“No.” Rhoenne gave her the answer, before undressing himself. The act of rolling his own wet tunic back into place was checking his earlier reaction to her and the tremor of his frame was back. He couldn’t help it. The material was wet, clammy, and cold. And he was fevered. He hoped she wouldn’t spot the weakness and nearly shook his head at his own idiocy. She was a healer. Healers dealt with weakness.
Then he had his hands beneath the tunic edge, fumbling with the rawhide ties at his waist. He eased the garment down over his hips. That’s when it got difficult. Rhoenne forced himself into a sitting position so he could maneuver his own clothing down. He didn’t want her to assist with it and not only because he never let anyone see such weakness.
It was something more.
It was her.
He had trouble the closer he got to his wound. He couldn’t keep the reaction hidden. He tensed. He sucked in each breath, only to ease it out with a groan of sound. He had to let the stoicism go. She was right. He was injured, he’d worn the hose for days, and he didn’t want it sliced through, either—because he didn’t want anyone else to know of his injury. He’d strapped the shin guard on for the same reason—and because it gave him stability enough to move. Rhoenne untied the straps with a vicious, efficient motion, breathing rapidly and shallowly the entire time.
He still had to shed the hose. That garment had been excellent for its purpose; keeping him warm and the bandage hidden. When he was finished, it was just a puddle of gray-shaded fabric about his ankles. And he was drained.
Rhoenne felt as wearied when he finished as if he’d just been on the list, battling. About the only good thing was he had the pain to a bearable level. He turned his head, met her gaze, and then his heart lurched—sharply and powerfully. Rhoenne had it hidden almost the moment it happened. He couldn’t do anything about the flare of his eyes, the increase of his pulse, or the sudden tautness of his frame. He had to react slowly, and do what he could to keep her from seeing or guessing at any of it.
She looked away first, saying nothing, although the two spots of pink on her cheeks were telling him plenty.
Rhoenne watched her look him over. It helped mute the throb of ache he was ignoring. He was grateful he’d shed his chainmail hauberk, shirt, and the steel-grommeted leather gauntlets before seeking sleep last night. He was doubly grateful he’d left the sword named Pinnacle in the sheath at his destrier’s side. If she knew who she really had at her fingertips, she wouldn’t be looking him over with her lower lip caught between her teeth and a blush that was easy to spot with the growing dawn.
“I’ve been puzzling this…and you have too much strength na’ to be a knight,” she finally said when he just sat there regarding her, with hands resting on his thighs, which appeared to be the same exact position she was in.
He waited for her to finish surveying him, although it took some time as she slid her gaze back down to his boots and up. He was afraid his body could feel a touch that wasn’t actually happening. He was very tempted to tighten the muscles beneath the skin she was looking at, too.
“You’re certain you are na’ one?”
“Do you wish me to be?” he whispered.
Her eyebrows rose at that. She finally shook her head and moved down to attend to his wound. Then there was nothing in his world but fire and pain and ache. The moment her fingers started circling and probing the bulge of bandaging around his calf, Rhoenne went stiff with the agony.
“This is going to pain,” she remarked.
He had his hands splayed onto the ground behind him for support. It also made it easy to watch. He almost wished he hadn’t as she reached in and pulled a small, curved knife from somewhere in the voluminous cloak she wore. She obviously knew her way about a knife was his thought, as she settled it into her palm and started slicing at the linen he’d wound about his leg not two days earlier, and the closer she got, the worse he tensed.
“You’ve taken a lance. I’ll have to find the tip. It will na’ be pleasant. You’ll have to hold still.”
He opened his mouth to tell her he already knew the whole of it but then she touched the red, swollen lump with her knife blade. Her action had him arching from the carpet of grass, while the ground absorbed the weight of his elbows. A hand on his belly was what sent him back onto his buttocks. Only by grinding his teeth together did he keep from giving any of it sound.
“You mustn’t move. I have to build a fire. I need it to clean the water.”
Rhoenne concentrated on her words. He had to. Otherwise, he was afraid he’d be sobbing. She needs fire to clean water, he repeated silently.
“It was na’ clean enough even before I fell into it,” she answered, as if he’d spoken aloud. “I also have to gather moss; and get my herbs…like burdock, amica, and a bit of roseweed. You’re na’ to move. I forbid it. You ken?”
Rhoenne had his teeth too tightly clenched to answer. He was beginning to wonder at his sanity. He had but one more day’s ride before he’d be at Tyneburn Hall and in his own healer’s hands. To think a Celt lass, calling herself the Lady of the Brook, could do better was a fool’s prayer.
“You’ve na’ got time,” she spoke, divining his thoughts again. “The wound festers. You may lose your leg even with my help. If you dinna’ believe me, question it when you arrive. Dinna’ tempt fate or question what brought you to me. You need the gifts from a healer? I am one. I swear it on all the gods. I’ll return. Dinna’ move! I will be very angry if you do. I swear to that, as well.
“You dinna’ want to see me when I’m angry,” she continued. He watched her stand, gather the wet folds of her cloak closer about her, and look down at him. Then she sighed loudly. “You’re na’ a very good patient. I understand that about you. You’ve na’ had anyone command you. You command others. I understand that, too. I do. I’ll still be angry if you dinna’ obey me. You ken?”
He nodded and kept his eyes on her until she disappeared. He’d never felt as defenseless and open to attack as he did then, sitting amid the grasses, with his tunic pulled down for modesty, his tights about his ankles, and no weapon handy. He was called the Lion of Ramhurst, yet had been brought to a state of vulnerability, and sat half-dressed, docilely awaiting the command of a child-woman weighing about a third of what he did. He still couldn’t believe it.
Chapter Two
Aislynn’s hands were shaking before she had everything gathered and she was beginning to doubt she could work on him. That led to questioning her own abilities and that wasn’t good. She believed in her healing gifts and the extent of them even if she was the only one who did.
It took longer than she wished it to but that was because she hadn’t a spark handy for a fire, or mead for him to drink. She knew he shouldn’t face what she had to do in a completely sober state. That meant a trip home. Even at a full run, she didn’t think she could get there and back before the sun moved. She decided time must be changing on her, however. The sun didn’t seem to have moved as she fished two coals from the fire for a small torch and opened her father’s ale keg to dip a wineskin out, careful not to awaken anyone.
Her arms were full, her breast was burning with the exertion of running, and she was half-afraid he wasn’t going to be there when she returned, but he was.
Aislynn stood just outside the fringe of shrubbery ringing the glade she called hers and waited for her heart to calm. The Norman giant was still where she’d left him. He didn’t seem happy about it. She watched as he plucked a blade of grass and ran it through his fingernails to make it curl. She took a deep breath, assumed her confident Lady of the Brook image, and stepped in.
He looked up and stole her breath again with the clear-water blue of his eyes. Aislynn swallowed and looked away before he noticed. It was better to stay busy. She knew he watched as she stacked a small pile of broken twigs near the