“Is that for me to drink to ease the pain when you stab me with your needle?”
Startled from her lustful thoughts, Nicola looked up from the wound, seeing that he was indicating the half-full bottle ofwhisky Janet had left sitting next to the bed. She shook her head and went back to work.
“It is to cleanse it before I stitch it so you will not come down with a fever,” she replied.
His eyes never left her face. “If you just left it the way it was, you’d be finishing what Edward started out to accomplish.”
She met his gaze that time, noting the twinkle in his eye. The normally deadly-serious man was actually toying with her. But she was in no mood to tease or be teased.
“I can just as easily go back to the great hall and tend those men who are truly injured,” she said irritably. “If you sincerely wish for me to let Edward’s murder attempt take its course, then I can abide by your wish.”
“Do what you feel is right, of course.”
He wouldn’t rise to her mood. He maintained an even, steady tone with her. Nicola didn’t know why she was irritated with his attempt at lightheartedness; perhaps it was because she had been so worried and he wasn’t. He wasn’t concerned for his injury in the least. She wasn’t sure how to deal with his nonchalance. Sighing, Nicola picked up the bottle and held it out to him.
“You may as well drink,” she said. “Mayhap it will indeed ease your pain.”
He reached out, slowly, to take it from her. His fingers moved across hers, briefly, but he might as well have pinched her from the way she jumped. He took a long, deep drink, smacking his lips with satisfaction.
“Irish whisky,” he commented.
“You know it?”
“Aye,” he set the bottle to rest on the bed beside him. “Another drink and I can tell you what city it was aged in and, more than likely, by a professional or an amateur.”
He took another drink. “Well?” she said.
He licked his lips as he looked at her. “Dublin. Professional. Aged in a beechwood cask as opposed to oak to temper the flavor.”
Nicola’s eyes twinkled with some mirth at a man who could so easily identify an alcoholic drink. “There was a time when ale and wine were sufficient enough,” she said. “Now whisky fills the flask of every soldier from Kent to Northumbria.”
“It takes less to get a man drunk.”
There was a knowing gleam in her eye. “Including you?”
“I do not get drunk,” he replied, almost stiffly. “It dulls a man’s senses. And I must have all of mine.”
“You are different from the rest, then?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that most men look forward to getting uproariously drunk and care not about their wits. But you do?”
“I do. In my line of work, it is imperative.”
Janet entered the chamber bearing silk thread that was nearly transparent and a bone-sharp needle. Nicola took the items and sent the girl back down to the great hall where there were many men in great need. She could handle le Bec on her own.
Kenton watched her carefully as she prepared for the coming task. She seemed quite unwilling to look at him as she laid out precise measures of thread. But she did look him in the eye, apologetically, right before she doused his open wound with the straight, pure whisky. Kenton didn’t react to the excruciating pain other than to close his eyes a moment. Nicola bent over him and went to work.
Her stitches were tiny and swift. She was temptingly close, biting her tongue as she worked quickly and surely. Kenton watched her face, feeling her breath on his shoulder and her hair against his flesh. It was one of the most arousing moments he could ever recall, having her so close yet knowing it wasinappropriate to touch her, at least at the moment. He wouldn’t give in to his lustful impulses as he had before. She was being standoffish and he was sure their kiss earlier had everything to do with it. He started to get that strange tightness in his chest again and he turned away.
“Is this paining you?” Nicola asked.
He shook his head. “No.”
“I’m almost finished.”
“Good. I need to return to the progress of the siege.”
