The Stolen Bride. Susan Paul Spencer

any moment.

      “You should not have come out in this heat,” he told her, rising to his feet. “I think you must be unwell, mistress.”

      “Nay, I am quite well, Master Kayne.”

      She set a hand to her shoulder, placing it carefully over the silk cloth loosely draped there, and slowly rose to her feet.

      “I’ll take no more of your time,” she murmured.

      “Allow me to convey you back to the manor house, milady,” Kayne said. “I like not the paleness of your skin.” He reached out to touch her arm. “’Tis easy to see that you are not well, even in this darkness.”

      She flinched at his touch, making a sound of distress, and stepped back.

      “My lady?”

      “’Tis naught.” She pressed her hand against her shoulder as if to press a measure of pain away. “Forgive me, I must go.”

      Head down, she tried to walk past him. Kayne stood in front of her to bar her way.

      “Be still,” he commanded in a low tone.

      He lifted a hand to pull away the delicate cloth draped over her shoulders, and she protested, “Nay, don’t!” and put her own hand up to grab his.

      “Mistress Sofia,” Kayne said patiently, gently prying her fingers free. “I learned from you how to manage an unwilling patient.”

      She looked away as he plucked the square of cloth aside.

      Kayne was silent as he gazed at the brutal red scratches that marred her lovely skin, fighting hard against the fury that rose up at whoever had dared to do this vile thing.

      “These are fresh wounds,” he said at last. “Perhaps made no more than an hour past. And you’ve not yet tended them.”

      She would not look at him, almost as if she were ashamed. “I’ve had no time,” she whispered. He could hear the tears she’d refused to shed heavy in her voice.

      “Nay, of course you have not,” Kayne said more gently. “You, who tends all the ill in Wirth almost before they’ve begun to sneeze. Come.”

      He was careful to take hold of her other arm this time, but she resisted when he tried to pull her toward the nearby door that led from the smithy into his dwelling.

      “I cannot,” she said. “My servants are waiting….”

      Kayne refused to let her go, and firmly, though carefully, guided her toward the door. “They will continue to wait, pleased as they are with each other’s company. They’ll not worry over their mistress for a few spare moments—mistress, I beg you will not struggle so. I mean you no harm, and I’ve no intention of giving you insult, unless I must.”

      She continued to struggle. Kayne bent and picked her up in his arms, easily carrying her past the door and into his home. He set her on the nearest chair he could find, next to a small table upon which an elegantly bound book of verses lay.

      “If you run away,” he told her as he stood, his expression severe, “I will follow you to the manor house and demand of your father who it was visited this vile act upon you. And then I will go and deal with the man.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he added, “I give you my word of honor upon it, mistress, and I have never given it without keeping it.”

      She shut her mouth and glared at him. Kayne moved away to open a chest near his eating table. As he began to dig through it, Sofia said, “You’ve no right to keep me here.”

      “Just as you had no right to force me to your ministrations, when I had no want of them.”

      “Is this some manner of revenge, then?”

      “Nay, not in the least.” He lifted a small pewter jar from the chest before closing the lid. “’Tis merely thankful repayment. Like for like.”

      Rising to his feet, Kayne fetched a bowl and filled it with a small measure of water, then found a clean cloth and tossed it over his shoulder and returned to kneel before her.

      “Sit still,” he commanded. He leaned closer to examine her wounds more carefully, then lightly fingered her sleeve. “Pull this down a little.”

      “There’s no need,” she told him, frowning.

      He gave a light shrug and began to wet the cloth in the basin. “As it pleases you, mistress. The wounds will seep for a time, and your surcoat will be bloodied.” Gently, he began to bathe the long, red marks. “You’ve already lost another surcoat to these grievous wounds, I would wager.”

      “Aye,” she admitted unwillingly. “’Tis soaking now, to remove the stains.” She sighed and began to unlace her gown. “Wait,” she said. He obeyed, and she loosened the top of the garment enough to pull the sleeve partly down. Her cheeks heated with embarrassment as the cloth revealed her shoulder and arm.

      Kayne took note of her distress and kept his gaze impersonal as he continued to press the cloth against her skin.

      “’Tis worse along the back of your shoulder,” he said. “Whoever did this possesses strong fingers. He dug deeply, intending to draw blood.”

      “How do you know?” she asked, searching his face. “Could it not have been accidentally done?”

      He lifted the cloth away, looking her full in the eye. “Was it?”

      She was silent, as if she would not answer, but at last replied, softly, “No.”

      Kayne expelled a slow breath, mastering himself. It was on his tongue to demand who the culprit was, but he knew that Sofia Ahlgren would never reveal such information. She was far too proud to speak of her private troubles. But Kayne had an idea who had committed the crime. Sir Griel Wallace, the lord of Maltane, had made his intentions to wed Mistress Sofia so clear that even a man who never heard the village gossip, as Kayne did not, would know of it. Kayne had met such men as Sir Griel before, and had no doubt that he was capable of every manner of cruelty, even to the woman he desired for a wife.

      He reached to open the pewter box that he’d dug from out of the chest, dipped two fingers inside, and withdrew a small amount of a pale, white ointment. It smelled lightly of mint and honey.

      “What is that?” Sofia asked as he began to apply it to the first angry stripe on her shoulder.

      “Do you not recognize your own healing potion? You used it often enough on my burns, when I suffered them.”

      “Oh, of course. How foolish of me.”

      “You are quick to take care of all others, mistress, but not yourself. ’Tis clear that you stopped the bleeding and changed your bloodied clothes, but nothing more.”

      “I’ve already told you that I had no time. There was so much to take care of in the village. So many chores.”

      “Aye,” Kayne agreed. “I understand very well. It is easier, in such times, to push every thought and remembrance aside. To be done with it and go on.”

      She lowered her head once more. “Yes, that is the way of it. I want never to think of it again. ’Tis foolish, I know, but it is my prayer, all the same, to forget entirely.”

      Kayne smoothed the ointment with a delicate touch over each separate wound, making certain to cover them well.

      “You’ll not forget. ’Tis an impossibility. But, in time, you may come to know that the fault was none of your own, and this will ease the memory.”

      “I do not know that I will ever be able to do so,” she said. “I was headstrong, as I ever am. A grave sin and weakness, just as the priest has so often told me. I brought this affliction upon myself. That is the truth of it, and it cannot be forgiven.”

      At this, Kayne ceased what he was doing and set his other hand beneath her chin, lifting her eyes to meet his own.

      “It