Page 7 of One Knight in the Forest

The faintest smile touched his mouth. “I should have said Lady Magdalen Suffield.”

There was no point in denying her noble status. It might earn her more respect in the circumstances. Yet, if he knew this much about her, what else did he know?

Panic welled, but then he returned to the bedside, moving with such elegant grace for a trained warrior. He looked down at her legs and pressed his fingers to her right calf. With the light touch of his skin upon hers, she realized the blanket draped over the rest of her body was pushed back to bare her lower legs. Embarrassment whipped through her that her legs should be revealed to his—a man and a stranger’s—view, but then, she saw the raw, red gash that was still oozing blood onto a towel he’d placed under her limb.

Her stomach churned at the sight of the crimson stain, some of it thinned to a pinkish color on the damp towel. Memories of her mother’s difficult childbirth surfaced, but Magdalen forced them back down. She didn’t dare be distracted. Not now.

“Is the wound…deep?”

“Deep enough, I am afraid,” Cynric said, his straight, dark brown hair shifting back from his face as he met her stare. “I will do my best to ensure that when ’tis healed, you will have no more than a faint scar.”

“Thank you,” she said, even as a warning buzzed at the back of her mind. Why would Cynric care about her injury? Why had he bothered to bring her here? William’s men had been in the forest; the sheriff could have easily handed her over to them and be done with her, but he’d chosen to take responsibility for her.

There was more he wasn’t telling her. There had to be.

“Please,” she said, keeping her voice low; William might be in the other room. “Did William order you to—?”

“William had no say in my actions,” the sheriff said.

“He is not here, then? Nor his men?”

“Nay.”

“There is someone else here, though. I heard—”

“My steward, Borden.”

If Cynric had a steward, he was not just a sheriff, but a lord, although most noblemen she knew lived in castles, not wattle-and-daub forest homes.

Cynric’s fingers moved again, touching upon tender flesh. She winced, even as his hand immediately lifted away from her leg. He seemed genuinely concerned about her pain, and yet, he had to have a reason for helping her, beyond a chivalric desire to help a wounded lady.

Mayhap he’d found the missive.

Oh, God, nay.

She’d been so careful. Before fleeing the keep, she’d cut open the hem of her left sleeve, wrapped the missive in extra cloth to protect it, then tucked it inside for safekeeping, and quickly sewn the opening in the hem shut—a simple task as she’d been doing needlework since she was eight years old. She’d quickly done a matching line of stitches on the right sleeve, so the stitches would appear to be part of the garment’s design.

However, Cynric might have found the letter once she’d fainted. He could be protecting her now, because he knew what she’d discovered. Or, his help might be a deception. He might be keeping her here, winning her trust as he cared for her, so he could find out exactly what she knew about the missive and what she intended to do with it before handing her over to William.

Frowning, Cynric glanced at her again, as if he sensed her dangerous musings. She wanted to ask about the missive, but if he didn’t know about it, she’d be making him aware of it.

She could start by inquiring about her clothes, for the garment she was wearing now—what little she could see of it—certainly didn’t belong to her; that would help her determine whether he’d discovered the letter. Her fingers curled against the bedding, for she must be very careful, until she knew whether or not she could trust this man.

Sighing, he glanced over his shoulder. “Borden,” he called, “what is keeping you?”

“All right, milord.” The steward’s voice urged patience. “’Tis almost done.”

“Almost done?” Magdalen’s voice hitched. “W-what—?”

“He has great skill with herbs. He is making you a drink. ’Twill help with your pain while I stitch your wound.”

Stitches. That meant he was going to push a needle and thread through her ripped and bleeding flesh, time and again, until the injury was sewn closed. Oh, God.

The bitter taste of bile touched the back of her throat. “Do you have to s-stitch the wound?”

“I am afraid so.”

“Oh…” She clapped a hand over her mouth and drew several breaths through her nose. Her head spun, but now was not a wise moment to faint again.