Every man in every century apparently attended the same school.
I stood. “Sit down.”
Behind him, Wystan grinned.
Wulfric arched a single brow. “See to the water barrels.”
The grin vanished as Wystan left muttering under his breath.
I pointed at the fallen log beside the fire. “Sit.”
“I have much to do.”
“And I have eyes. We’re both very talented. Sit down.”
With a sigh, he pulled his tunic over his head and sat, giving me full view of a torso that looked like it had been sculpted out of marble.
Gilda made a suspicious noise that might have been a laugh, gathered her spindle, and departed with her pottage as she muttered about the lord’s fine figure.
The cut wasn’t serious. A branch had caught him when his horse shied on the return journey, slicing the outside of his upper arm. Once I cleaned away the blood, I could see the wound was shallow, though long enough to need a bandage.
He watched me rinse the cloth in boiled water that had cooled beside the fire. “You enjoy giving orders.”
“I’m pretty good at it.”
The muscle beneath my fingers tightened as I cleaned the cut. Which was unfair, because I was trying very hard not to notice the warmth of his skin beneath my hand or the way his shoulders filled the dark wool of his tunic, or how many old scars crossed the arm I was holding. There was one near his elbow, another pale line along his forearm, and a small crescent near his wrist. A life written in wounds.
I wrapped the linen around his arm and tied it off.
“There.”
Neither one of us moved. Around us, the camp continued without the slightest concern for the fact that something had changed. Children chased one another between the shelters. An axe struck wood. Someone argued over a blanket. The black hen with offensive feet scratched near the fire.
Wulfric’s voice was quiet. “Is there no one waiting for you where you come from?”
For one terrible second, the forest disappeared as I was back in London at the station. My colleagues, Ellis and Hassan. And Brian’s empty locker. People who would never know where I’d gone, who’d wonder why I hadn’t come back.
“Everyone,” I said.
Something changed in Wulfric’s face as I thought he must have misunderstood. He thought I meant I had no one. I should have corrected him. Instead, I looked down at the linen around his arm and said, “There. Try not to bleed on it.”
His hand closed gently around my wrist before I could step away.
“Darcy.”
He was close enough now that I could see the gold in his beard and the pale scar across his cheek. A moment later he let go of my wrist, giving me every chance to step back. When I didn’t, he bent his head slowly, and when his mouth touched mine, the kiss was gentler than I’d expected.
His lips were warm against mine, careful, until I caught the front of his tunic in my fists. That changed matters as his hands came to the side of my face, rough palms against my cheek, and for one moment there was no war or camp, no thousand years between my life and his. Only Wulfric.
A horn sounded from the southern lookout. One long note then two more which ended the kiss as we stood there looking at each other. My heart was behaving as though it had discovered a previously unknown emergency.
He turned before the last note died, and whatever had been in his face vanished beneath the hard focus of the warrior.
The scout burst through the trees moments later, breathing hard.
“Normans,” he said. “Eighty men. Mayhap more. Close.”
Wulfric’s hand went to his sword.
