Free Heart of the Forest (Arwn's Gift Book 1) by Christina Quinn Page A

passed me—but not before Islwyn grabbed the whore and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. It seemed someone was here to see me…my questions would have to wait.

Chapter Five
    The wound was infected, red and weeping. I had seen a lot, and even I didn’t want to touch it. The yellowish-orange puss that drained from the decomposing flesh smelled of turned meat and feces; it was a smell I knew well but never became immune to. Still I had to fight the smile from my lips. It had started out as the simplest of cuts, probably a tiny scrape while working with pigs or goats or whatever animal he and his family kept. It now festered, and when I touched his arm the flesh squished. I could have prevented this…
    “You’ve gotta help me, Miss Witch. It hurts somefin’ bad. I went to the Barber Surgeon, he said ‘tis noffin’ and sent me on m’ way. Went back las’ week an’ ‘e bled meh.” Serves you right, sheepfucker.
    Grumbling, I turned from the body on my cot, snatched a potion from the shelf, and went about gathering herbs. I might be able to save the man’s arm, maybe. If he had come to me first, I could have told him to keep the wound clean, or wrapped his arm in gauze to give it a chance at healing without infection. Now his odds were fifty-fifty, but in reality closer to thirty-seventy because I wasn’t certain he wouldn’t run to tell the priests about my flourishing garden. Admittedly, a part of me wanted him to die from the wound and another part wanted to help him along.
    Still, I gave him the potion. While he was unconscious, I scraped the putrefied flesh from the wound and flung it into the fire where it sizzled and filled the room with acrid smoke. Then I cauterized the wound and bound it in gauze. He’d live and probably keep the arm. The smell in the room was thick and noxious. Sage and decay made the air stifling, but it fit my mood. Staring down at the man’s dirty, unconscious form, I started doing simple mathematics in my head. If the priest sent a pigeon to the capital it would reach there tomorrow. It took two weeks to reach Laeth on the main road. If they decided to burn me, I’d have—
    Footsteps broke my train of thought. Whipping my head around, I found Aneurin standing in the doorway, clean and wrapped in dry clothes. Thunder rolled overhead as the storm continued to rage.
    “He’ll live,” I stated plainly, washing my hands of blood and pus. The rancid stench made me queasy.
    “Oh joy,” Aneurin snarled, padding over to me. Turning, I glared at him. “The choice was yours, and I won’t speak a word against it.”
    “But you’ll think it.”
    “Right until the moment I have to kill half of Laeth and cut you from the pyre if it comes to it.” He kissed the top of my head and as if on cue my body relaxed against him. Closing my eyes for a handful of moments, I savored the ache in my body and the memory of our lovemaking from the night before. “I’m going to clean up my mess.”
    “Your mess?”
    “The garden.”
    “So you’re a bandit and a gardener. You are a man of many talents, Aneurin.”
    “I try.” He flashed me a charming grin and disappeared out into the rain.
    Aneurin wasn’t gone but minutes before Islwyn entered the room. In Ersland, he would be considered the height of beauty: milk-pale with almost silver-blond loose curls and bright icy-blue eyes. There was, however, something about him that ruined all that. His gaze was a bit too scrutinizing for my taste. It was like he was trying to figure out what my worth was beyond what he knew already.
    “Don’t forget to drink your tea.” His voice made me jump, but he didn’t look at me. His attention was fixed outside the window, probably watching Aneurin.
    “Tea?” I quirked a brow.
    “So you’re not graced with a little half-elf bastard in eight months.” He spat the word “half-elf,” and I in turn practically growled at his tone. Unfortunately, he did have a point. I walked over to the