Forever His(45)
“On that we are agreed,” he said angrily, turning his attention to something that would rouse neither his senses nor his ire. Straightening, he unknotted the blood-soaked bandages that circled his thigh just above the knee, and tore away the remaining tatters of his legging from the area. “The wound is not deep. A scratch, no more.”
She had gone completely pale. “A scratch?” she whispered, staring at the bloody injury as if she had never seen a blade-cut before. He thought for a moment that she might be ill, but instead she picked up her odd array of supplies and knelt in the rushes beside the bed.
He eyed her tools suspiciously. “What purpose has the soap? And the flask?”
“This may sound strange to you, but where I come from, we have learned that they prevent infection.”
“Wine prevents infection?” he scoffed. “If that were true, I know a great many pickled mercenaries who never should have died of their wounds.”
“Getting drunk doesn’t help. You use it to clean the cut.” She looked up at him, biting her bottom lip. “This is going to hurt. I promise I’m not about to make ‘aught ill’ befall you—but it’s going to hurt.”
“I am not some page boy who will faint at even the smallest pain. I have had many injuries far worse than this.”
“Amazing that you’re still here to brag about it,” she muttered.
“I am still alive after seventeen years of battles because I always keep my blade at hand and my wits about me.” He looked at her impassively as she began to wash the wound. “Always.”
Except of late, he amended to himself in irritation. Her hands worked over him quickly, lightly. She was either trying very hard not to hurt him or trying very hard not to touch his bare thigh. Both impossible tasks. After she had washed the wound, she patted it dry, then dabbed it with the wine.
He never winced. Never made a sound. Her careful ministrations burned like Hell’s hottest flames—but he was aware of the pain only in some distant portion of his mind. The rest of him had been set ablaze with an agony far worse than the wine: having her touch him.
God’s breath, how long had it been since she had touched him? Had any woman’s touch ever moved him like this in all his thirty years?
Her long, slender fingers felt so soft and delicate against the bristly hair of his thigh, so close and yet so achingly distant from that part of him that even now, even as he fought against it with every ounce of will he possessed, throbbed to hardness with wanting her.
Desire burned him, so forceful that it seared away all meaning he had ever attached to the word before. It was an ache that consumed him even as it filled him. It flooded his mind with insane images. Visions of pulling her into his arms, up onto his bed. Running his hands over every smooth, curving inch of her. Tearing her garments away and pressing her back into the sheets. Thrusting himself into her deeply, and then more deeply, until they were both lost and breathless and—
Nay!
“This is the last I will see of you for some time, wife.”
He didn’t even realize he had spoken until she glanced up at him. “W-what?” She had just finished tying a fresh bandage around his leg. Her fingers trembled, her cheeks were flushed with color, and her eyes held a deep glimmer of heat.
Her unmistakable response to him only intensified his own arousal, which angered him even more.
“I said, this is the last I will see of you.”
“Why? Are you going away again?” She stood up, her expression wary.
“Nay, I am not leaving—you are the one who will be ‘going away.’ Since you have abused the freedom of my castle, you shall have it no more.” He was practically snarling at her, but he didn’t care. “You will be confined to your bedchamber from this day forth, until you reconsider your treacherous plans and agree to reveal the truth to the King. And since Etienne has proved unreliable, you shall have a more experienced guard: Royce, the captain of—”
“But what about the King’s warning?” she protested, her eyes flashing with sparks of anger. “If you mistreat me—”
“I am not mistreating you. You will be well fed and warmly clothed, and you may even continue your odd habit of bathing each day. But you will remain in your chamber, alone, while you think better of your loyalty to Tourelle. For however long it may take. I will not have you using my people in your scheme, distracting them with your strange foods and odd devices—”
“But everything I’ve created is to make life better here. Easier. People have even started coming to me with their problems, and I do my best to solve them. My devices are helpful—”