Could she do that—barter her body to secure her future? Could she be that vulnerable again to a man?
He was vulnerable too; lost, alone, hurt, and reaching out to the closest source of aid. His was the act of a drowning man. Not anything to do with her, or even attraction to her, but casting about for relief. Negotiating for help with the only coin he had.
He wouldn’t keep a bargain wrung from him in such a state, not when he came to his senses and realized what she’d done. And she didn’t like that he thought he had to pay for simple human care. She slid off the cot.
“The next time you spoil my sleep, I’ll put a pillow over your face to stop your nightmares.”
“Stay and I won’t have nightmares.” He put a hand to his shoulder. His writhing had worked his sling and the bandages about his ribs loose.
“Here, now, you’ve undone all my good work. I’ll have to take off your shirt to redo these.”
“Go ahead, have your way with me,” he answered, but without the sultry teasing. Instead, he set his teeth as if in pain as she pulled off the shirt and rewrapped the bindings around his ribs and arm.
“I am sorry to hurt you,” she said as he sucked in air. Her face felt hot from his nearness and the heat of his skin singed herfingertips. She was touching a nearly naked man, a man who had offered to—don’t think about it, twymffat.She tried to focus on his injuries, not the broad expanses of heated male skin, the soft brown hair dusting the planes and swells of muscle. She tucked in the last strip of cloth comprising his sling and opened the small cupboard beside his bed to look for another shirt. His old one was drenched in sweat, warm and spicy.
She’d never been so unsettled by any man she nursed.He’s an ass, she reminded herself. And it had been a long time since she touched a man, put her arms around a bare chest, ran her fingers over skin. Hers was purely the physical response of woman to man. No more. She would not be drawn again to a man who hid a dreadful character behind a handsome face.
“You’re his, then?” Pen’s eyes drifted closed as she draped the fresh shirt over his head, then helped him settle against the pillows. “The fellow with the lank sleeve.”
“Evans?” She frowned. “I am no one’s.”
“A woman needs a keeper.” His hand covered hers, anchoring her palm over his heart as she tucked the blanket over his chest. “Especially a beautiful one.”
She pulled in a breath, but she couldn’t rail at him. He was already drifting back to sleep. His hand lay warm and heavy on hers and she left her hand in place for a moment, for far too long, and not simply to assure herself his heartbeat fell into a regular rhythm. With a secret greed she soaked up the compliment and the gentle touch. It had been so long since a man had granted her either.
Dangerous to accept these things from him, and low of her to steal warmth from his sleeping body. She snatched back her hand and stood so quickly that the flame of the candle fluttered in her wake. A woman who turned herself inside out for the flattery of a man was a fool. And a woman who gave herself away for a promise would end up like Mathry, weeping over her belly.She’d not believe the word of a man until the contract was signed and her future was there on paper.
Like the deed to a property? said the devil on her shoulder.
But not won this way, when he was completely at their mercy. Safety won in this manner would prove no safety at all.
A cock crowedin the distance as she left the infirmary, announcing the dawn. There was no point returning to bed. Penrydd had set every nerve alight, made her skin hum with awareness. She snuck to her chamber and pulled a robe of printed cotton over her shift, slipped on her work shoes, and tied her hair up under a cap. She would let the morning air cool her head.
The early dawn was crisp and clear, orange and red ribbons piled across the hills to the east, veiled by mist from the river. Ifor had separated the mother goat and her kid for the night, so Gwen quickly milked the nanny and left them both hay, then stirred up the fire in the kitchen. She found the lump of old dough from the last batch of bread and mixed the yeasty mass with the warm milk, adding flour, eggs, and a pinch of salt. A few tweaks made the dough soft and ropy, and then she turned it into wooden bowls to rise.
It was a task she’d performed a hundred times, and yet she was intensely self-aware of every moment, and aware, too, of the lack of sound from the infirmary. Pen was sleeping, the cad, after robbing her of rest with his troubled dreams and male warmth and jocular invitation to join him. She wouldn’t. Of course not.
But if he still meant to leave this morning, where would he go? How would he fare, with no coin and no name to buy his way out of trouble? And when his memory returned, as it soon must, what kind of reckoning would fall on her head?
She pulled out the griddle and mixed oat cakes for breakfast, pressing the rounds of batter flat with more force than was necessary.
“Survived the night, did he?”
She jumped into the air at Dovey’s voice. Dovey’s apron was starched and white, a lace cap pinned jauntily to her curls, her gown neatly pressed and her shoes black with polish. In comparison Gwen felt frizzled and mussed, rough at the edges.
“I checked on him a few hours ago and he was sleeping.” A version of the truth. “Perhaps you can take his breakfast tray, and Evans can help him dress. I see Widow Jones managed to scrub the blood out of his shirt.”
Dovey shrugged and left. The rest of the household rose to the daily round of chores, and the refectory filled for breakfast. Cerys strolled in yawning, her hair tangled, her apron tied awry. Tomos reached for a cake while it was still on the griddle and burned his hand, then sobbed as Gwen applied salve to the burn. Mother Morris had a griping stomach, Ifor woke with a putrid throat, and Mathry drifted uselessly about the kitchen, moving things to the wrong places, wafting into the stillrooms or cellars and coming out with empty hands. Gwen heated water from the well and was pouring it over tea leaves that had already been used twice when Mathry’s soft indrawn breath made her look up. A scalding droplet splashed onto her wrist.
Pen stood staring at her from the buttery door. Evans had rebound the sling over his shirt and coat, but despite the injury and his restless night he looked awake, alert, and accusing. Mended, and altogether dangerous.
“Oatcakes, Mr. Pen?” Mathry fluttered her lashes. “Or some fresh bread we made?” She indicated the golden-brown loaves, warm from the oven.
“I know what bakers add to their bread,” he said. “Alum. Plaster. Chalk.”
Where did he think he was, a poor man’s tavern? “I would never,” Gwen snapped. She put a wrist to her mouth and sucked off the drop of boiling water.
Pen’s eyes moved to her mouth, and she dropped her hands. Her nerves jumped like fleas on the goats. And not purely from guilt.
