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

kettle and poured the tea into one of my mugs. I stared at it for a moment; it tasted vile even when watered down, and this had steeped for a few hours. I sipped the tea with a grimace. The moment that bitter brew hit my tongue I had to fight my gag reflex to get it all down.
    We sat in silence. The only noises in the room were the crackle of the fire and the muted sounds of the debauchery that continued in my private rooms. After a while, Islwyn turned from the window and sighed into his hands before passing his fingers through his curly locks. After staring at me for a few moments, the corners of his lips turned up in a slight smile.
    “I’m sorry. I’ve been in a mood all morning.” He took a seat at the table.
    “Hungover?” I tilted my head to the side.
    “A bit.”
    “I have something for that.” I stood and walked over to my shelf of herbs. Grabbing one of my linen tea pouches, I placed a pinch of dried lavender, milk thistle, and honeysuckle into it, then set water on to boil.
    “He doesn’t understand that he’s putting himself at risk. If he loved you as he claims, he wouldn’t have pierced your secret flower with his mutton dagger or whatever it is you humans say these days.” The best part of it all was that he said it with a straight face. I couldn’t maintain my composure and soon cackled with peals of laughter.
    “Yes. Of course! Verily he plunged his gleaming, rigid, mutton dagger into the heart of my dewy secret flower sending me quivering into bliss.” I turned my gaze to the ceiling. “Mutton dagger? Secret flower? Do I look like some sort of delusional, drunken, deranged trobairitz to you?” I chortled, tossing more sage on the fire. “Does that really seem the sort of thing that would leave my lips at any given time? But thank you. Thank you for making me laugh. Speaking of mutton daggers…” I stood and walked back to my shelf, retrieving a small white pot of ointment. “For your chafed meat dagger. I can only imagine how sore it is after a night of vigorously piercing the not so secret flower of what is now a well-used whore.”
    I set the small ceramic pot on the table. Islwyn took it without a word. His luminous blue gaze never left mine the entire time he unlaced his leather trousers and smeared ointment over himself. It was a battle of wills. We glared at each other, but still I caught out of my peripheral vision the erection that stood proudly from his slender white hips.
    “I think you might have forgotten what I do for a living, Islwyn. I’ve seen plenty of dicks.” I couldn’t stop a grin from spreading over my lips. Islwyn swallowed and tucked himself back into his trousers. Pouting, he set the ointment back on the table.
    Minutes later Aneurin returned, soaked to the bone and carrying a basket of herbs and vegetables from the garden. His muddied boots squished with every step as he made his way to the table and pulled back the dark hood of his cloak. Islwyn’s face practically lit up when they settled on Aneurin’s dripping form. I had seen true zealotry before, like when the villagers took to staring at the sun as it crested with the dawn. The look in Islwyn’s eyes wasn’t the look of a zealous fanatic… It was love—or at least it seemed that way to me.
    “That rain is fucking cold.” Aneurin shivered. “The road to the gate is almost washed out, so you should send your friend there on his way.” Gesturing at the villager on the cot, he picked up the basket before going back into my private rooms. Islwyn ran after him like a happy puppy, leaving me more or less alone.
    The fetid smell of the unconscious villager started to prove distracting. It reminded me that I should have put some maggots in the man’s wound to aid in ridding it of the infected flesh. But if I did he’d probably say I put some spell on him or something equally as laughable or ridiculous. Gotta love it when zealotry and fear get in the way of healing. I snatched the vial of hartshorn