“Sit,” she said firmly, echoing his earlier command with no trace of apology. “Ye have just ruined several perfectly good layers of skin for me. The least ye can dae is allow me tae tend tae ye.”
And this time, she did not wait for his permission. Nor did she give herself time to think. Thinking would have led to fear, and fear had no place there.
She knelt at once, setting her satchel on the ground and opening it with practiced speed. Her hands were steady now, as she allowed her mind to narrow to the task and remedy the way it always did when someone was hurt. Around them, the forest seemed to hold its breath.
“This is nae jest,” she said, assessing the rash as it spread across his forearm and along his neck. “Ye forced yer way straight through the nettles. That was foolish.”
She bit her tongue the moment she said it, because she knew well why he had done it.
“I’ve been called worse,” he replied playfully.
“Be quiet,” she said without looking up.
To her mild shock, he was.
She drew out a small cloth and dampened it from her flask, gently cleansing the inflamed skin. He sucked in a breath despite himself as the cool water touched the rash.
“Tell me if it burns too sharply,” she said.
“It burns too sharply,” he echoed.
She glanced up at him once, utterly unimpressed. “That is nae what I asked.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
She crushed fresh leaves between her fingers, combining plantain and yarrow, working them into a paste with efficient, practiced motions. The scent rose clean and green, sharp beneath the loam and resin of the forest. When the poultice was ready, she applied it carefully, as her fingertips brushed his skin with deliberate gentleness.
She was suddenly, acutely aware of how close she was, kneeling between his knees. She had her hands on him and his attention was fixed entirely on her. She felt it in the way his breathing shifted and in the stillness he held as though afraid to disrupt her.
She focused harder.
“This will draw out the irritation,” she murmured. “And cool the skin. Ye’ll want tae keep it bound fer a few hours.”
“Ye speak as though ye’ve done this often,” he pointed out.
“I have,” she replied. “Usually tae people far less inclined tae sit still.”
She tore a strip of linen and wrapped it neatly around his arm, securing the poultice in place. Her fingers brushed the inside of his wrist as she tied it off, and the contact sent an unwelcome awareness skittering up her spine.
She ignored it.
When she moved to tend the rash along his neck, she hesitated before reaching up. Her fingers skimmed the edge of his collar, pushing it aside to reach the reddened skin beneath. He went utterly still. Her hand rested just below his jaw, and her thumb was close enough to feel his pulse. It was steady.
“Daes this hurt?” she asked softly.
“Nay,” he answered, but the word carried a restraint that had nothing to do with pain. They were both too aware of how close they stood, of how narrow the space between breath and touch had become.
Margaret’s attention lingered despite herself. His skin was warm beneath her fingers, marked here and there by faint scars. Theywere old ones, pale and smooth, crossing muscle that was taut with control rather than tension. She traced one almost without realizing she had done it. It was simply curiosity overtaking caution. This was a man shaped by survival, by choices written into flesh.
He drew in a slow breath but did not move away.
“It’s all right,” he said quietly.
She looked up at him then, feeling startled not by the actual permission, but by how simply it was given.
Her fingers continued to explore his skin gently, mapping the lines of him with care rather than intent. She was acutely aware of how improper this was, and yet the world seemed to have narrowed to the rise and fall of his breath and the steady calm of his pulse beneath her thumb.
“Have ye ever touched a man?” he asked in a voice that was down to a whisper.
