Free Master of Craving by Karin Tabke Page A

eye open, lest you find your sword in your other eye!” She rolled over, and, wrapping her arms tightly about herself, presented her back to him.
    Stefan fought back the laughter that rumbled deep in his chest. Never had he come across a woman with such pluck. His mood soured when he thought of the last woman he admired. His mood soured more as he watched her shiver naked in the dirt. He sighed and pulled the woolen tunic over his shoulders.
    Arian awoke to cool water and gentle pressure at her breast. She started, her eyes flashing open to find the scarred Saxon beside her, a wet linen in his hand. She slapped it from him and backed up into the dirt.
    “Do not touch me!” she cried, fisting her hands. He scowled, and she noticed his hair was wet, his eyes sharp, and his tunic gone. Her eyes hurried down his muscular chest to his clad bottom. Squeezing her eyes shut, she thanked the saints for that one small favor.
“Your wound needs tending,” he said huskily.
    Arian looked down to her breast and gasped, remembering what he had done to her. The cut, the length of her forefinger, gaped open and ugly just above the swell of her left breast. “You have scarred me for life!”
“Hardly. Only your lover will see it and if he is worthy ’twill not matter to him.”
     
Her head shot back and she eyed him coolly. “I have no lover! But my betrothed will not find it so comely!”
     
“Then he is a knave.”
     
She shut her mouth and looked harder at this man, this marauder. “Who are you? Why have you taken me? What do you want?”
    He pointed at her trembling breasts. “I am the knave who wishes to tend a lady’s wound. It needs to be sewn so that it can knit properly and not be such a blight on such a—” He smiled and his gaze swept her breasts that had the nerve to pebble beneath his hot regard, then lower to her belly, and then lower still to—
    “Cast your eyes away!” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and bringing her knees up. His smile widened, and she realized she had given him a perfect look at her nether parts. She shoved her legs down.
“Milady, I have seen more of you than your nurse. You are beautiful, do not be ashamed.”
     
“I am not ashamed!” She was embarrassed to her core!
    He reached out a hand to her knee and moved toward her. She backed up farther in the dirt until the rough hardness of a tree stump halted her retreat. He inched up closer to her. “I have no intention of ravishing you, unless you wish it.”
She slapped his hand away. “Never!”
     
“ ’Tis unfortunate.”
     
“For you, sir, never for me.”
     
He nodded and pointed again to her breast. “It will fester. Allow me to sew it.”
     
“ ’Twill hurt! And how do I know you are skilled?”
     
“I sewed my own thigh, and if you had noticed, despite your attack on it, ’tis a perfect line with small, tight stitches.”
     
Her gaze rose to his mangled cheek. He scowled heavily. “Your handiwork leaves much room for improvement.”
     
“Does it offend you?”
     
“The wound or the man to whom it belongs?”
     
“The wound.”
     
“Aye, ’tis most unsightly.”
     
“Then do not look upon it,” he bit off.
    Arian gulped in a deep breath. As much as she did not want this man to touch her in any capacity, she knew she needed to be tended and she knew that as brave as she was, she could not do it herself. She shook her head, dreading the prick of the needle. She had never been one to endure pain of any kind. She was miserable each month when her courses came, taking to her bed even with Jane’s elixirs, and the few times she managed a cut or a bruise, one would have thought her legs had been chopped off.
He moved closer, and though she did not want his touch, she knew if she allowed the wound to stay open, if it did not fester, it would heal ugly. Vanity trumped her pride.
     
“Tell me your name,” she softly demanded.
     
“Stefan.”
     
“You are Norman?” she asked tensely, now more