Adellis shifted positions to unwind the filthy wrap the hag had placed on her leg. Weary and disgusted with the piss-soaked trews, she kicked the chains between her feet out of the way, stood, and ripped away what remained of the soiled garment. Urinating on her captor had not been one of her better battle tactics. She shook her tunic back down to her knees, then wadded up the ruined trews and tossed them to the open ground beside the tent wall. It was a small area left uncovered by furs or tapestries. She assumed that was where they intended her to relieve herself since a pot hadn’t been provided.
When she turned back to see if they might spare some of the boiled linens and a bandage, neither male had moved. Hendry stood with his mouth ajar. The Scottish bear stared at her as though she were his next meal. Her gaze slid to his lap, and she suppressed a smile. His impressive shaft had risen completely, standing rigid and tall, ready for a more active part in the conversation. She pretended not to notice, priding herself on the mastery of controlling her expressions and keeping her thoughts to herself. It had saved her life many a time.
Instead, she set her focus on the steaming pot, then shifted her gaze to Hendry. “You should clean away the witch’s mud before it dries. It will pain him less that way.”
Hendry blinked as though waking from a dream. “Aye, m’lady.”
She wished her chains could reach the table. That food was getting cold. Cheese. Bread. The nicely browned leg of that bird. Some of the boiled meat. Smother it all in that brown gravy. She licked her lips.
Without a word, her captor scooped up a plate and filled it with what looked like the choicest bits as Hendry struggled to wash his shoulder.
Adellis swallowed hard, trying not to drown in her own saliva. She lowered herself to a cross-legged position on the furs, hoping that once the Scot ate his fill, he might offer her the scraps. After all, she had not only saved his leg but also given him a full viewing of hers. The seduction would take time to work its magic and place her at the table beside him, but eventually, she would get there. For now, scraps would keep her alive.
“Here, lass,” he said, holding out the plate. The dimple in his cheek deepened with his lopsided smile. “Sorry. Yer plate, m’lady.”
“Perhaps lass is not so offensive,” she said, accepting the surprising offer with graceful restraint. She didn’t wish to appear as starving and grateful as a mongrel begging for its master’s favor.
“Nay, it is not meant to offend.” He sucked in a hissing breath as Hendry poured some of the whisky on his shoulder injury.
“Blow on it,” she instructed between bites.
“What?” With the cup of whisky held over the puncture wound on the side of his liege’s leg, Hendry stared at her.
She shrugged. “Blowing on it has always eased the burn when I use it on myself.”
After another doubtful wrinkling of his nose, the lad sloshed more whisky on the puncture, then blew on it until he looked about to drop.
“That is plenty,” she said, sopping up the thick, rich gravy with a crusty chunk of bread. She wolfed down the last of the boiled meat, contemplated licking the plate, then decided against it. They might consider Norwegians as uncivilized as animals, but that didn’t mean she had to act the part. After topping off her meal by draining the tankard of ale her intriguing keeper had placed within reach, she fixed a knowing look at him. “Well? Did it help?”
His amazement clear, the Scot nodded. “Aye, it did.” He tipped his head at her now empty plate, the lopsided grin wider this time. “More?”
“Nay.” She handed him the plate and cup. “But I thank you.” With teasing slowness, she inched her tunic higher, then curled to expose her wounded hip. “But if a boiled cloth could be spared, I would be grateful.”
With his stare locked on the length of her leg, he wet his mouth like a man starving for a last meal.
For some unknown reason, her legs had always been admired by her lovers. She pointed her toes and stretched, making a pretense of examining her wound from a different angle. She had never understood the fascination with her legs. Between them was a man’s ultimate goal.
“Hendry,” he rasped without pulling his gaze away. “Anything the lady needs, aye?”
With an obedient bob of his head, the lad set the crock of honey on the table and hefted the bail of the iron pot containing the steaming linens. He set it beside her and added one of the rolls of clean bandages beside it.
She cleaned the healer’s filth from the wound, gritting her teeth against the pain. The old woman’s muddy herbs always made the gash worse, which was probably why Alrek insisted the crone tend her. He never allowed the hag near any of his injuries. She wrung out a clean cloth and held it up. “Would you soak this in whisky?” she asked Hendry.
The lad dipped his chin as he finished winding a cloth around the Scot’s knee. “A moment, and I will.”
“Here, lass.” Her captor poured some whisky into a bowl and held it out.
Again, his kind helpfulness surprised her as well as set her on edge. What was wrong with this Highland commander? Was this a game for him? Some sort of tactic to throw her off guard; then he would turn cruel and wicked later? Or did he realize she played a game of seduction, and this was his counterattack? Whatever it was, she would go carefully and plan well. Her freedom depended on it.
The burn of the liquid in the already raw gash made her clench her teeth. She fanned away the pain as best she could since she couldn’t twist enough to hit it with a good strong breath.
The mighty Scot went down on his good knee and blew on the wound, creating a burn that had nothing to do with whisky.
“I thank you.” She managed a smile, struggling to maintain her composure. This one wielded gentleness as dangerously as any weapon.
“Honey.” He held out his hand without looking away from her.
Hendry placed the vessel in his hand. “Yer food grows cold, m’lord. I can dress her wound if ye wish.”
