To Tame A Warrior's Heart. Sharon Schulze

it with the knife.”

      The water hissed as he plunged the blade into the cup, and a bitter scent filled the air. Talbot wrinkled his nose, but wrapped his fingers about the mug for a moment. Still grimacing, he held up her head and brought the draft to her lips.

      She swallowed the potion swiftly, grateful for even so foul a drink as this. ’Twould not take long before she began to feel the effects…

      She wrapped her fingers about his brawny wrist when he lowered her to the floor. “Best if you wait to take some,” she cautioned. “It might make you sleep.”

      “Will it make you sleep?” He set the cup aside and brushed her tangled hair away from her face. His fingers felt blessedly cool, hard yet gentle against her heated flesh, and his eyes glowed pale lavender against his tanned skin.

      Never had he turned so tender—so pitying—a look her way. She wasn’t sure she cared for the way it made her feel.

      “Perhaps,” she whispered. His pulse beat strong and sure beneath her fingertips, making her more aware of his nearness, his size. She opened her hand and released him. “It matters naught—just do what you must.”

      The light went out of his eyes at her tone and he turned away, leaving her bereft. She rested her head on her arm and watched Talbot’s preparations. Mayhap the potion had affected her after all, for a strange, calm sensation seemed to flow through her body.

      The firelight shimmered upon Talbot’s golden hair and threw the angles of his face into sharp relief. When had he become so appealing? She’d always known he was handsome—she wasn’t blind—but something about him had changed.

      Or perhaps she had changed. The potion blurred her mind, ’twas all. Never had she taken it when fevered… Mayhap it had addled her brain.

      “The needle will do no good if I cannot thread it,” he muttered in Welsh. “Finally,” he cried, his voice rich with satisfaction.

      “What did you say?” She frowned. Had he spoken to her in Welsh before?

      “I said…”

      “Nay.” Her lips curled carefully about the word, slow to respond. “Have you been speaking Welsh?”

      “I have.” He knelt beside her. “Does it matter?”

      “Didn’t know you could.” When he reached out to push her hair away from her face she leaned into his stroking hand like a cat.

      His gaze met hers. Amusement lit the depths of his eyes, their color darkened to indigo. “There’s much you don’t know about me.” He eased her over onto her stomach and helped her rest her face on her folded arms.

      Catrin fought the shadows taking hold of her mind, but the battle was nearly lost. Her limbs felt heavy, weighted. “Can’t think. This never happened to me…” Warm and relaxed, she sank further into the comforting darkness and thought no more.

      Nicholas sent up a prayer of thanks as he watched her slide into sleep. He’d feared she might lay there, awake and watchful, while he sliced away at her flesh—finding fault with everything he did, no doubt. As it was, he felt a fool. A knight—a former mercenary, by God—who had done his best to skewer the enemy at every turn, hesitant to use a knife to save another’s life.

      He had to work swiftly, for he’d no notion how long she might sleep. His fingers felt clumsy as he struggled to knot the thread. Vision gone blurry once more, he closed his eyes and willed himself to stillness. If his hands didn’t stop shaking, he’d do her more harm than good.

      Feeling somewhat better, he took up the cup and returned to the stream. It was full dark now. A crescent moon hovered over the horizon, playing amongst the clouds scudding across the sky. Somewhere in the forest an owl hooted, perfect accompaniment to the howl of the rising wind.

      ’Twas a night made for magic; he hoped ’twould help him in his labors. He knelt beside the spring and slaked his thirst, then scooped water over his aching head. The shocking cold helped clear his senses. Casting a last look around, he went back to the cave.

      Catrin slept on undisturbed while he built up the fire and prepared his meager supplies. Idris remained against the far wall where Nicholas had placed him, his gaze fixed with steadfast devotion upon his mistress. Nicholas shifted the torch to a better spot, then settled down at Catrin’s side.

      He could delay no longer.

      He eased off her cloak, slipping the fabric over the broken-off arrows before turning his attention to the laces on each side of her bliaut. Even after he loosened them, he couldn’t remove her gown, so he cut a neat slit down the back. ’Twas ruined anyway, but he tried to preserve it enough for decency’s sake. Her undertunic laced up the back, simple enough to roll down over her arms to her waist.

      When he loosened her chemise and pushed it aside, still another layer of fabric covered her from armpit to waist. Now he understood why her wounds had not bled freely; this garment—whatever it was—was wrapped so tight, it acted as a bandage.

      “Thank God you’re not awake,” he murmured as he reached beneath her in search of the fastenings. “Please stay that way.” A twist of his hand and he found the knot and loosened it

      Soft, yielding flesh sprang free as he tugged the stiff material apart.

      If she woke now, he was a dead man.

      His fingers brushed against an ample pair of breasts. He grinned. Never would he have imagined that such bounty lay beneath her modest gown.

      Enough! he censured his unruly mind. He was no green boy, to be set off by a bosom, no matter how impressive. Frowning, he turned his attention to working the binding over the arrow shafts.

      The garment had likely saved Catrin’s life, for the stiff fabric had kept the arrows from sinking too deep. And despite the rusty streaks of blood that marred the smooth ivory skin of her back, the wounds had bled little.

      One arrow tip lay half-buried in her flesh, its barbs still exposed—a simple matter to remove. The other two, unfortunately, were embedded to the shaft. He’d have to cut them free.

      Red streaks ran from the crusted wounds, and the flesh around the crudely molded arrowheads felt hot and swollen. Nicholas drew the cloak up over her and sat back upon his heels, cudgeling his scrambled brain for any knowledge he could use.

      There had been an incident in the Holy Land. Though he’d been little more than a lad, he had never forgotten it. A Saracen healer of great renown had traveled with them for a time, bartering his medical skills in return for their protection. Nicholas had watched, fascinated, as he removed a deeply embedded crossbow quarrel from a soldier’s back, a man who survived to die in an angry whore’s bed not six months later, he recalled wryly.

      What had the healer done?

      The Saracen had washed his hands, the knife and the injury, then passed the knife and needle through a flame before he used them. Nicholas had never seen any barber or chirurgeon do that before or since. The bandages had been clean, as well, he recalled, the white fabric a startling contrast to the victim’s sun-browned skin. And after cutting the arrow loose, the healer allowed the wound to bleed freely before he sewed it closed, applied an unguent and bandaged it.

      Though Nicholas had no salve to soothe Catrin’s wounds, the rest he could manage. His spirits lighter, he hacked a wide strip from the hem of Catrin’s chemise and tore it into strips. He set the bowl of water beside the fire to warm, then took the knives outside and scrubbed them—and his hands—as best he could in the icy stream.

      When he returned to the cave he plunged both knives blade-deep into the glowing coals, pausing a moment with hands outstretched to the fire’s warmth while he reviewed his memories yet again. But he remembered nothing more.

      A sheen of sweat dampened Catrin’s brow, and the flush upon her face owed little to the fire’s heat. She hadn’t moved since he’d loosened her clothing. He’d get no better chance than this.

      But