Page 63 of The Thornwyck Rose

Seren allowed Margot and Isolde to enter. They placed the items on the table near Erik. Isolde immediately left and stood outside the council chamber. Margot remained inside, but near the door.

Even though they had spoken little, words came easily with Erik. She wished they could share more. Wished they could speak every day without someone listening.

Seren walked toward him. His mouth slightly gaped, but he closed it as soon as it dropped and averted his eyes to the hearth.

“The first knight I tended to was wary of my technique,” Seren said with a smile to fill the silence. “I had to assure him, my father allowed me to stitch up my brothers all the time, and my brothers had access to the best care in all of northern Wales.”

“Then your hands are favored as well as your prayers,” Erik said.

“Perhaps,” Seren whispered as she stooped to examine the gash. It looked like the chain mail had kept him from losing his arm, but the hit had ripped open all the skin. The stitch would have to go deep to knit the flesh together.

“You are going to lose mobility of this arm for a while,” Seren said.

“I’d believe it,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder at her.

She handed him a goblet of wine. “You’ll need this.”

He drank it all in one gulp and rolled his head with a wince and a grunt. He blew out a breath through his teeth.

“Heal me, Valkyrie,” he whispered in a croon.

A lump grew in her throat, but she swallowed it down and asked the question that had plagued her since he’d first said it.

“Did you call all the wives ‘Valkyrie,’ Commander?”

Her fingertips tapped the skin to find good flesh before beginning, debating which answer she hoped for.

“I’ve called no one Valkyrie except for you, Lady Seren,” he said. His jaw clenched as if he hated spewing the truth.

Her head drooped, and she allowed herself to smile.

“I see,” she barely forced out. Perhaps she should not have asked the question. She had nearly convinced herself that she was no one special to him and that he’d called all the prior wives names of honor in his faith.

She bit her lip and begged herself not to see it for more than what it was: a gesture of respect, not a declaration of love.

Her gaze fell to the simple silver band on her ring finger. She was Lord Henry’s wife, and she could not pine for another. God himself said it was wrong to do so.

She grabbed the vinegar-soaked cloth from the bowl and wrung it out. With gentle hands, she tried to make his pain as little as possible. She stroked the pagan stain on his back to clean the blood before she sewed.

“This is the second time I have been indecent in front of you, milady. I apologize.” He ducked his chin as if he wereashamed of his runes.

“I’ve already requested you not to apologize, do you remember?” she asked, her gaze trailing the length of his arm.

“Yes, milady, I remember,” he said, his eyes fixed on the hearth.

She wiped up a little more blood off the image of the spearhead within a circle on his shoulder.

“I’ve never seen such artistry stitched into flesh, Erik,” she whispered and took a chance, guessing what he was feeling. “You never have to feel ashamed of them in front of me, though Lord Henry may mock you for them.”

Erik said nothing, but met her gaze. His eyes were wet. It undid the calm facade she had forced herself to wear.

Her hands shook, and her heart wouldn’t stop palpitating in her chest. It had happened once before when she was with child. Air was hard to take in.

“I . . .” she began. “My stitch . . . it will cross some of your marks.”

“Then you will give me a true mark of a warrior,” Erik said.

She picked up the threaded needle and held the tip over the flame.