“Should milady have any further need of me for anything,” Emily cringed at the way Alys stressed the word, “please don’t hesitate to call.”
“I won’t, Alys.” Emily gave her a pointed glare. “Thank you.”
Alys made one last kissing face at Lord Draven, then rushed off to the keep.
Embarrassed to the core of her soul, Emily picked up the towel and dampened a corner of it.
“Tell me, milady, is your maid possessed of some strange demon that makes her dance about so?”
Emily wrung out the towel. “If the demon has a name, milord, I fear we must call it mischievousness.”
She bathed Lord Draven’s wound. His brow was warm to her touch and unlike her father, Lord Draven didn’t hiss as the cloth scraped his skin. He merely watched her with an intense gaze that seemed to burn her skin.
“Most ladies would beat their maids for such insolence.”
“Well, I am not hypocrite enough to punish her for a sin that is so dear to my own heart.”
His gaze softened. “Aye, I have a feeling that you could well tutor her on the subject.”
Emily smiled. “Comparatively speaking, she is but a novice and I a master craftsman.”
As she brushed her hand through his curls to remove them from his wound, she was struck by how soft his hair was compared to the rest of him. It was like fine silk sifting between her fingers.
“You smell like apples and cinnamon,” he said gruffly.
Emily paused and held the cloth to his brow. “‘Tis a perfume my sister wears,” she whispered. “I always told her she would attract more flies and bees with it than men.”
He frowned. “Then why are you wearing it?”
“I miss her, and wearing it comforts me.”
He looked away.
Licking her dry lips, she retrieved a needle and thread from her basket, then dipped them in the cup of wine.
He sat with his legs wide apart and his hands on his knees. Emily tried not to notice the way he surrounded her as she stepped between his legs to stitch his wound. Nor the fact that her bosom, which drew strangely taut, was level with his gaze.
“I’m afraid this will sting a bit.”
He snorted. “I assure you, milady, I have been stitched enough times not to notice.”
A point he proved well as she completed the first stitch. He remained as still as a statue. Her father would have cursed and jerked, as had any man she’d ever stitched. But Lord Draven just sat there lost in his thoughts as she made three tiny stitches to close the wound.
Stepping away, she retrieved her silver scissors from the basket.
“You have a gentle touch.” His deep voice was strange to her ears.
“Thank you, milord. ‘Tis not in my nature to hurt people.”
She cut the thread, then reached for the bag of herbs she kept in her basket. While she prepared a poultice to keep the swelling down and reduce the chance for infection, she felt him again watching her every move.
“What brought milady to the field this morning?”
Emily mixed her herbs with the wine. “I was wondering why no one was in the hall, breaking the fast.”
“‘Tis not my habit to do so until mid-morning.” He glanced away from her. “I shall have Druce inform the cooks to rise early and have your food prepared for you.”
“Druce?” she asked as she spread the poultice over his brow. His skin was so different from her own. It was smooth, but not delicate. Just masculine.
