“God’s blood, am I to have an audience?” he demanded.
Perhaps this was not the best time for Beatrice to learn about tending to a man’s wounds. “Thank you, Beatrice. You can go.”
Beatrice nodded and quickly disappeared.
“There was no need for you to be so rude, even if you’re in pain,” Constance admonished as she poured the bloody water from the ewer into the empty chamber pot. “She was only trying to help.”
Merrick flinched as she started to wash his wound. “Would you enjoy having some soldier watch as I tended to a wound on your arm?”
“It’s Beatrice’s duty to learn to care for wounded men. How else can she take care of her husband or sons, or the knights in their command, if they’re hurt?”
“Let her learn by watching somebody else.”
Constance pursed her lips as she concentrated on cleaning the wound. Merrick sat perfectly still, without so much as a grimace, when she began to sew it shut. At least his stoicism wasn’t feigned.
“I’ve noticed, my lady, that your steward holds you in high esteem,” he said as she gently pushed the needle through his skin.
“He’s a trusted friend, my lord,” she replied, biting her lip as she pulled the thread to make the first stitch.
“I can see why. He seems a most reliable and honest man.”
“He is,” she confirmed. Her brow furrowed as she worked, and she considered asking him to be quiet, until she realized Merrick might be trying to take his mind off his pain.
“I’ve noticed a house in the village,” he said, “one that wasn’t there before I left when I was a boy—a rather large building made of stone and with an upper floor of wattle and daub.”
“That belongs Ruan, your bailiff. He had it built three years ago.”
“You don’t like him. Why not?”
She thought she’d kept her voice carefully neutral as she replied but, obviously, she hadn’t.
She shrugged as she took another stitch. “Although there’s never been any evidence that he’s dishonest, there’s something underhanded in his manner, in the way he speaks, as if he’s cheating you, and you know he’s cheating you, but you can’t quite figure out how.”
“So your animosity toward the bailiff is based solely on a feeling?”
How she wished she had some proof of Ruan’s dishonesty! “Yes, my lord, it is.”
“I won’t dismiss a man based on a feeling, especially when I’ve seen nothing that would condemn him as a thief.”
“You asked me what I thought, and I told you,” she replied, disappointed that he was disregarding her answer.
“Sometimes a feeling is a warning, and one worth heeding. Because of your apparent mistrust, I’ve gone over the accounts very carefully. I’ve found nothing wrong.”
Despite her task, a little thrill of pleasure went through her at Merrick’s measured words. Lord William had openly scorned most of what she said. Her uncle ostensibly listened, but she knew that he held her observations in low esteem. “Perhaps,” she suggested, “he’s been too afraid of being caught to do anything dishonest. That’s not the best reason to trust a man, but…”
“But it would explain why I find nothing amiss even though he appears untrustworthy.”
“And perhaps I shouldn’t condemn a man because of his outward appearance.”
Merrick flinched and she glanced swiftly up at his pale face, so close to hers. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “I have had worse hurts before, without so lovely and gentle a nursemaid to attend me.”
She blushed as she tightened the last stitch, and tried not to think about his proximity. Or note his disheveled dark hair, as if it was tousled from sleep. Or be excited by the low, husky rasp of his voice so close to her ear. Or be distracted by his lips, mere inches away.
“Very neatly done,” he observed as she finished the stitches. “I won’t refuse your aid again.”
“How kind of you, my lord, but I point out, I didn’t let you refuse this time,” she said as she smoothed the sicklewort ointment over the stitches. “Fortunately, ittakes more than a foul temper and harsh words to prevent me from doing what I believe to be right.”
