Page 3 of Slow Burn Romance

He did not reply. He lay back against the tree again, closing his eyes. His strength was draining and Jordan guessed that his death was swiftly approaching.

As she gazed at him, she began to feel pity for the knight. He was perhaps ten years older than her, and was still a young man. He was very big with enormous hands and big, muscular legs, and his facial features, although surrounded by mail and a helm, were chiseled and handsome. She was coming to feel sorry that his life would soon be over from a wound sustained in a senseless, meaningless skirmish.

A thought occurred to her; she knew that she could make his last hours more comfortable with what she carried in her satchel. The healing items were meant for her own people but she simply could not leave the knight and not help him. It was her soft heart tugging at her, concern for another. She hoped her Scot ancestors moldering in the ground would forgive her treasonous act.

“English,” she said softly. “Would ye let me tend yer wound?”

One eye opened in mild surprise. She could see suspicion in the mysterious depths.

“Why?” he whispered. “So you may finish what your clansman started?”

“Nay,” she answered, although she didn’t blame his distrust. “So that I may make yer last hours a bit more bearable.” When he did not reply, she frowned at him. “I promise I wunna intentionally hurt ye. Ye can bleed to death or ye can let me help ye; ’tis all the same to me.”

After an eternal pause, he reached up with effort and tore the helmet from his head, revealing dark wet hair plastered to his pasty head. Clumsily, he began to remove his armor.

Jordan closed the distance between them with small, rapid steps and knelt beside him. His hands were heavy and unwieldy and she batted them away, finishing the job of the removal herself. She fumbled a bit with his cuisses, or thigh armor, because the wound was along the edge of the armor where it met his breeches. A vulnerable point, she noticed. She felt a little apprehensive being so close to an English warrior and deliberately avoided his gaze. She could feel his eyes on her, watching every move she made. Her palms began to sweat as she stripped off the remainder of the protective gear.

As Jordan bent over her work, her pink tongue between her teeth in concentration, the knight studied the fine porcelain features and the huge round eyes of the most amazing green color. He could see it even in the moonlight. Her eyebrows were arched ever so delicately, and her lashes were long and dense. She had stopped biting her tongue long enough for him to see that her lips were soft and sensuous.

Her hair licked at him as she moved and the scent of lavender was unmistakable. Her hair was dark blond, straight and silky. Every time she threw the satiny mass over her shoulder to keep it out of her way, he was greeted by the perfume of the purple buds and found it utterly captivating. Even as he stared at her, he could not believe this woman was a Scot; she embodied everything he had always believed they were not. In fact, it took him a moment to realize that she was physically perfect. If God himself had come to him and asked him to describe his perfect mate, he would have described Jordan feature for feature. It was an odd realization.

Unaware of the knight’s thoughts, Jordan glanced up and met his gaze and was faced with the most fascinating shade of hazel she had ever seen. Yet for his size and his strength, and the fact that the man was obviously a seasoned knight, they were the kindest eyes she had ever encountered. Unnerved, she tore her eyes away and continued her good deed with draining concentration. The man intimidated her in too many ways to comprehend.

With the armor off, Jordan could see the wound in his thigh was substantial. He had packed linen rags on it in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but he had quickly become too weak to do much more. It was a deep, long gash that ran nearly the entire length of his long thigh. She tore his breeches away in an attempt to have a clear field to tend the wound, noticing that his legs were as thick as tree trunks.

Jordan picked bits of material and mail from the wound, wiping at the clotted blood and dirt that had invaded the area. The further involved she became, the more she could see that the gash was all the way to the bone.

Jordan retrieved her bag and began to pull out her aids: whisky, silk thread and needle, and strips of boiled linen.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the open whisky bottle at him and keeping her eyes on the wound. “Drink this.”

He accepted the bottle from her and he took several long swallows. She took it back from him and set it beside her, pausing with a furrowed brow and thinking that even if he survived the wound, he would surely lose the leg. She did not know that he was still watching her face intently, marveling at the incredible beauty of it.

The knight, in fact, did not make it a habit of gawking at women. Outside of an occasional whore, he had never had a remotely serious relationship with a woman, although there had been many a female who had tried to woo him. He had a great deal of respect for the opposite sex, but Northwood Castle was his life and a wife did not fit into his plans.

“Will I live, Lady Jordan?” he asked after a moment. “Or should I prepare my greeting for St. Peter?”

She sighed and picked up the whisky bottle. Reluctantly, she met his eyes for a brief moment to convey a silent apology before dousing the entire length of the wound with the burning alcohol.

The knight’s only reaction was to snap his head away from her so that she could not see his face. Not a sound was uttered nor a twitch of the muscle seen. Remarkable, she thought. She had never seen anyone take the pain of a whisky burn so well.

Some women preferred to wash the whisky away with water before closing the wound, but not Jordan. The liquor itself did incredibly well in helping heal wounds and preventing infection, so she left it on and took her threaded needle and began to sew up the laceration. She worked quickly, knowing the pain was unbearable and was continually amazed that the soldier had yet to utter one word. She had seen men scream and faint in similar situations.

When she was finally finished, she laid a strip of clean linen the length of the wound and bound him twice about the thigh to hold it in place; once at the top of his leg and once near the knee. She worked so fast that she knew she was not doing a very good job. She just wanted to be done with her charitable act hurriedly, lest she be discovered. She was increasingly concerned that her aunts and cousins would come looking for her. She knew that jostling him about must be excruciating, yet he had not so much as flinched.

Only when she had stopped completely did he turn his head back to look at her, and she swallowed at the agony she read in his eyes. She found new respect for this Englishman who bore his pain with stoic silence. She began to hope that he would live, although she did not know why. She furthermore wished she had done a better mending job on his leg, taking the time she took with her own wounded.

“I dunna know what good I have done for ye,” she said quietly.

He grasped her soft hand tightly in his clammy one. Jordan stiffened, startled by the action and fighting the urge to yank her hand away.

“You are an angel of mercy,” he whispered. “I thank you for your efforts, my lady. I shall do my best not to betray them.”

His sincerity was gripping. Gently, she removed her hand and put her things away. The half-moon was high above and the scattered clouds had disappeared, bathing the land in a silver glow. Jordan felt as if she had done something good this night, albeit to the enemy and she felt better now than she had earlier when she first descended to the stream. Mayhap fate had led her to the stream purposely to find the soldier and tend him. She suddenly felt like returning to the battlefield to continue with her expected duties.

“I must return, English.” She rose and gave him a long look. “I will forget that I saw ye here.”

She turned to leave but he stopped her.