Page 97 of Laird of Flint
Now she was doubly glad her father had taken Peris with him.
An axe-wielding Viking warrior might be accustomed to using intimidation to get what he wanted. But putting pressure on Peris would have been a mistake. Especially now, when they were so close to an answer.
Peris was as dangerous and impulsive as an anxious hound. Shivering in a corner one moment. Snarling and biting the next. Why else had he tried to solve his nervousness with something as drastic as murdering Hew?
If Hew started squeezing him for information, Peris would become even more wary and thus more threatening.
This part of the investigation was far better left in her hands. She would go to the monastery later today to deliver her tithing. And she’d employ a woman’s touch to coax useful information from Peris’s allies.
Meanwhile, she intended to use her woman’s touch for something far more enjoyable.
“Come,” she beckoned. “Ye can question him when he returns.” Hopefully by then she’d have confirmed the identity of the second culprit.
She’d already placed the honey-butter mixture, linen strips, and a basin of clean water in the solar. She’d also told the servants she wanted privacy. So it took a great deal of willpower not to slam the door closed behind her, thrust herself into his arms, and immediately resume kissing where they had left off last eve.
She desired him. There was no doubt about that. But she found shecaredmore about him than shelustedafter him. And right now he needed healing.
“Sit there,” she said, indicating a chair near the window.
She opened the shutters to let in the light, filtered through a solid bank of white clouds.
Then she placed the basin on a nearby table and knelt before him.
She took his hand and carefully lowered it into the cool water, soaking the linen to loosen it from the blisters. With gentle fingers, she unwound the wrapping.
“I hope this doesn’t hurt ye.”
“’Tis fine.” He was probably lying, she decided, for she could hear the strain in his voice.
“There,” she said as she removed the last of the bandage. His palm was still raw and red, dotted with plump blisters. But the wound wasn’t infected. “’Tisn’t too bad, aye?”
He didn’t respond, and when she looked up at his face, she could see his mind was elsewhere. His eyes were glazed, like the diaphanous silk of a veil that barely concealed what was beneath. But she could see what was beneath.
Arousal. Desire. Yearning.
Her gaze lowered to his slightly parted lips.
Then his gaze lowered to her bosom. She realized, kneeling before him, her leine had gapped away enough to display the upper curve of her breasts.
She should have gasped in outrage. Adjusted her garment. Scolded him roundly for leering at her.
But she didn’t. Here, alone with him, she didn’t have to keep up pretenses. Though her own brashness made her blush, she had to admit she enjoyed having him look at her that way. As if he wanted to tear off her clothes and ravish her.
Of course that wasn’t going to happen. Shewasa responsible person, after all.
But she fully intended to kiss him again. After she finished bandaging his hand.
Pretending she didn’t notice his stare, she placed the crock of the honey-butter mixture on her lap.
“Give me your hand.” Her voice was breathy and alluring, even to her own ears.
He rested his hand atop hers, dwarfing it. How different from hers it looked. There was great strength in the sinews. The sun had weathered his skin. And calluses from wielding an axe thickened his fingers. She wondered how that hand would feel caressing the top of her breasts.
She took a deep, settling breath and tried to clear her mind. Then she dabbed her fingers in the honey-butter and began spreading it gently over his blisters.
He made no complaint. But she wasn’t sure if that was because it didn’t hurt or because he was distracted by the view. She didn’t dare look to see if his eyes were still fixed on her bosom.
The silence was becoming uncomfortable, so she explained, “The butter is to keep the moisture in. The honey helps to keep the wound clean.”
