“It keeps us alert,” he argued.
“It keeps ye dead,” she shot back.
Her fingers shook, and she clenched her jaw to steady herself. She had cleaned cuts on calves and lambs, had wrapped torn knuckles and scraped knees, had pressed cloths to children’s brows while fever raged.
But never a wound like this. And never on her own husband.
Neil watched her hands. “I am nae a bairn, ye ken,” he huffed.
“Then act like a man who wants to live.” She wrung the cloth tight and drew close.
The scent of soap met the coppery tang that had warned her. She touched the wet linen to the stain and pressed. Neil did not flinch. Heat seeped through the cloth and warmed her palm.
“What happened to ye anyway?” she asked quietly.
He looked past her to the window, which showed only darkness. His jaw set. When he spoke, the words were bitter and sharp, as if pulled from a place with no air. “Ye daenae have to worry about that.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “About what?”
“I ken what ye are thinking, Kristen. I wasnae with another woman.”
“Ye thought I was with another man when ye arrived,” she whispered, her eyes burning. “Ye looked at me last night and saw a faithless wife. So excuse me if I daenae have full faith in ye.”
He did not respond. The candle wavered, and the shadow along his cheek deepened.
Kristen would not beg for gentleness or flee this room again. Not tonight. Not ever.
She set the cloth on the table, before her fingers found the tie at his collar. “Take it off so I can see.”
“Nay,” he said. “Stop challenging me.”
She did not step back. “If ye want obedience, ye should have come home five years ago.”
He lifted his hand as if to brush hers away, but she stood her ground.
“I must do this, whether ye like it or nae,” she pressed. “I daenae fear ye enough to want ye dead.”
Something loosened in his face. He dropped his hand and exhaled slowly, then reached for the tie. He tugged it loose and pulled the shirt over his head before dropping it to the floor.
His chest rose and fell as old burn scars curved over his ribs and shoulders in pale ridges that tugged when he breathed. He was broad, and spare, and stronger than the story she had let grow in her head.
“Look yer fill,” he rumbled.
“I am looking for what to treat,” she said, her voice steady.
If he didn’t believe her, he didn’t show it.
She wet the cloth again and found the wound high at the shoulder where seam met skin. The cut was shallow and long, the kind that bled to make a fool of a sleeve. She cleaned it with careful strokes until the water ran clear.
Neil was watching a point on the wall.
“Hold.” She pressed the cloth. “There.”
He did as she told him, his long fingers steady on the cloth.
Kristen reached for the salve jar and opened it. Ever since Finn had scraped his knee a few months ago, she had asked the maids to keep a salve jar and some bandages in every room. That way, an emergency would not have them running from room to room for aid.
A clean scent rose from the jar, sharp with pine and something bitter. She scooped a little with her fingers and rubbed it on the wound.
