The heat in her face intensified, and she clutched the mortar and pestle as she rose from her stool to make her way to the pallet. Alban coughed lightly and mumbled something about checking on the other injured. Then he was gone, leaving her alone again with Gray.
“I was just finishing with this poultice for your wound, my lord. It should speed the healing and take away some of the pain from the burn.” She tried not to look directly at Gray, now that she stood less than an arm’s length from him.
“And this?” he asked, indicating the cut on his shoulder. “I see you have your needles at the ready. Will you be stitching it so I may keep what little remains of my blood inside my skin?”
Catherine hazarded a glance at him, uncertain whether or not he mocked her. He appeared in earnest, his focused gaze eliciting another flush of heat in her cheeks. She turned away to fuss with a new strip of linen, soaking it to prepare it for the poultice.
“Aye, my lord. That wound was not so urgent as the other, though I did intend to close it as well.”
“And glad I am that you’ll be using a method other than scorching to heal it.”
Catherine’s mouth tightened as she sat next to him. She stared down at the cloth as she smeared the ointment over it. “Truly I did not wish to pain you with the iron, but I saw no other way to stop the bleeding. And if the flow continued, I was afraid that you might—” She paused in mid-sentence when his finger gently caught under her chin and lifted, raising her gaze to his.
“Nay, truly, my lady, I wish to thank you for your care of me. The hurt you inflicted was not so much.”
“’Twas enough to make me regret the giving of it.”
“Aye,” he murmured. “And yet I’ve suffered much worse at other hands. My own included.” He released her chin and looked away.
His enigmatic words intrigued her, at some level even frightened her. That he’d been wounded before seemed likely, considering the battles he’d fought as a knight. But when he spoke now he seemed to recall a particular suffering, a defined instance in his memory, and she couldn’t help but wonder at the cause of it.
“My lord?” She waited, uncertain whether he intended to speak further on the subject. But he only shook his head and breathed deep, which made him wince as the movement stretched his wound.
“Mayhap you should apply the poultice now, lady, and stitch the other gash. I’ll not be lying abed long.”
“You’ll not be rushing about anytime soon, either. The wounds need time to heal, and I’ll not have you tearing them open to taint and fester.” As she spoke, she began to wrap the strip of linen around his waist, centering the poultice over the burn. She punctuated the last of what she said by yanking his bandage tight, drawing another wince from him.
“I’ve a feeling that if a festered wound didn’t lay me low for stirring too soon, you would, lady,” he answered with the hint of a smile. “Do you always nurse those in your care so aggressively? You’re like a mother hen, pecking at her chick when it gets too near the stable cat.”
“Aye, well when you’re used to tending chicks who are always skinning their knees and romping underfoot—” Catherine abruptly swallowed the rest of her words and stood to fetch her needle.Heavens above. How could she have been so foolish as to let such a memory slip?
Gray remained silent, though she could tell that he studied her. She tried to keep her hands from trembling as she knotted the end of the thread, in preparation to stitch him.
“So you’ve had children in your care, then? I didn’t realize you—” His questioning came to an abrupt end when she jabbed the needle into his shoulder.
“Aye. My niece and nephew often stayed with us.” She tried to sound unconcerned. Pulling the stitch through, she tugged it secure and then stabbed again, before pausing. “Are you certain that you don’t wish to drink some of the herbed wine the serving boy brought? ’Twill at least dull the sensation while I finish the stitching.”
“Nay,” Gray muttered, obviously rigid with discomfort. She was relieved that her effort to divert his attention, deplorable as it was, had born fruit.
“I prefer to keep my wits intact,” he added. “’Tis why I don’t partake of strong drink. Why I haven’t for nigh on seventeen years.”
Catherine contained her surprise. Most men she knew relished their ale and wine, preferring intoxication to almost any other pastime. She fixed Gray with an intent look. “Do you also object to herbed cider, or water that’s mixed with healing extracts?”
“Nay,” he admitted, “as long as the herbs don’t dull my wits. ’Tis the clouding effects of alcohol that I won’t abide.”
“Then here.” Letting the needle swing from the thread in his shoulder for a moment, Catherine sprinkled some of the crushed marjoram and fennel into a water vessel, then added a few dollops of nettle juice. She swirled it together and handed it to Gray. “Drink it down in one gulp. ’Twill ease the pain, as well as speed the healing inside. The taste would improve with honey, but if you quaff it quick enough, it will not matter.”
He drank it down with a grimace, coughing and shaking his head once it was swallowed. “Saints, but the stuff wouldn’t taste better if you poured an entire bowl of honey on it. I’m beginning to think that you enjoy tormenting me, what with the iron, then the needle, and now this.”
Catherine suppressed a smile. “And you, my lord, sound more like an unruly boy than the fierce warrior you showed yourself to be on the field today.”
“I doubt that anyone will even think me skilled in the fundamentals after today’s spectacle.” He looked at her askance, and she was relieved to see that his good humor hadn’t completely disappeared. “’Tis not my custom, you know, to swoon at a tourney.”
“Aye, but ’twas not a lack of skill that led to that.” She paused, weighing her next words carefully and knowing that while she might not be able to tell Gray the truth of why she’d asked his restraint against Eduard, she could at least try to make some amends. “I—I wish to beg pardon for Eduard’s cowardice against you, my lord. ’Twas his weakness and my interference that led to your wounding, and I regret it most heartily.”
When she mentioned Eduard’s name, Gray’s eyes darkened. Once she finished, he remained quiet for a while. Not a muscle of his face moved. Finally he answered, “Then don’t compound the error by taking on the guilt of it. You may have asked me to spare your brother’s life, but ’twas I who chose to comply. Let us agree to leave it at that.”
She nodded. Turning her attention back to his shoulder, she finished stitching the cut; in silence she knotted off the silk and cut the needle free. Gray cleared his throat but seemed lost in his own thoughts, so she continued to prepare a cloth to wash away the dried blood around the stitching. When she finished cleansing his shoulder, she moved to the rest of his torso, wiping the stains away with smooth strokes.
