Saxon Lady. Margo Maguire

a lady’s duty to tend the sick and injured of her estate. I learned all I know from Erlina—the old woman who lay dead in my father’s courtyard. She was a fine healer before her mind turned.” Aelia took a clean cloth and dropped it in the basin of water. “Whoever speared you missed anything important.”

      “’Twas one of your admirers, defending your honor.”

      Aelia’s hand stilled and she gazed up at Mathieu with contempt. “Did you kill him?”

      “He was just a boy. Of course I did not kill him, even though—” A sharp knock at the door interrupted him. “Enter!”

      ’Twas the herald, Gilbert de Bosc, carrying the leather satchel in which Sir Auvrai kept his medicines. Gilbert was no warrior, but a man fluent in the Saxon tongue. Mathieu had never seen him wield a sword in battle and did not know if he would be able to defend himself if necessary. Still, he had his uses, besides functioning as an interpreter. His administrative skills were immense, and he was free to tend the sick and wounded. “Sir Auvrai will be here presently.”

      “Tell him not to bother. Lady Aelia will attend me.” Mathieu took the satchel and handed it to her.

      “Baron, are you certain—”

      “Auvrai has more pressing duties, and the lady has convinced me she is competent.”

      It seemed overwarm in the chamber. Aelia pushed open the shutters to let in the evening air before turning once again to face the Norman’s naked chest and rippling muscles. ’Twould not be possible to overpower him. Still, his sword lay nearby, and he’d placed her dagger upon the washstand. If she could—

      “If you’re thinking of using the moment to do me some damage, demoiselle,” he warned, taking her blade in hand and stabbing the sharp tip into the wood of the stand, “I urge you to reconsider.”

      Aelia bit her lip and pushed up her sleeves. “This will be easier if you lie on the bed.”

      He pushed the wooden stool closer to the lamplight and sat down, letting his knees drift apart. “This will do.”

      “You expect me to kneel before you?”

      “Do what you will, demoiselle,” he said. “But get the sewing done.”

      He raised his right arm and rested it upon the washstand, giving Aelia better access to the laceration in his side, as well as a better view of his brawny chest and shoulder. Aelia had no doubt that the visual display was meant to intimidate her.

      She glanced at the wound, then at the needle in her hand. The gash needed five stitches to hold it closed.

      She knew how to make it ten. There was more than one way to kill a Norman and she would discover it before the evening was out.