Malcolm's Honor. Jillian Hart

of men.

      She knelt beside the injured knight, clutching the few crocks of herbs she had in her possession. She reached beneath her mantle for the knife and bared it.

      “Look! She has a weapon!” a man cried, and hard fingers imprisoned her wrist.

      “Are you mad? Unhand me!” She looked up into eyes of the one who assisted le Farouche.

      “Nay, I will not have you slit his throat, you witch.”

      “I am more likely to slit yours.” She still gripped her knife and fought with muscle and strength to keep the much larger knight from forcibly lowering her arm.

      “Release her, Giles.” That dark voice was rich with both power and amusement. “I trust her to see to Hugh.”

      “She is a sorceress, sir, if she thinks she can bring back the dead.”

      “He is not dead. Yet. Merely unconscious. Leave me to my work,” Elin demanded, her temper ready to flare. She had not returned for abuse, but to help the knight who had been kind to Alma.

      “I share your suspicions, Giles.” Teasing laughter filled that dark voice. “She does possess the unruly manner of a sorceress.”

      Elin did not think she could hate le Farouche more than she did at that moment. She had given up her freedom and mayhap her life for a hired killer’s jesting? Fury drove her, and she tore her hand free before the knight, Giles, released her, earning his surprise and a nod of approval from le Farouche.

      Fie! As if she needed his approval.

      “You.” She pointed her blade at Malcolm. “Help me with his armor, since you are the only man without work to do.”

      “You despise my idleness?” He chuckled, deep and as intriguing as midnight.

      “That and more. Now, quickly. I must see the wound. Use my blade.” She jabbed the knife toward him, hilt first.

      His big blunt fingers curled over the steel weapon, engulfing it. The thick blade appeared like a toy against his powerful bulk. She shivered and bowed her head. She had watched him slash the life from men she’d known much of her life, men who had protected her while she rode the countryside gathering her herbs.

      Now, gazing up the length of the dark knight, she knew some measure of fear. She felt the weight of his gaze, read the cynical darkness in his eyes, hated the strength in his craggy body. The latent power to kill rested in the thickness of his arms and shoulders, chest and thighs.

      He both took her breath away and made her blood run cold. He was a beautiful masculine form. He was a destroyer of life. The irony beat at her. Truly this was the epitome of man—a beautiful destroyer—and the reason she both feared and hated men so.

      “Do you think me a witch?” she demanded.

      She watched Malcolm’s impassive face, well molded with high cheekbones and a straight blade of a nose. “Nay, else you would have uttered spells and curses when I captured you. Instead, you relied on more honest weapons.”

      Her knife in his hand glinted once in the starlight, illuminating briefly the man kneeling beside her. His head bent with his work. She could see his black hair curling at his nape, could see the fine lines etched around his dark eyes, caused by time and war and too much sun. He was rumored to have fought in the Outremer, as her brother had. ’Twas unbelievable. This dark knight, as frightening as death and midnight, had fought for Christ?

      Impossible. He had the coldness of a mercenary, the mockery of a knave and the… She hesitated, watching him separate the unconscious Hugh from his chain mail. He had the hands of a healer. They were strong and gentle, as if he was well acquainted with death and life. Nay, it could not be. Not this man.

      The scent of freshly spilled blood reminded her of her purpose. She bent to remove the lids of her unmarked crocks and, because of the darkness, sniffed each one. She recognized the sharp smell of marigold. And then the sweet odor of camphor.

      “Blankets.” Giles returned, careful to keep his distance.

      She took the wool coverings he offered and was not amused when the knight stepped back. Out of fear? Revulsion? She noticed now that others did the same, suspicion written on their shadowed faces. The same suspicions she always raised when she acted differently from the obedient baron’s daughter they expected. Fie on them! As if she could sit at embroidery all day without going insane. Men did not do it. Why should she?

      “Do you wish him covered?” Malcolm’s voice drew her back to the task before her.

      Now that Hugh was free of his armor, she could begin her work. “Aye. First I want him off this cold ground. Spread out one length of wool, and you and I together will lift him onto it.”

      “You and I?” He crooked his brow skeptically.

      “How stupid of me to forget my lack of muscle! I will just have to try all the harder. Now, grab his head. Lift him gently on count of three.”

      “Let one of my knights…”

      Elin was used to the foolish beliefs of men. She grabbed Hugh’s ankles firmly, eyeing the stain of blood from his neck to his groin. A mortal wound. Sadness filled her. At least Hugh was unconscious and out of his misery. ’Twas always her patient’s pain that caused her the most sorrow. “One, two, three,” she counted, and lifted.

      As le Farouche hurried to secure Hugh’s head, knights rushed to Elin’s side, obviously doubting her strength. But she lifted Hugh almost as easily as the fierce knight did, and when they laid the injured man on the warm blanket, she saw the approval in Malcolm’s eyes—eyes like night without shadows. Light from the nearby fire chased away the deepest shades of darkness, giving more shape and substance to the knight. Dried blood marked his face in two places, above his brow and on his swollen lower lip. He was injured, but she read in his actions, on his face that he thought only of the one gravely wounded.

      “Looks like a deep gash to his abdomen. ’Tis not good.” She probed the wound with careful fingers. Blood rushed from the raw cavity. She scented severed intestines. “Alma, I shall need bandages and a good light.”

      “Giles,” Malcolm ordered. “Bring a torch.”

      In seconds a torch on a long handle was impaled in the ground at her side, revealing without remorse the neat and terrible wound. “I need to stop the blood first.”

      “There’s naught you can do.” Worry and regret weighed down le Farouche’s words. “Unless you truly are a sorceress.”

      “I have been called worse.” She thanked Alma for the needle and thread. The old woman hurried away to make ready bandages and to check on the water’s progress. “Take my knife and cut his flesh here. And here.” She pulled at the raw skin at the edges of the wound.

      “I’ll not worsen it.”

      “Then I will.” She snatched at the knife he held, but his fingers of steel would not release it. “I do not know if I can save him,” Elin confessed. “I have lost men injured far less seriously. But if I cannot bind the entrails and stem the source of blood, there will be certain death.”

      “You cannot be a healer. No one claiming to cure would carve a deeper wound.”

      “Then let your friend die. But know this, le Farouche— Sir Hugh’s death will not be on my conscience, but on yours.”

      Chapter Three

      Hugh would soon be dead, Malcolm knew, but the maiden’s challenge goaded him. Regardless if he allowed her to continue her ghastly work, his conscience would never forgive this senseless death. He had failed to protect the young knight, a responsibility he felt toward each and every man who fought at his side, who willingly risked their lives at his command.

      The old woman ambled forward with a trencher of steaming water and a pile of torn undergarments. “Shall I soak the bandages?”

      The