“Did ye truly think I’d linger on a pallet in my tent?”
Was he amused? It was hard to tell. “Your wound must pain you.”
“I care little about pain. It is always a good day when one awakens alive,” he said. “Will ye break bread with me, mistress?”
“I am not hungry.” She did not wish to share a breakfast with him. “We have been delayed as it is. We must get to our kin in Nairn.”
He smiled. “Ah, aye. Ye have been summoned there, to heal someone, and ye cannot spare a moment to eat.”
She knew she flushed. “It would be best to simply go on.”
His brow lifted. “But ye had the time to attend my wound.”
She could not help staring at him and their gazes locked.
“I will learn why ye nursed me, mistress, just as I will learn why ye truly go to Nairn,” he said.
She had little doubt he would soon learn all that she hid from him and she was so tempted to blurt out the truth. Instead, she cried, “I do not even know, myself, why I wished so desperately to save you! I saw the terrible treachery, my lord, and I ran to your aid without thought!”
He started, his regard probing.
Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire. “That is the truth, my lord.”
For one more moment he studied her. “Come eat.”
She decided not to argue, aware that he had not forbidden her from leaving. Alana glanced toward their tent, but Eleanor had yet to come outside. She followed him closer to the campfire, took the bread he offered and quickly ate it. He continued to stare and it made her uncomfortable.
When she was done, she looked up and saw him flexing his left arm in the sling, wincing. He seemed pale beneath his days’ growth of beard.
She knew her stitches would hold, if he undertook no abnormal activities. But men died from infected battle wounds more often than not. “Maybe I should look at your wound before I leave?” Alana heard herself say.
“So yer concern for a stranger in a time of war remains.”
She did not want him to die, and she had already said as much—she would not say so again, especially when such desire was insensible.
He gestured. His tent had been taken down, so she followed him to a large wagon, one containing a catapult. He leaned against it, shaking his fur from his wounded shoulder. Their gazes danced together, his appraisal this time slow and steady.
She looked away, deciding that she preferred it when he looked at her with suspicion, not with interest. She pushed the plaid farther back over his shoulder. She did not look up at him as she untied the sling, but she felt his gaze upon her face. She had the feeling he was scrutinizing her every feature as he had done the past night. It made her terribly uneasy.
She removed the sling, then pulled open the neckline of his tunic. Someone had secured the bandage. She lifted an edge, and was instantly relieved. “You are healing nicely.”
“I have been well nursed,” he said softly.
Aware of the heat in her cheeks, Alana tucked the linen back into the wrappings, and covered it with his tunic. She helped him put his arm back in the sling and tied it. But there was no avoiding contact—no avoiding the feeling of male muscle and bone. “I hope you will rest and heal for a few days, at least. I do not wish for my efforts to have been in vain.”
“War waits fer no man.”
She took a step back, to put some distance between them. “Surely you will rest for a few days.”
“I am a soldier. I have no time to rest, mistress.”
She was in disbelief. “Then you might die, for you can hardly wield a sword with such a wound.”
He began to smile. “I will wield more than one sword today, my lady, I will wield two.”
Alana gasped. “How can you raise a sword in your left hand? And you think to fighttoday?”
His smile vanished. “Why did ye come to help me yesterday? The truth, mistress.” Warning filled his tone.
