Page 35 of A Spell of Heart & Havoc

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“Well, I think I have to.”

“You definitely don’t. I’m perfectly fine.”

Dove rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re pale as a sheet. Shut up and let me help you, Maerryl, or I’ll have to pin you down.”

The memory of her body pinning me down deliciously in the road rose to mind, and I could tell she was thinking of it too by the flush that touched her lovely cheeks. “No, you shut up,” I grumbled, earning me another eye roll, but I didn’t protest again. Frankly, I didn’t have the energy.

She knelt on the carpet beside my chair, and her gentle fingers slowly peeled the bloodied cloth away from my skin. I squeezed my eyes shut, jaw clenched. Dove was silent, focused on her task. Finally, I felt the cool sting of damp fabric along my collarbone, across my neck, as she cleaned me off. I hissed in pain at one point, and her touch lightened.

Though she also said, “You’d think with all your experience, you could avoid getting cut to bits by one measly bandit.”

“Maybe I should have left you to fend for yourself on that road,” I said dryly.

“Hush, you nuisance. I need to focus.”

“Menace.”

“Ingrate.”

Dove’s hands paused for a moment, and our eyes met. Hers danced with mirth, and something tugged in my chest. Despite the physical agony I was in, a smile rose to my lips. How had I never noticed how funny she was, how quick and clever with her words? I’d rarely encountered anyone with a tongue as sharp as my own—she wielded it well.

I watched her as she worked, the smooth skin of her forearm, the two wrinkles at her brow. She’d abandoned her riding jacket in her rooms—probably because it’d gotten bloodstained too—and the arms of her fine, ivory blouse were rolled up to the elbows. I felt a strange sense of peace, even through the pain. For some reason, gods only knew, I trusted her with this. I trusted her not to hurt me more. Every brush of the cloth against my skin soothed something inside.

This wasn’t like when I’d gotten injured in the past, magically healed and fussed over by the priory’s clerics, or by my parents as a small child. This felt different somehow. Intimate. Strange but lovely all the same.

“I think we should take off your jacket,” Dove murmured. “So I can get to the full cut. See?” She traced next to where the blade had sliced me, trailing into the collar of my leathers. I shivered.

“You’re cold. Hold on, I’ll build the fire up,” she said, moving to stand, but I clutched her wrist.

“No, I’m fine for now. Let’s continue,” I said. My voice sounded strange to my ear, low and hoarse. Her gaze fell to where I held her. I let go quickly, fingers flexing.

Dove nodded, then set to undoing the buckles that held my leathers tightly in place. With some awkward fumbling and muttered cursing from me, we managed to get them off, leaving just my ruined undershirt.

“This will never come out, I’m afraid,” she said, rubbing the bloodied fabric between her fingers.

I shrugged, regretting the movement immediately, and swore again. Her hand hovered over my shoulder as if she wanted to stroke it, comfort me. I suddenly, desperately, wanted her to.

Instead, she refocused on her task. The bowl of water became deeper and deeper red until finally Dove declared that part done. Producing a metal tin from her skirt pocket, she uncapped it and held it up to my nose. Juniper, beeswax, and honey wafted up.

“Choia’s healing salve. She’s been making this for me since I was little. Works wonderfully on all types of scrapes and cuts,” Dove said as she removed a little wooden spoon and began to carefully smear the salve along my skin.

Her caring movements stirred the most intense sensation. It was as if my skin was alight, my whole body, and the room around us devoid of air. I could barely breathe. But I found I didn’t need to. Didn’t want to. I only wanted her.

“And why would a proper lady like you have need of that?” I said, teasing and trying to slow my heartbeat, keep my voice normal.

Her quick smile flashed up at me, there and gone in a moment. My head spun dizzily. She quipped, “Let’s just say, that wasn’t the first time I’ve been bucked off a horse.”

I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. It was taking everything in me not to close the small distance between us, to find her lips again. The smooth press of the salve on my skin was a cooling numbness that brushed away the pain bit by bit. I wanted to feel her fingers on me instead of the spoon, to touch the short slope of her pert nose.

“You were right,” she murmured, locked intently on her work. “It’s not deep, thankfully. Fairly shallow, with an atrocious amount of blood, but you should heal within a few days.”

“Thank you, Dove,” I said. Her eyes flickered up to mine, once, twice, then held. She looked as if she was trying to figure something out, a surging curiosity I’d never seen in those brown depths before. We stayed frozen for a long moment. I moved very slightly forward, unable to resist the tug I felt toward her—and she shifted back, refocusing on her task.

I held myself very still then, as she worked. Finally recapping the tin of salve, she found a thin, fresh cloth and pressed it lightly to the wound to cover it. I hissed again, jerking back instinctively in my chair.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Dove said, coming closer and gently patting the cloth until it was secure. She was inches away now. I forgot the ache at my collar, where we were, who she was. Fuck, my own name. The air smelled of honey and juniper, and something else that was her.