She remembered their last conversation at the bridge, where he’d shared the fact that Lord Strathwick had read her letters aloud, and her face grew hot. She brushed by him, pouring oats into Moireach’s trough. Rose scratched the mare between the ears as she ate.
“Why are you here?” she asked, still avoiding his gaze.
“I heard you were tending the villagers’ ailments.” He hesitated, then continued diffidently, “I…have a problem with my elbow. I was hoping there was something you could do for it?”
Her eyes narrowed, skeptical. “Why not have Strathwick heal you?”
“Go to Strathwick? For a strained elbow?”
She leaned an arm on the top slat of the stall and turned to face Dumhnull. “He doesn’t heal elbows?”
He looked momentarily bewildered, then lifted a shoulder. “No. It’s…fatiguing for him to heal. One does not ask him to do it for such minor complaints.”
She thought grimly about the day she’d just spent, the ailments she’d tended, the exquisite effort it had taken to break and reset the leg—her muscles still ached from the strain—and glowered at Dumhnull.
“Well then,” he said, straightening from where he leaned against the stall. “I suppose not—”
“How did you hurt it?”
He paused, then leaned against the stall again, eyeing her cautiously. “I was kicked.”
“In the elbow?”
He nodded, straightening and folding his arm experimentally. “It hurts.”
Rose sighed. “Very well. I suppose I owe you.” She straightened from the stall, wincing and rubbing at the small of her back. “Let’s have a look.”
He shrugged out of his doublet, untied the points at his right wrist, and pushed his sleeve up. Rose took the arm he offered, giving it a cursory inspection before she used her magic. It was a very fine forearm, thick with muscle and dusted with black hair. The wrist in her hand was strong-boned and wide, the palm broad, the fingers long. She could smell him, standing this close. He smelled clean, of wool and soap, as if he’d recently washed. For her? A quick glance upward revealed slightly damp combed hair. She smiled inwardly, and when she called on her magic, passing her hand over his elbow, she saw nothing, only his color—strong and healthy blue. She frowned and did it again, spending more time with her palm hovering over his elbow. If there was damage of any sort she would see it—dark red streaks, or a gray film or dark blobs.
“What was that?” he asked sharply, his arm tensing beneath her hand.
She looked up at him, surprised. “What was what?”
“What you did with your hand there?”
Rose dropped her hands and stepped back, flustered. No one ever seemed to pay any mind to what she did during an examination. All thought she healed through skill alone. He was the first to notice anything different.
“Nothing,” she lied. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He continued to frown at her for a moment, then looked back down at his bare arm. Rose debated what to do. There was nothing wrong with this man’s elbow. Even without the benefit of her magic she could see it was functional—no bruising, swelling, or discoloration. This must be a ploy to spend time with her again, and she was flattered. She enjoyed his company and felt no small amount of attraction for him. She’d grown somewhat jaded over the past few years, so although she was no stranger to flirtations—especially from her male patients—she rarely returned the interest. This felt different somehow, wicked and unsafe, but darkly alluring. She decided to play along, refusing to deny herself the pleasure of his presence, however unwise the decision.
She gestured to an overturned bucket. “Have a seat and I’ll put some liniment on it. It should feel better in the morning. I’ll be right back.”
She hurried out of the stable, returning to the blacksmith’s cottage and retrieving her pot of liniment. She found herself sprinting back to the stable, as if she feared he would leave if she was gone too long. She stopped herself just outside and caught her breath, not wanting him to notice how she’d exerted herself. She knew her behavior was unconscionable. She was betrothed. He was a bastard and a stable hand, for heaven’s sake. And yet for this moment, she didn’t particularly care about any of that. She was enjoying herself, and she couldn’t recall the last time she’d found real enjoyment in anything.
Inside the stable Dumhnull waited on the bucket, his shirtsleeve rolled up to his muscled biceps. Rose stared at him in the gloaming, her breathing disturbed by thesight of him. He was so very large—he seemed to fill the small stable, even crouched on a bucket. Such a fine-looking man. No wonder he was overbold for one of his station—she doubted even a princess would be offended by his interest. He looked up at her, shadowed eyes fringed with such thick lashes, set deep beneath thick black brows.
She realized she stared rudely and came briskly forward, kneeling beside him. “Give me your arm.”
He gave it to her. As she rubbed the strong-scented liniment into his elbow, she felt his gaze on her, weighty, nearly a physical thing, as if he touched her. Her skin reacted all over, warm and prickly.
He said, “We did not mock you.”
Rose looked up at him quizzically, then immediately realized her mistake. Their faces were inches apart. She returned her gaze to her work, to the strong bulge of muscle above the bend of his elbow. She could see the veins in it, protruding slightly, dark blue. The skin in the crease of his elbow was soft and tender, such a contrast to the rough, muscular man before her.
“What are you talking about?” she mumbled.
“Your letters. You were wroth earlier, thinking we mocked you. I want you to know that is not what happened at all.”
