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1 Corinthians 13:4
“I must find a healer for you right away,” Blanchette stuttered once they’d returned to the empty great hall. Smoke lay beside Rowan, his golden eyes glittering. Blood had dried on his muzzle and crusted in the fur around his jaws.
Blanchette turned from him, her stomach aching from the blows. But Rowan’s hand shot out and grabbed the fabric of her red riding cloak. She eyed his fingers as they curled into the muddy material. “Stay. Your skills are good enough for my men. They’re good enough for me.”
She hesitated, glancing down at her hands, which were still trembling from the bloody turn of events. Then she nodded. “Alright. Give me a moment to wash up and gather supplies.”
The world was quiet as she walked through the castle halls and hastened for the well. She breathed in the cold, crisp air and let out a calming breath.
A sense of unreality settled over her. She fought to anchor herself and concentrate on the task at hand. A symphony of creaks broke the silence as the pulley system churned water from the dark depths below. A wooden bucket slowly ascended, dripping with water. Blanchette lowered the pewter flask into the bucket and filled it to the brim. The cold water brushed her knuckles and helped wake her from the trance. She splashed her face, watching the moon shimmering in the bucket. The unsteady water distorted her reflection.
My God. Who am I?
What’s happening to me?
She glanced down at her palms before washing them. They were red with blood.
Blanchette returned to Rowan with the bucket and a basket full of supplies. She swallowed against the knot in her throat and retrieved her dagger from her cloak.
Rowan surprised her and gave a wolfish grin. She held his hot gaze for a moment.
Exhaling a long breath, she dug the dagger’s tip into his doublet. Then she slid the blade along the fabric and carefully pulled it back from the jutting arrow.
He winced.
“You must trust me,” she heard herself say. Rowan grimaced and then laughed as she applied a salve around the wound’s entry point. “Hardly, my lady. After what I’ve seen and endured tonight, I trust you with my life. I just don’t trust you with your life.”
“That’s a dangerous assumption, sir, that could cost your life.”
He chuckled darkly again, then hissed through clenched teeth. “I’ve been called bold before by many of my men. It’s a fair assessment.”
“Bold, clever, bloodthirsty,” she added.
“Dangerous, vengeful, honorable—and let’s not forget—a fantastic lover.”
A blush crept across her cheeks. She lifted her gaze from her handiwork and studied him.
He saved me. He and his beast.
And I saved him.
What’s happening to me? she asked herself again.
* * *
Rowan Dietrich had endured a myriad of battle wounds over the decades, yet he couldn’t recall a pain more excruciating than that damn arrow. He bit down hard until the metallic flavor of blood filled his mouth. If the task disturbed Blanchette, his impulsive little nurse, she hid it well. Her head was bent, her curls tumbling around her beautiful face. Mud, leaves, and dirt stained her clothing. Her hair was damp from when she’d washed up. She worked meticulously, with a clear focus in her eyes that he could not help but admire and even envy.
She might be hasty and untrustworthy, but she was also brave and as strong as any soldier he’d ever led.
Impulsive and stubborn too. He couldn’t forget those.
He’d watched her kill a man right before his eyes.
She killed that man to save my life. It was a strange turn of events, to say the least.
He acknowledged she was achingly lovely, too, as he watched the hearth’s firelight play off her gold hair and brilliant eyes. An image of her wading through the wood surfaced; how fierce and beautiful and primal she’d looked.
“This will hurt. There will be pain.”
