"I wasnae sneakin’. The door was open."
"Because the healer is in the village. Which means ye kent she wouldnae be here tae see ye rummagin’ through her supplies."
Liliane's chin lifted defensively. "I wasnae rummagin’. I was lookin’."
"Fer what?"
"Daes it matter?"
"Aye. It daes." He crossed his arms. "Ye're in the healer's chamber, alone, reachin’ fer jars ye have nay business touchin’. So I'll ask again, what were ye lookin’ fer?"
Her eyes flashed with anger. "Perhaps I was lookin’ fer somethin’ tae poison yer breakfast with."
"Were ye?"
"Nay." She knelt to collect the broken glass, her movements jerky with irritation. "Though it's temptin’."
Tòrr crouched beside her, his knee brushing the edge of her skirts. The movement brought them eye-to-eye, close enough that he could see the tiny flecks of gold in her hazel eyes.
“Let me help,” he said quietly.
“I dinnae need yer help.”
“Ye never dae. Yet here ye are, bleedin’ again.”
She glanced down at the thin line of red blooming on her fingertip. “It’s naethin’.”
“It’s never naethin’ with ye.”
When he reached for her hand, she jerked back instinctively.
“I said I can manage.”
"It needs cleanin’," he said.
"I'll clean it meself."
"Will ye? Or will ye ignore it and risk infection out of sheer stubbornness?"
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm nae stubborn."
"Ye're the most stubborn woman I've ever met." His voice carried that quiet, iron weight she was learning to recognize. “Give me yer hand, Liliane.”
For a heartbeat she hesitated, their faces so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. Then, with reluctant grace, she extended her hand.
The cut was shallow but clean. He held her wrist carefully, his calloused fingers steady against her softer skin. She smelled of crushed herbs and something faintly sweet, and when she bit her lip against the sting, his gaze snagged on the movement.
For one reckless moment, he remembered the taste of her mouth beneath his, the way she’d gone still against him, shocked, breathless. A pulse of heat curled low in his gut, sharp and unwanted.
He cleared his throat, forcing his attention back to the cut as if it demanded all his focus.
“It’ll heal fine,” he muttered, though his voice was rougher than he intended.
As he cleaned the cut, their proximity forced an intimacy neither was ready for. Her hand was small in his, delicate despite the calluses he felt on her palm. Those were hands of someone who'd done more than just needlework.
"What are these from?" he asked, running his thumb over one.
She stiffened. "None of yer concern."
