Reckless (Age of Conquest #5) - Tamara Leigh Page 0,59
stump near last eve’s fire.
Nicola retrieved the medicinals, and as she lowered, tried not to think on having been nearer him.
As never again shall you be, the memory defied her.
“Your hand,” she said.
He leaned forward, set his forearm atop his thigh, and let the victim of his raging hang over his knee.
She considered the bruising, swelling, dried blood, and fresh blood, most of which stemmed from knuckles up to the first joints of his fingers, then lifted his hand in hers. “Do you think anything broken?”
He grunted. “Thankfully, I had enough presence of mind—rather, instinct—not to suffer my sword hand. This one is damaged, but I believe the bones stand firm.”
She bent her head and, probing both sides, felt him tense as her exploration revealed the most tender places. “Methinks you are right. Not broken, but in need of salve, bandage, and a splint to restrict movement until it heals.”
“No splint.”
“But—”
“I will be drawing no bow for a time, but should that hand be needed to wield other weapons, it will do its work and bear the pain.”
“It shall take longer to heal, Vitalis.”
“Better long in healing than the cause of greater injury from which all of me might not heal.”
A rejoinder sprang to mind, but she closed the door on the termagant who would argue though the warrior knew better than she what was important in these circumstances.
Returning his hand to his knee, she cleaned the split and abraded flesh. No stitches were required, and when she could do no more beyond salve and bandage, she stood and looked close upon his brow.
“Mere scrapes,” he said.
Inwardly shivering over his breath warming her throat, with authority she did not possess, she said, “Still, it needs cleaning and ointment.” She reached for the flask of strong drink and a cloth.
Expecting him to stalk opposite, she suppressed the impulse to smile when he remained seated. Not that he would have seen the turning of her lips with his eyes fixed low.
She told herself it mattered not if he could not bear to look upon her face because of the great hurt bared to her at the falls or because he hated her, but selfishly she hoped it was the former.
After cleaning the scrapes that began at his hairline and ended above his eyebrows, she cleared the dark red hair from his brow in preparation for salve.
What did it mean when her fingers grazing his flesh caused his breath to cease as it had not when her touch was heavier? Though tempted to search for the answer in eyes now felt upon her face, she leaned to the side and retrieved the salve. When she straightened, once more his breath warmed her throat.
Insides stirring, she knew she should stop after applying the ointment, but no matter how genuine this intention to reform herself, it would take time to pack away ten and eight years.
Half hoping she would be allowed to remain near a while longer, half hoping he would reject further ministrations, once more she lowered before him. “Lastly, your leg. The limp is gone, but still we ought to watch for infection.”
He did not move away, but neither did he pull his chausses from his boot.
Though there was something both light and dark in the feel of his gaze, she bent her head further and tugged the chausses free. The injury she had dealt required little attention, but when she was done, she lingered in what felt the silence of waiting.
A hand settled atop her head, as gentle as hers upon his an hour earlier, then it curved around the back and his fingers slid into her hair and over her scalp.
He does not hate me, she silently rejoiced. Though he wishes to, he cannot. That should be enough, but she wanted more. And so the reckless one leaned in and lay her head atop his knees.
His fingers lingered over her nape, moved back up over her scalp, drew tresses through them to their ends.
Nicola had experienced the kisses of a boy still mostly a boy and those of Bjorn who had been both boy and man, but never had she been touched like this with…
What was it? Patience? Reverence? Teasing?
“Vitalis,” someone spoke his name, and she knew it was her only because there was no one else here with him.
“Nicola,” he answered, though she did not know what question she had put to him. But she knew her own answer, despite an inner voice warning her against acting on it.