After a time, he rose and thanked Katherine, bidding her a good eventide. He kissed her hand, his fingers lingering upon her wrist. Honora stabbed the bone needle into her embroidery, tossing it in the basket.
“My lady, if you would not mind—“ Ewan sent Katherine a chagrined smile, “I would like to have a word with your sister.”
Katherine shook her head. “Not at all. I will see you on the morrow, Ewan. Remember—near the stables, past terce.”
He bowed his head. “I look forward to it, my lady.”
When the door closed, Honora studied him. “Do you want me to look at your arm?”
He nodded, wincing as he tried to lift up the sleeve of his tunic. The caked blood made it impossible.
“I’ll work quickly,” she promised. Because being alone with him was not wise. She needed to escape his presence, to sort out the strange longings that she shouldn’t feel.
“Your sister looked about to faint. I didn’t want to offend her with my blood.”
Clearly, he felt no such compunctions with her. She resisted the urge to ask what he would do when he married Katherine. Her younger sister was softhearted and loathed blood. “I’ll do what I can. What about your ribs?”
She lifted the tunic away, being careful of his wounds. Upon his upper arm, the angry gash seeped blood. “This will need stitching, I think.”
“My ribs aren’t broken. Bruised, perhaps, but it’s nothing.”
“I can bind them for you, if you like.” Without waiting for a reply, she went to fetch the needle and thread from her basket.
Honora was relieved that her voice sounded so calm, as if he were any other man. He’d never guess how much it unnerved her, seeing his bare skin once again. She could think of nothing else but the first night she’d seen him naked and the way his warm body had felt pressed up against hers.
When she reached his side, she examined the wound. Dirt and dried blood edged the gash. “I need to wash your skin or else the blood may become poisoned.” She spied a ewer of wine and poured it onto the cut, sponging it clean. Ewan let out a hiss of pain.
The skin was torn open, the edges refusing to mend. “You’ll have a scar from this.”
“I know it.” He didn’t flinch when she pricked the needle into his flesh. “But scars are the mark of honor.”
“Or the mark of a man who didn’t move quickly enough.”
“Have you any scars, Honora?”
“None that I’ll show to you.”
His mouth turned upward in a smile, turning intimate. “Every warrior has scars.” With his free hand, he reached out and touched her shoulder. “Even ones you cannot see.”
Especially those, Honora thought. She concentrated on sewing the wound with tight, even stitches. She wasn’t going to think about the intimacy between them or the way she was standing between his thighs. He smelled good, a masculine scent of earth and rain. In the firelight, his green eyes watched her.
“Why did you cut your hair?” he asked.
Honora nearly stabbed herself with the needle. An innocent question, but one she didn’t want to answer. She managed to keep stitching, fumbling for a better response. “It makes it easier to wear a helm.” It was the truth, but not the real reason.
“Sometimes I train with the other soldiers,” she added. “They don’t know who I am.”
“The armor is heavy,” he remarked.
It was, but she’d trained for several years to accustom herself to its weight. Enough that she could stand it for short intervals.
“I can’t wear it for very long before I tire,” she admitted. “But it’s the only way I can fight against the other men without them knowing who I am. I’d lose my skills otherwise.”
“Why is it important to you? Why should it matter, whether or not you can fight?” His gaze turned to hers as if searching for a deeper answer.
She didn’t know what to say. He would never understand. “It matters to me.”
“You’re a woman.” His voice was deep, like a caress. Honora shivered at the sound of it.
