Bastard.
“I’ll grab the salve.”
Rifling through the bag, she found the jar at the bottom beside a clean bandage.
When she turned back around, Casrian had seated himself on one of the saddles. “Are you sure you’re up for this? It can wait until later.”
“Light’s almost gone.” She gestured toward the woods, at the darkness closing in with the storm. “And the sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can put your shirt back on.”
He searched her face. “Do you want me to put my shirt back on?”
Her mouth went dry. So dry she couldn’t immediately answer.
“I can probably do it myself,” he suggested mildly.
“You’ll only mess it up.”
She reached for the bandage and started to unwind it, trying to ignore the warmth of his body. When the bandage was off, she set it aside and bent to examine the wound, wishing there was more light. She bent her head so she could get a better look and sniffed. She didn’t smell any rot.
“Everything is healing well,” she said. “The wound’s scabbed over, and there’s no sign of infection. Another day or two and you won’t need the bandage at all.”
Even now, she mostly wanted it bandaged so it didn’t rub on his clothes.
“Good.”
There was a strange tension in his voice and she looked up sharply. “Does it hurt?”
He breathed a laugh. “No.”
She frowned. “What is it then?”
His gaze drifted over her face with a soft searching touch and she realized she was kneeling between his spread legs. Her hands rested lightly on his thighs and her face was only inches away from his bare chest. She’d been even closer a moment ago when she’d bent to examine the wound. Her mouth had been right above that swell in his crotch which, now that she thought of it, hadn’t been quite so large when she’d started.
Was he…did he…?
His hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb touched the corner of her mouth, then fell away. He shook his head, but his eyes stayed locked on hers. “It’s nothing, angel. Finish dressing the wound.”
She pulled away and reached for the waterskin. She cleaned his wounds with the blessed water and then covered them with salve. His breathing went shallow and he held himself very still as she worked. Small muscles twitched beneath her fingertips. She wasn’t hurting him. She’d treated enough wounds to know that. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was attracted to her.
But that couldn’t be right, could it?
He’d called her a drowned rat only a few minutes ago. He’d shucked off her clothes without even looking at her. He’d offered to find her a husband, for God’s sake. She didn’t have a lot of experience with men, but she didn’t think any of those things indicated interest.
She focused on her task, winding the bandage around his torso and trying to ignore the warmth of his skin and the scent rising from him—salt and leather and clover from the oil he used to clean his blades.
Her fingers brushed over a very old scar on his stomach, a four-inch diagonal mark just above his hip. It was paler than the rest of his skin, but barely raised.
To distract herself, she asked, “Where did you get this?”
He glanced down which unfortunately had the effect of bringing his mouth only inches away from hers. “Training.” His eyes were dark in the dimming light, warm and intimate. The corner of his mouth ticked up. “It was before I learned how to retreat. I was very young.”
“How young?”
“Eight, I think. That’s when we start using actual swords. Before that, they only permit us wooden blades. It was a lesson learned.”
“Eight is too young to be training with real swords,” she muttered as she pulled the bandage around him again.
He shrugged. “It’s training that’s served me well over the years. Most boys in the orphanage go into military service in one form or another. It may seem harsh, but it’s kept me alive.”
