He continued bathing the wound. It hurt like the devil, but he would never let her know that. He had been foolish, distracted. And there had been too many men. Four men! He was lucky he still had his head…and the bag.
“Start a fire,” she said.
That made sense. She would need to see to stitch his wound. He gathered twigs and placed them in a small pile. She crossed the expanse, handing him a char cloth and flint. Of course, she would have a char cloth and flint. He remembered John telling her, “Fire can be the difference between life and death.”
Christian squatted beside the pile of wood and struck the flint. A spark leaped off, igniting the char cloth. He sheltered it with his hand and carefully brought it to the twigs. They caught fire.
He handed her the flint and fire striker and sat at the base of the tree. A flickering light leaped to life in the twigs, dancing happily.
Willow knelt near him, examining his cut.
He didn’t think it was that bad. He would have endured a hundred cuts like it to be this close to her again. Her blonde locks reflected the red from the fire. He stared at her slightly furrowed brow as she inspected the wound. When she ran a cloth across the cut, he hissed.
She looked up at him.
His breath caught. Her large eyes were a deep sapphire. And she was so near. Was this a dream?
She grinned and turned back to his wound.
“It’s cold,” he explained. But it was a beat too late. For a moment, he regretted ever having left her. Yet, it had been the right thing to do. He refused to be sorry.
She worked at stitching his cut in silence, which was fine with Christian. It allowed him to study her. To behold. To memorize. Because he knew he was going to leave her again. For her own good. For her own safety. He couldn’t stay with men chasing him. He couldn’t stay with the book.
A golden strand had come free from her braid and brushed his nipple. Her face was so close to his skin he wished she would just lay her cheek against it. His manhood twitched. God’s blood! No other women had ever affected him like this. He clenched his jaw and rested his head against the tree, closing his eyes.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
He shook his head, letting her soft voice float around him to relieve the flaring burn from the cut. Her fingers skimmed his hard stomach. He was aching, all right. It took all his willpower not to show his arousal. He wanted to poke his finger right into the wound, to take his mind from her.
Finally, she sat back with a satisfied nod. “Not a lot of movement, or they will split open.”
He opened his eyes and regarded her work. Beautiful. The stitches were precise and small. She had gotten better.
She picked up a flask of ale and gently poured it over the stitches. “It needs time to heal.”
“Thank you.”
She snapped her gaze to him with what looked like surprise rounding her eyes. Then, they softened, and she nodded. She rested on her heels and began to unlace her leather armor.
Christian straightened. “What are you doing?” he asked. His voice came out more alarmed than curious.
She didn’t lift her gaze. “I have to look at my cut.” When she turned to him, her eyes glittered with amusement. “Don’t worry. I won’t takeeverythingoff.”
He parted his lips to reply but snapped them shut. It would be better if he said nothing. She opened her leather armor and removed her arm from it. Then, she slipped her arm from her dress. Beneath it, she wore a chemise. For that, Christian was grateful and disappointed.
He stood, trying to hold his side still. It was tender and sent pulsating warmth and twinges of displeasure at the movement through his torso. He knelt beside her and took her arm in his hand.
She turned to him in surprise.
For a moment, he thought she was going to pull away from him, but then she relaxed. He eased the chemise down her arm, being sure to trail his fingers along her skin to the cut and tipped ale over it. It was a thin slice, nothing serious, but should be cleaned and wrapped. Her skin was warm and smooth in his hand, and her muscles tensed beneath his touch. “Where’s the wrap?”
She handed him the cloth. He held it against her skin and draped it around her arm. He was glad to have something to do, a distraction from her smooth skin, her thin chemise, her lips. He finished by tying the fabric in a knot.
Willow moved her arm in a circular fashion. “Not bad. You’ve had practice.”
“I’m a good swordsman, but not that good.”
She indicated his side with a jerk of her chin. “Apparently, not as good as you think.” She gathered the cloth.
