Page 64 of Laird of Flint
The laird ignored him, adding, “Quickly, Peris.”
Carenza sat up and pressed a hand to her breast. “I pray ye do as he says,” she begged him. Her lips trembled. Her pale brow was etched with care. Her wide eyes were wet and full of fear.
Her urgent entreaty softened his frown. Melted his pride. How could he argue with an angel?
He gave her a reluctant nod.
And now that the excitement was over, now that the fire was out and Carenza was safe, Hew’s pulse could calm at last.
Carenza’s brow creased again as she perused his injuries. “They must be terribly painful.”
“I’ve had worse,” he said, giving her a wink.
This time itwasa lie. Now that the danger was past and the tension flushed from his muscles, the pain seeped into his blood like swift poison.
He was accompanied to the castle by the three of them—the physician, the laird, and Lady Carenza.
By the time they reached the keep, Hew’s arms felt as if they were engulfed in liquid flame.
By the time they entered the laird’s chamber, he had to clench his jaw against the pain.
And by the time he sank down onto the laird’s pallet, sweat began to pop from his brow, chilling his fevered skin and making him shiver uncontrollably.
The physician performed with clean, quick efficiency. His manner was completely at odds with the nervousness he’d displayed when Hew had first questioned him. He opened his leather satchel, pulling forth vials with calm, collected expertise.
“I’ll need a bucket o’ cool water,” he said to the laird. “Butter. Honey. And a cup o’ wine.”
“Ye can have the bottle o’ Bordeaux on the table,” the laird said. He turned to Carenza before he left the chamber. “Stay with him?”
“O’ course.” Carenza drew near, wringing her hands. “How can I help, Peris?”
He handed her a wee vial. “Pour out a cup o’ the wine. Then add three drops o’ this. No more. No less.”
While she fetched the wine, the physician carefully removed the remains of Hew’s leine.
“’Tisn’t too severe,” he proclaimed as he studied Hew’s damaged flesh. “The worst is your hand. Your arms should heal within a day or two. But ye won’t be able to wield an axe for a while.”
When Carenza returned with the wine, the sight of his injuries must have shocked her. She fumbled the cup in her hands and nearly dropped it.
“Does it look that bad?” Hew rasped out.
“Nay,” she rushed to say, turning as red as his arms. After that, she wouldn’t meet his gaze, though her eyes flitted frequently to his bare chest.
“Have him drink it down quick,” Peris said.
Hew hated the way he was shivering. Doubly hated that he wasn’t able to even hold his own cup.
But the compassion in her eyes, the light breeze of her sweet breath upon his face, and the touch of her delicate fingers on his chin as she tipped the cup up for him almost extinguished the fiery pain searing his arms.
The wine did the rest.
Whatever was in the vial, it worked quickly. Once he laid back on the pallet, his shudders subsided. The burning in his arms lessened. And lethargy drained the strength from him.
When Carenza drew near to mop his brow with a cool rag, he looked up at her with glazed eyes and smiled.
She was a mess. She was still clad in the blackened shreds of her leine and the scorched arisaid she’d adjusted for modesty. Strings of her dark hair, strewn with dead grass, had escaped her braid and now hung like a frayed mantle over her shoulders. Her hands were filthy. Her pendant was askew. Ash smudged her perfect nose and painted her rosy cheek.
But his last thought as he drifted off to a land of oblivious euphoria was that he had never seen a more beautiful woman.
