Читать книгу To Tame A Warrior's Heart - Sharon Schulze - Страница 13

“What do you intend to do?” Catrin asked. Panic lent her the strength to move so she could better see his face.

“I must remove the arrows from your back, and soon,” he said as he pawed through the contents of her purse. “You’ve a fever, if it’s escaped your notice. And I doubt you could remove them yourself, at any rate.”

A shudder racked her body, whether from fever or the thought of Nicholas Talbot wielding a knife upon her flesh, she could not say. She doubted he’d ever performed surgery on anything other than some hapless fowl at table.

And her back was no sampler for him to display his prowess with a needle!

But what choice did she have?

Impossible as she found it, she had to entrust herself to a man; a man, moreover, more confusing to her than anyone she’d ever met. This could only be reparation from a vengeful God for every sin she’d ever committed—and possibly some she’d only contemplated.

Sweat beaded upon her forehead, and a flood of heat poured through her veins. She could withstand this—she’d suffered worse before and survived.

At least Talbot meant her no harm.

“There’s a small pouch—the green one—it holds a mixture of herbs. ’Tis good for pain or fever.” She nodded when he picked it out of the pile on the cloak. “You must steep it in hot water.”

He wavered as he rose to his feet, and his eyes closed for a moment as though his head pained him. “You should take some, as well,” she added.

Talbot set both knives to heat in the fire, then took up the cup and a bowl and left the cave. Catrin stared at the flames leaping merrily before her and tried not to worry as she considered what Talbot must do. She had removed arrows from hardened warriors, some of whom had screamed worse than a woman in childbirth. And though she prided herself upon her control, her strength of will, she had no idea whether she could withstand Talbot’s surgery without shaming herself before him.

She feared such weakness more than the pain.

Talbot knelt beside her, startling her. “What should I do?” he asked.

“Add three pinches to the water, then stir it with the knife.”

The water hissed as he plunged the blade into the cup, and a bitter scent filled the air. Talbot wrinkled his nose, but wrapped his fingers about the mug for a moment. Still grimacing, he held up her head and brought the draft to her lips.

She swallowed the potion swiftly, grateful for even so foul a drink as this. ’Twould not take long before she began to feel the effects…

She wrapped her fingers about his brawny wrist when he lowered her to the floor. “Best if you wait to take some,” she cautioned. “It might make you sleep.”

“Will it make you sleep?” He set the cup aside and brushed her tangled hair away from her face. His fingers felt blessedly cool, hard yet gentle against her heated flesh, and his eyes glowed pale lavender against his tanned skin.

Never had he turned so tender—so pitying—a look her way. She wasn’t sure she cared for the way it made her feel.

“Perhaps,” she whispered. His pulse beat strong and sure beneath her fingertips, making her more aware of his nearness, his size. She opened her hand and released him. “It matters naught—just do what you must.”

The light went out of his eyes at her tone and he turned away, leaving her bereft. She rested her head on her arm and watched Talbot’s preparations. Mayhap the potion had affected her after all, for a strange, calm sensation seemed to flow through her body.

The firelight shimmered upon Talbot’s golden hair and threw the angles of his face into sharp relief. When had he become so appealing? She’d always known he was handsome—she wasn’t blind—but something about him had changed.

Or perhaps she had changed. The potion blurred her mind, ’twas all. Never had she taken it when fevered… Mayhap it had addled her brain.

“The needle will do no good if I cannot thread it,” he muttered in Welsh. “Finally,” he cried, his voice rich with satisfaction.

“What did you say?” She frowned. Had he spoken to her in Welsh before?

“I said…”

“Nay.” Her lips curled carefully about the word, slow to respond. “Have you been speaking Welsh?”

“I have.” He knelt beside her. “Does it matter?”

“Didn’t know you could.” When he reached out to push her hair away from her face she leaned into his stroking hand like a cat.

His gaze met hers. Amusement lit the depths of his eyes, their color darkened to indigo. “There’s much you don’t know about me.” He eased her over onto her stomach and helped her rest her face on her folded arms.

Catrin fought the shadows taking hold of her mind, but the battle was nearly lost. Her limbs felt heavy, weighted. “Can’t think. This never happened to me…” Warm and relaxed, she sank further into the comforting darkness and thought no more.

Nicholas sent up a prayer of thanks as he watched her slide into sleep. He’d feared she might lay there, awake and watchful, while he sliced away at her flesh—finding fault with everything he did, no doubt. As it was, he felt a fool. A knight—a former mercenary, by God—who had done his best to skewer the enemy at every turn, hesitant to use a knife to save another’s life.

He had to work swiftly, for he’d no notion how long she might sleep. His fingers felt clumsy as he struggled to knot the thread. Vision gone blurry once more, he closed his eyes and willed himself to stillness. If his hands didn’t stop shaking, he’d do her more harm than good.

Feeling somewhat better, he took up the cup and returned to the stream. It was full dark now. A crescent moon hovered over the horizon, playing amongst the clouds scudding across the sky. Somewhere in the forest an owl hooted, perfect accompaniment to the howl of the rising wind.

’Twas a night made for magic; he hoped ’twould help him in his labors. He knelt beside the spring and slaked his thirst, then scooped water over his aching head. The shocking cold helped clear his senses. Casting a last look around, he went back to the cave.

Catrin slept on undisturbed while he built up the fire and prepared his meager supplies. Idris remained against the far wall where Nicholas had placed him, his gaze fixed with steadfast devotion upon his mistress. Nicholas shifted the torch to a better spot, then settled down at Catrin’s side.

He could delay no longer.

He eased off her cloak, slipping the fabric over the broken-off arrows before turning his attention to the laces on each side of her bliaut. Even after he loosened them, he couldn’t remove her gown, so he cut a neat slit down the back. ’Twas ruined anyway, but he tried to preserve it enough for decency’s sake. Her undertunic laced up the back, simple enough to roll down over her arms to her waist.

When he loosened her chemise and pushed it aside, still another layer of fabric covered her from armpit to waist. Now he understood why her wounds had not bled freely; this garment—whatever it was—was wrapped so tight, it acted as a bandage.

“Thank God you’re not awake,” he murmured as he reached beneath her in search of the fastenings. “Please stay that way.” A twist of his hand and he found the knot and loosened it

Soft, yielding flesh sprang free as he tugged the stiff material apart.

If she woke now, he was a dead man.

His fingers brushed against an ample pair of breasts. He grinned. Never would he have imagined that such bounty lay beneath her modest gown.

Enough! he censured his unruly mind. He was no green boy, to be set off by a bosom, no matter how impressive. Frowning, he turned his attention to working the binding over the arrow shafts.

The garment had likely saved Catrin’s life, for the stiff fabric had kept the arrows from sinking too deep. And despite the rusty streaks of blood that marred the smooth ivory skin of her back, the wounds had bled little.

One arrow tip lay half-buried in her flesh, its barbs still exposed—a simple matter to remove. The other two, unfortunately, were embedded to the shaft. He’d have to cut them free.

Red streaks ran from the crusted wounds, and the flesh around the crudely molded arrowheads felt hot and swollen. Nicholas drew the cloak up over her and sat back upon his heels, cudgeling his scrambled brain for any knowledge he could use.

There had been an incident in the Holy Land. Though he’d been little more than a lad, he had never forgotten it. A Saracen healer of great renown had traveled with them for a time, bartering his medical skills in return for their protection. Nicholas had watched, fascinated, as he removed a deeply embedded crossbow quarrel from a soldier’s back, a man who survived to die in an angry whore’s bed not six months later, he recalled wryly.

What had the healer done?

The Saracen had washed his hands, the knife and the injury, then passed the knife and needle through a flame before he used them. Nicholas had never seen any barber or chirurgeon do that before or since. The bandages had been clean, as well, he recalled, the white fabric a startling contrast to the victim’s sun-browned skin. And after cutting the arrow loose, the healer allowed the wound to bleed freely before he sewed it closed, applied an unguent and bandaged it.

Though Nicholas had no salve to soothe Catrin’s wounds, the rest he could manage. His spirits lighter, he hacked a wide strip from the hem of Catrin’s chemise and tore it into strips. He set the bowl of water beside the fire to warm, then took the knives outside and scrubbed them—and his hands—as best he could in the icy stream.

When he returned to the cave he plunged both knives blade-deep into the glowing coals, pausing a moment with hands outstretched to the fire’s warmth while he reviewed his memories yet again. But he remembered nothing more.

A sheen of sweat dampened Catrin’s brow, and the flush upon her face owed little to the fire’s heat. She hadn’t moved since he’d loosened her clothing. He’d get no better chance than this.

But she stirred when he folded back the cloak and began to wash the area around the arrows, her low-voiced moan sending a chill up his spine. What if she struggled once he cut her? He had worries enough without having to wrestle a pain-maddened woman into submission. Hesitating but a moment, he bound her wrists together with a lace from her gown.

If that didn’t work, he could always kneel on her.

Nicholas drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, readying himself in the same way he would prepare for battle. Eyes closed, he concentrated until a sense of calm flowed through him. Breathing deeply again, he snatched Catrin’s eating knife from the fire and set to work.

The shallowly embedded arrow popped free with but a nudge of the blade, leaving a faint trail of blood in its wake. Should he make the wound bleed more? Could he halt the flow once it began?

If only he knew what in God’s name he was doing!

If cleanliness had been the key to the Saracen’s success, he’d follow its dictates completely. Muttering a plea to the Virgin, he pressed on the cut until a bright trickle oozed forth to wash out the wound.

Lower lip gripped tight between his teeth, Nicholas bent closer to Catrin’s back and slipped the slim blade into her flesh next to the shaft. “Don’t move,” he muttered, pushing the knife deeper despite the way her back tensed.

Blood spurted free and ran in a rivulet over her ribs. When he pressed a wad of fabric against her to stanch the flow, she arched her back and screamed.

“Stop, Catrin,” he said. “You must not move.” She continued to squirm, so he pinned her down and swiftly extended the cut. He tried to work the arrow loose, but ’twas difficult to grasp the short, slick shaft—he’d cut off too much, leaving scarcely enough to grab hold of.

Catrin continued to writhe beneath him, mumbling and moaning as he fought to remove the arrow. Her struggles he could deal with, but to hear her distress…He snatched up one of his leather gauntlets and stuffed it between her teeth.

The arrowhead ground against bone, feeling much the same as ramming a blade into someone’s gullet. Cursing, Nicholas took up the knife once more and, still tugging at the shaft, widened the cut until the arrowhead broke free.

He blotted away the worst of the blood and pressed on the cut as he heated the needle in the flames, nearly scorching his fingers in the process. When he turned back to Catrin he found her staring at him, her eyes awash with tears. But he saw no recognition there, only anger and pain.

’Twas just as well she didn’t recognize him—her opinion of him had been low enough before the day’s events. Christ only knew what she’d think of him after this.

It mattered not, so long as she survived.

Squinting, he focused his still-blurry gaze upon the oozing wound. “Pretend ’tis a shirt,” he ordered himself as he stabbed the needle into Catrin’s flesh. She gave a muffled shriek. “Not bloody likely.”

He set the stitches with mechanical precision, doing his best to ignore the way she flinched with each jab of the needle. By the time he finished he was nearly sitting on her legs to hold her down, and still she squirmed beneath him.

She must have the strength of a warrior to put up such a struggle. And he could well imagine the litany of abuse she called down upon him. At least he couldn’t understand any of it.

Still sprawled over her, he made short work of removing the third arrow. Hands shaking, he wet a rag in the bowl of water and swabbed away the last of the blood. The warm cloth seemed to soothe her, and she ceased her struggles.

He ventured a glance at her face; eyes closed, mouth silent, she seemed to have finally reached the end of her endurance. He made swift work of bandaging the cuts, then tugged her shift and tunic up over her back with a sigh of relief.

Legs shaking, Nicholas went to check on Idris. The dog slept, apparently resting comfortably despite his injuries. He decided to leave him thus till morning.

His own wound could be left till then, as well, but he had to get out of his hauberk. Having slept in it before, he knew he’d regret doing so again. He bent at the waist and tugged the neckline over his head to allow the weight of the mail to pull it off.

A wave of dizziness washed over him. Arm aflame, head reeling, Nicholas pitched forward onto his hauberk and knew no more.