her fingers clench, but she was quiet. The woman was gutsy. He had to touch her thigh to hold the edges of the cut together. His fingers moved deftly on her smooth, warm skin, and all the time he was too aware of where his hands were. Finally he finished bandaging the large gash and then began to disinfect the smaller ones.
“You hurt?” Angelica asked in her high voice, bending down and looking at Raffaela.
“I’m all right, sweetie.”
“The worst is over,” he said. “Unless you have any more deep cuts beneath that shirt.” He tugged the shirttail down, aware every time his fingers brushed against the backs of her thighs.
She sat up carefully. She looked pale as she faced him.
“Okay?” he asked softly, hunkering down to be at her eye level. Her luminous eyes were deep pools of green that held his gaze.
“I’m okay.”
“Good.”
“You didn’t give her a kiss,” Sophie said solemnly. “You gave us a kiss.”
“You were a brave patient,” he said quietly, and squeezed Raffaela’s shoulder.
“Why don’t you kiss her?”
“Sophie, he doesn’t have to kiss everyone he takes care of,” Raffaela answered, her face flushing. “He just does that for little girls.”
“Why? You always say everyone needs a kiss, including grown-ups.”
Amused. Micah caught her chin with his finger and turned her face to him. He leaned forward and brushed the faintest kiss on her cheek. “You were a fine patient.” He winked at her and then looked beyond her at Sophie. “Now, I have kissed all my patients.”
The girls smiled and moved away while he stood and reached down to pull Raffaela to her feet. She grimaced as she stood.
“Maybe I should have explained to them that their daddy wouldn’t like me kissing Mommy,” he said, knowing he should leave it alone, but unable to resist.
“They’ve forgotten about it now. If you had said that, they would be full of questions.”
“Hurt?” he asked, aware he stood too close, knowing he should put space between them. He released her at once, but he wanted to keep holding her arm and touching her.
Without looking at him, she nodded. “Thanks.” Her gaze was everywhere except meeting his.
“Now I’ll turn around. You tell me when you’re ready, and I’ll disinfect the cuts on your back.”
The pink returned to her cheeks and she nodded, shooting a worried glance at him, and he felt his body tighten. She was aware of the tension snapping between them as much as he was. She is the married twin, he reminded himself, wondering if he was going to have to tell himself that every few minutes until they reached civilization.
He turned and waited, his imagination promptly running wild, envisioning her shedding his shirt. He inhaled and tried to shift his thoughts, listening to sounds around them. An army of men could have slipped up on him a few minutes ago, and he’d been so lost looking into her big green eyes that he wouldn’t have heard them until too late.
“All right,” she said quietly.
He turned and his pulse jumped. She was seated with her legs straight out in front of her. She wore her slacks again, and she held his shirt beneath her arms and in front of her, leaving her back bare. She was slender, her bones looked delicate, and he inhaled, his body reacting to the sight of her.
Trying to get himself under control, he moved closer, his gaze drifting down to her waist where the deepest cut disappeared beneath her slacks. Cuts were dark lines across her back, but none were deep enough to require stitches or as bad as the gash on the back of her thigh.
His gaze ran over her, and he leaned closer, noticing where her hair was matted with blood. “You’ve had a blow to your head. I’ll try to be gentle, but I think I should look at it.”
“Will you please unfasten this necklace? I’ll put it in my bag.”
He caught the delicate clasp in his fingers, his knuckles brushing her nape lightly. He inhaled, wondering why he was having reactions to every tiny contact with her.
The necklace came loose, and he dropped it into her open palm. His fingers brushed her neck as he moved his hand.
She sat quietly while he looked at the cut and disinfected it. She had a bump on her head, and he tried to avoid hurting her.
“Now your back.” He began to disinfect and clean her wounds, working silently, too aware of the bare nape of her neck—pale and smooth.
He swore, and she slanted him a glance over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“I just hate hurting you,” he lied. He had not had this reaction to a woman since Shawna’s death a year and a half ago. And this was a damn poor time to come back to life. He had been numb and hurting over her loss for so long now, it had seemed to be a permanent way of life.
He