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She was trembling so much she couldn’t hold herself up. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘We waste time arguing this. My man is out there.’
How could she have forgotten? One man against three. She nodded her head towards the corner and he half-carried her there, batted away the thin hanging sacks and set her down on the bed. Instant relief for her throbbing leg, but a sharp pain in her ribs. Swiping her tongue against the blood flowing from her lip, she tried to control her shaking body.
It was overwhelming to have this man in the same room with her. Rudd was large, broader, but somehow he didn’t take up as much space. She hurt, felt sick, the last thing she wanted was to humiliate herself in front of him, and yet she simply sat as he stood over her.
She couldn’t quite see him. Yet some odd pressure built between them and reverberated around the room. He was a stranger and yet familiar in a way she couldn’t comprehend.
Silence held suspended between them as his hand went to the dagger at his waist, then his scabbard.
He glanced at his hand, then lowered it as if remembering what he’d left behind. The sword he pointed at the men. But he had knocked them unconscious with rocks when he could have easily killed them. It was another indication of the caliber of man he was. That he was well trained and honorable. But she didn’t know the other man, who was a giant and sounded like he relished battering those men.
‘Will he be all right?’
The room was dark, but not absolute. She could almost see the lifting of his arms, the untying of his cloak. Hear the heavy fabric pool to the floor.
‘Your man, out there,’ she explained. ‘Rudd’s unharmed. He could return and then—’
He made some sound, amusement and disbelief like her question surprised him. ‘Nicholas can hold his own.’
There was something dangerous about his amusement and she was brutally reminded they were mercenaries. Hired swords. Men who made their living on violence and killing. Yet, she wasn’t afraid of him. He had been kind to her and liked her cakes.
‘Do you want them?’
He suddenly stilled.
‘The cakes,’ she explained around the split in her lip. ‘There’s twenty-five of them cooling in the kitchen.’
He jerked as if the words she gave were a blow he wasn’t expecting—was he disappointed there weren’t fifty?
Her stomach dipped. He’d saved her tonight and gave her enough money for fifty cakes. This was how she repaid him, by being a thief. ‘I don’t have the money to return it to you.’
‘No money. No...cakes.’ He stepped back, another, turned as he found the table in the middle of the room and lit the lone candle there.
For one brief moment the entirety of his face was lit, then he moved away. It was enough for her to blink. To wonder if tricks played with the shadows or if the pain affected her eyesight. No one could be that beautiful.
She moved to stand. ‘I’ll get the salves.’
‘Stay. Direct me,’ he said from the shadows.
The lone candle flickered in the small dark room. It illuminated enough so when she pointed behind him, he could find on a smaller table against the wall a pitcher, basin, and linens she kept there for her skin. When he stepped forward to pick up the small clay pot, the candlelight flickered against his half-turned body.
She’d only seen him in the dim light of the inn and while there she was too busy to linger, to watch. Now he was standing and all she could do was see him.
His face was still in shadows, but the rest... The rest of his body spoke of wealth and a masculine symmetry of strength that could only come from years of training. She’d never seen a man built like him. Elegant. Lethal.
He removed the lid, sniffed it and jerked back.
Her smile stung her split lip. ‘It takes some getting used to.’
‘Is this it?’ He covered the top with his hand.
She nodded and couldn’t hide her wince.
‘Where does it hurt?’
She wasn’t trembling at all now. In the quiet cocoon of darkness, her heart had stopped racing. She hurt everywhere. Her cheek had swollen, her cut lip throbbed. Her legs and wrists where they’d restrained her burned. Mostly she was having difficulty breathing. ‘Here.’ She pointed to her ribs.
Another hesitation on his part. ‘Is there anyone else to care for you?’
‘I care for myself. I can do this.’
‘Not this.’ She felt his frown. ‘I’ll need to feel if you have any broken ribs. I won’t be able to feel it over that dress. You’ll need to remove it.’
His words were suddenly firm, like he expected her to protest. He was probably used to women with modesty. He couldn’t know she’d lost that as a child when the healer kept her naked for months, when the innkeepers applied the honey salve over the areas of her body she couldn’t reach.
She wasn’t modest, it had been burned away from her, but she was very much aware of how she looked to others, who hadn’t seen the worst of her scars. Along her torso, her scars were deep slashing grooves where the flaming rafters had pinned her before she could free herself.
A pounding on the door made her jump.
‘It’s Nicholas,’ a male, muffled voice called out.
Her stranger opened the door. ‘They’re taken care of,’ Nicholas reported holding out a sword. ‘But the third returned and...’
‘What did he do to you?’ she gasped. Both men glanced her way.
‘He...er...showed to the party.’ Nicholas’s grim expression looked almost amused as he returned his attention to her stranger. ‘He’ll be waking with a headache. When he wakes. It’ll also take him a while to return.’
‘How far?’ Her shadow man sheathed his sword.
‘To that thick of trees we passed to the South. I would have taken him further, but didn’t know if there’d be any more guests.’
‘There aren’t any more,’ she said.
Both men inspected her briefly. ‘Give me a moment,’ her stranger said, as he stepped outside.
She heard the men talk, but not the words. It was enough for her to know they’d spent many years together. Nicholas’s voice was laced with amusement like he relished hurting his guests. Guests. Words she never would use with those men. But the word was significant because these men, these mercenaries, knew she was listening and used gentler words around her.
Kindness again. She was unused to it since the innkeepers passed away. Agnes, the healer, had cared for her, but hadn’t shown her the same gentleness for her feelings.
She hadn’t thought of the healer this much in years. But instantly knew why she was reminded. It was the men now talking behind the half-opened door.
Their words were efficient. Practical. The healer had cared for her in much the same determined manner. When the pain was bad, it was the healer’s firm voice that broke through it and made her carry on. Like here. Scars or not, her ribs demanded she carry on and so she made a decision.
Her stranger stepped back into the room and closed the door. ‘You won’t have to worry about those men. They’re gone.’ He turned to her and stopped. ‘Your dress.’
‘I took it off. I’m having trouble breathing and I know nothing about broken bones. But it’s sharp and stabbing me worse than their knife point. Will you be able to feel through my chemise?’
With the door closed, he was all in darkness. ‘Yes. Sit, but do not lie down.’ He grabbed the candlestick in one hand and the small table with the linens and water in the other.
The echoing scrape of the table as it was brought closer was unnaturally loud in the small room. Nervous, she ran her hands down her chemise and sat. It immediately constricted her breathing, but eased the shaking in her legs.
She wasn’t prepared at all when he stopped pulling the table. Wasn’t prepared as he lowered the candle so he could inspect her face...and revealed all of his. The lone candle flickered and dimmed with his movements, but she could see him and she was stunned.
Perfection. His hair was cut short on the sides and long on top. Blond, but with a gold tinge like honey in the sunlight, his brows were darker. His lowered lashes were darker yet and absurdly long and thick as he regarded the injuries to her lip and cheek.
His cheekbones elegantly framed the square jaw and slight cleft in his chin. And lips, light pink, almost full if not for the sardonic masculine curve to them. A man who knew humor...or at least once had.
His brow furrowed and there was a twitch to his lips before his eyes flashed to hers as if to determine something. She didn’t know what because it took all she had not to react to the further reveal.
There was no way not to react. Her eyes widened and watered from not blinking. Her lips parted, her breath hitched and she experienced every surprise reaction anybody would under the circumstances.
Beautiful? He wasn’t real. His eyes...they were amber colored. If his hair was light like the tips of a flame, his eyes were dark like honey heated by that fire.
As she watched, they darkened more, his chin tilting almost defiantly.
It was the defiance that broke whatever spell he cast. Defiance. As if he dared her to stare more. It was a look she had given many times when someone had gaped at her marred face. His made no sense to her. She forced people to look so they’d leave her alone.
Why defiance from him when he was perfection? He shouldn’t need to be left alone. She didn’t know the answer to that, but he had showed her only kindness and she was being rude. ‘I’m Helissent.’
He quickly set the candle on the table and was again cast in shadows. But he hadn’t set the candlestick aside fast enough. The defiance in his eyes had eased; however, his look remained guarded or trapped as if he didn’t trust her introduction. It was an odd look coming from a mercenary, who just took down two men and made another run for his life.
* * *
Rhain almost groaned. Nicholas was right, he shouldn’t be here. Neither in this part of the country, nor this tiny village and certainly not in this woman’s home.
Restless, he kept his shift patrolling the town, which had no gates or walls for protection. Any of Reynold’s men would have access to the buildings here. It was the perfect place for an ambush.
He should be proud he stopped an actual ambush even though it wasn’t for him or his men, but this lone woman, who made cakes in the middle of the night when she shouldn’t.
But he wasn’t proud; he was a fool. He hadn’t thought before he attacked. He reacted as he had in London. This time though he should have known better.
At first he did. The men’s menacing voices meant nothing...until he heard hers.
Then he’d stopped. Her voice carrying on the wind. He shouldn’t have recognized it because he’d never heard it above a soft whisper. But he did, and it wasn’t just the tone of it, but the stridency. She was afraid.
Still, he intended to walk away. Nothing in this village was his concern. Especially not Rudd’s more easily understood words about the innkeepers’ debts.
When she screamed, when the piercing cry was cut short, nothing else mattered except getting to her.
But that led him to here. Alone in her home, telling her he would tend to her like he was some caretaker. Worse, she sat on the bed garnering full view of his face and all but asking for his name. He had enemies and his enemies had spies.
He was giving this poverty-stricken woman information that could make her rich, and for Reynold to find him that much faster.
He could rationalize his actions only so far. That she had no one else. That he had some skill with this and it wouldn’t take long. Except he’d already been here in her room longer than logic or reason dictated.
Now she was introducing herself, and somewhere inside him insisted he answer. Maybe it was his breeding, certainly it was his manners; none of it was his instinct for survival.
‘Rhain,’ he replied.
Her wariness eased and her eyes lit. ‘You’re from Wales.’
More than foolish. He had not told her where he hailed from. Had purposefully kept the information, but she lived in an inn, and recognized his accent.
She probably expected him to talk of his homeland as he tended her injuries. As if all of this was some common occurrence.
Reynold on the manhunt to kill him aside, he felt no part of Welsh soil any more. He’d been gone only five years, but when he left, he severed that part of him. That home was dead to him. Should have been dead to him, except he carried a Welsh name, and carried the country in the cadence of his words.
He should have hidden it from her. His name was enough to harm him if he was caught. Hurt her if Reynold so decided. The irony was not lost on him. He’d saved her, only to get her killed. ‘Have you no pillow?’
Not waiting for her response, Rhain abruptly strode to the other room before he emerged again with Rudd’s pillow.
* * *
Helissent knew when to keep her mouth shut. She’d had years of biting her tongue against rude or cruel taunts, but she wasn’t prepared for any of this.
She’d gone from elated exhaustion to abject terror. Then he’d swooped in like some avenging angel, who now insisted on caring for her. Her body felt like it was all real, but her mind felt that this must be some dream. Yet, his accent made him at least human, and she reached out for the little familiarity between them. To make sense of everything.
Now she feared she had made him angry. Her violent trembles had ceased but her entire body could not stay still. ‘I’m sorry, I only meant... I do not know you and tonight has been...’
He cursed low and fast and threw the pillow on her bed. He did not finish her sentence or add words of his own to ease her tumultuous thoughts.
Pain stung her, and her breaths hurt more since she sat down. The silence between them stretched out as if he was coming to some decision. She felt the flickering of the candle on her and his studying eyes. The air between them thickened. She didn’t even know what it was. Anger. Wariness. Danger...it felt dangerous. As though she was in the dark and her feet were walking a cliff side.
He let out a gust of breath. ‘Your cheek is swelling. I may need to nick it to ease the pressure. Your lip will heal with salve. There are burns around your wrists. Any other injuries besides your ribs?’
He had not answered her questions, but talking of injuries was something familiar. She shook her head. Nothing serious. There were parts of her body that she could not feel. But when she took off her gown, she felt her body through her chemise and nothing bled.
‘If you place your hands to your sides, I can check your ribs. I may hurt you.’
Did he think she’d balk at pain? She’d lived through fire. She placed her hands to her sides so her elbows stood out from her and he’d have more access.
He shifted his sword and sat next to her.
She’d only ever been this close to the innkeepers and healer. This man was neither of them. When he placed his hands flat on her back she felt every bit of that difference. Warm palms, elegant widespread fingers. All held flat, and steady. Maybe he was getting her used to his hands as if she’d claimed some modesty she had never felt. Then he slid his hands down her back, his fingers doing a fluttering walking movement, and she gasped. He immediately stopped.
‘Did it hurt? Is it your ribs?’
No, it was his hands on her. Terror from Rudd, pain from the men, and now this suspended moment with this stranger. A moment that held even longer until she shook her head.
‘Is it from the other injuries?’
Injuries, she had no other injuries, and then she remembered. He talked of her skin. Her skin. She had never forgotten it in the past. Every movement, every stray glance in the inn, every night when she used a salve she was reminded of it.
How could she forget even for a moment? Was it him? No, it couldn’t be. Maybe she forgot because she was in shock or pain. It couldn’t be because for a few moments in the dark, with him and his touch, her scars didn’t matter. Right now her skin was fine, her ribs were hurting.
‘No, it’s not the other injuries.’
