She seemed to choke on her tongue, and he had to swallow a laugh.
"King Longstaff insists his subjects bow before him...orally praise him."
Color high in her cheeks, she tossed the rest of the bandages at his chest. "King Longstaff is about to lose his trusty knights-and his head!"
There was no swallowing his laughter this time; loud guffaws burst free.
"Methinks the lady protests too much."
"Oh, really?" She took a menacing step toward him, and he immediately cupped his precious. Now she laughed. "Methinks the king fears his lady's mighty wrath."
He stilled. He didn't even dare to breath. His lady, she'd said. His. Not "the" lady. She was beginning to see him in a romantic light.
Perhaps she realized the implication, as well. Her laughter died, and her smile faded. "Um. I..." She gulped.
"No," he said, before she could do her best to ruin the moment.
While at war, he'd learned to always end every battle on a positive note. So. That's what he would do here.
"Thank you for patching me up. Enjoy the rest of your day. My lady." He left her then, striding out of the room without a backward glance.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DR. BRENNA JOHNSTON tied her black curls on top of her head with a thin strip of cloth. As always, a few of the shorter curls escaped confinement to cascade over her temples.
How did I end up in this situation?
She studied the unconscious man draped across a bed of sapphire silk. His beautiful dark hair reached the rise of his powerful shoulders. Long eyelashes etched spiked shadows along his cheeks. His nose was slightly crooked, his lips lush.
He looked like a fallen angel.
A dying, pain-entrenched fallen angel.
Blood oozed from thick gashes on his chest and thigh. Before the fight, his skin had been deeply tanned. Now it was pale and tinted blue. He'd gone into a mild form of shock.
As a surgeon, she'd seen worse. She could fix him. Though she would have preferred to use her tools in her hospital with her nurses aiding her. Not the jars of oil and sand she'd been given, an unsterilized environment, and the lug head standing guard at the door.
At least there was one fact in her favor. She'd been terrified since being taken hostage by these giant, hulking beasts, but for the first time since entering this...whatever it was, she felt in control. Like herself, confident and in her element.
With a wave of her finger, Brenna summoned the guard. He approached her warily. She didn't back away, but forced herself to stand her ground as she signed what she needed.
His face scrunched with confusion, and he held up his hands, a command for her to be still. "I have no idea what it is you're doing. Can you not speak?"
She sighed inwardly. Her vocal cords had been severely damaged years ago. There weren't any scars on the outside; no, her scars were internal. She'd been attacked-a blurred, blackened, hated memory she couldn't allow herself to relive. Not if she hoped to function. But. While she could speak, her voice was...not pretty.
"Needle," she croaked. "Thread." Primitive that he was, he probably wouldn't know a scalpel from a butter knife. "Operating tools."
He cringed at the rough, broken sounds she'd made but nodded and raced off. When he returned a short while later, he handed her a lumpy black satchel. She unrolled it, finding a bronze scalpel, plus thin hooks and several needles.
"Fire," she said now. "Hot water."
He removed a blazing sconce from the wall and tossed the entire thing into the hearth. The logs inside quickly caught flame, crackling and burning.
"Bowl. Water."
He found a bowl and filled it with water before attempting to hand it to her.
She pointed to the fire.
After he'd hung the bowl over the flames, she dropped the instruments inside the water.
Once everything had been sterilized, her hands scrubbed clean, she approached her patient, ready to act. He had yet to move. Had yet to make any noise, really. His features were no longer pinched with pain; they were relaxed.
That both elated and worried her. At least he wouldn't feel the pain of her needle. But such a deep sleep...
Brenna squared her shoulders and got to work. She cut off his pants, cleaned the gaping wounds on his legs and chest, and did her best to repair the torn tissue-which was in better shape than she'd dared hope. Sounded easy, sounded quick, but she was by his side for several hours, sweat trickling from her. Toward the end, fatigue caused the muscles in her arms and lower back to quiver.
That will have to do.
She would have liked to give him a transfusion, but without blood-typing, she could do him more harm than good.
Would that be such a bad thing? If he died-if all the warriors in the palace died-she could escape.