He reins in fully and turns his head to look at me.
“Are you hurt?”
Concern shines in his eyes as he assesses me. I taste blood and glance down at my hands. Scratches and deep red lines mark them where branches tore into my skin. I can onlyimagine what my face looks like.
“I think I’m all right,” I say, my voice shaking. “My horse was hit, though.”
“My men will find the mare. Don’t fret.” His voice is calm, and somehow the panic raging in my chest begins to ease. “Let’s sit down over there so I can tend to your injuries.”
He guides the stallion toward a row of birch trees and dismounts with easy grace. I hadn’t realized how tall he was—or perhaps I have simply never stood this close to him before.
He strokes the stallion’s neck, feeds it an apple, then turns back to me.
“Will you allow me to guide you down?”
I nod, offering a small smile.
His hands settle at my waist, firm and sure, and he lowers me to the ground as though I weigh nothing at all. I sway just a fraction, the adrenaline still flooding my body has turned my bones to liquid.
“Can you walk?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, laughing weakly. “I truly am all right.”
We sit on a fallen tree trunk. Ashford rummages through his saddlebag and produces clean cloth, a small bottle of clear liquid, and a piece of gingerbread.
I laugh. “What in the devil do you carry in that bag?”
He flinches. It is slight, but I notice it.
“This isn’t my first hunt gone wrong, m’lady,” he says curtly. “The alcohol is to clean your wounds. The cloth to dry them. The gingerbread is for your nerves. Trust me, you’ll be grateful once the shock wears off.”
“All right, Doctor Ashford,” I say. “I’ll gladly accept the gingerbread.”
I hold out my hand. He looksstraight into my eyes as he carefully places the gingerbread in my palm.
Up close, I notice absurd things. His unruly, wind-tossed hair. The faint lines at the corners of his mouth. That his eyes are two different colors. One is dark brown, while the other looks more greenish. It is almost comical that my mind clings to such details now, as though they might anchor me.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t realize you were so close to the hunt until I heard you scream.”
“And why would you?” I reply, too quickly. “I am not your responsibility.”
The words come out harsher than I intend.
“Perhaps not,” he says more gently. “But your father would still be disappointed in me if he knew I was nearby and you nearly died.”
He uncorks the bottle with his teeth, wets the cloth, and moves closer.
“This will sting. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”
“I’m ready,” I say, though my throat tightens.
He starts at my hairline, where a branch has left a deep cut. When the alcohol touches my skin, the pain flares white-hot, and I gasp, tears burning behind my eyes.
“Shh,” he murmurs. “I am almost done. You are doing well; these wounds will heal nicely. Close your eyes, cry if you need to. But you will be fine, I promise.”
His voice is deep and soothing, as if he is speaking directly into my mind. I obey, breathing through the pain.
“That’s the last of it, Your Majesty,” he says, suddenly jumping up and quickly stepping back.
