Free The Warrior Bride by Lois Greiman Page B

that?”
    For one fleeting moment the smile remained, but in a short while she sobered. “It matters not,” she said, and straightened from the headboard. “The sooner we see this done the sooner you can find your way home.”
    He yanked himself from his fantasies. “Aye,” he agreed, and nodded. “Here then.” He set the wooden bucket aside and lifted an earthenware flagon in one hand. “I brought something to cleanse the wound, and ‘twould do no harm to the palate either. ‘Twill ease some of the pain.”
    She nodded once. He sloshed a draught into a drinking horn and handed it to her.
    “You had no trouble securing the spirits?” she asked and, releasing her tunic with one hand, took the offering. The shirt slipped a fraction of an inch. Lachlan ’s erection grew in direct proportions. Interesting.
    “Nay,” he said.
    “And what of a meal? Can we yet sup?”
    “I convinced them to bring us a trencher.”
    “Kind of them.”
    “Oh aye,” he said, and after filling a basin with water from the bucket, dipped a rag into it. “The old man’s all but a saint.”
    She almost smiled before trying a sip of the wine.
    “Truly.”
    ”Turn a bit,” he said, and she did so, twisting slightly on the mattress so that she presented her back. Smooth and fair, it scooped dramatically down toward hidden treasures. His heart rate bumped up a beat, but he scoffed at himself. This was no great ordeal. It was just a back, after all. Just a back. The water felt warm as he wrung out the cloth and touched it to her flesh. She flinched slightly. He grimaced and drew away.
    “Me apologies.”
    “Nay.” She was sitting very straight now. “I was only startled.”
    But he knew he had hurt her and when he touched the cloth to her back again he did so with cautious gentleness. “They had no chamomile for the water. Lady Fiona would box their ears if she knew of their negligence. Still, I was fortunate they had camphor. ‘Twill keep the swelling at bay.”
    She remained very still as he washed the edges of the wound. There was some inflammation, but only a bit and soon the area was clean.
    “Lady Fiona,” she said. “Your uncle’s wife.”
    “You know of her?” He could not help but be surprised.
    “Only a bit. She is a healer, I believe.”
    “Aye,” he said, and leaned away, feeling somewhat breathless.
    “You are finished?”
    If he was, did that mean she would don her tunic?
    “Nay,” he said, and finding a fresh cloth, dipped it into the bucket. “There is a bit of blood…” He drew a breath and touched the rag to her neck. “There.” He washed it gently. She turned her head to watch him. Her eyes were huge, her lips slightly parted, her tongue a coral shell all but hidden behind pearlescent teeth.
    Sweet mother of God.
    “And…” He steadied his hand as he leaned forward again. “There,” he said and smoothed the cloth across her cheek.
    She said nothing.
    “And there.” Lachlan eased the warm rag across her brow. It was high and regal. He placed a hand to her jaw and she shifted slightly, turning sideways on the bed. That alone was nearly his undoing, for while the sight her back was alluring as hell, the thought of her breasts all but stole his breath away.
    Oh aye, she still held her tunic to her chest, but she seemed to have forgotten its purpose, for the fabric was pressed up against her bosom, and somehow that only managed to push it well into view. Above the linen garment, the uppermost portions of her breasts looked as soft as a dream. Between them, a silver chain formed a fortunate V and disappeared mysteriously into the folds of heaven.
    Breathe. Breathe, he told himself and pulled his gaze from the tantalizing chain.
    “There,” he said and, remembering his mission, dabbed gently at her nose. It was, he thought, a perfect nose, straight and small, but not weak or silly. Just below it, in the delicate teardrop dell Above her lips, he washed away a smear of blood, and then it seemed