by Alexa Aston
“Don’t worry. I may not have to use these tongs to extract the arrow. They are only here as a precaution. If bone prevents me from pushing the shaft all the way through, then I will extract it using these forceps.”
She watched her cousin steel herself against that occurrence.
Nan pulled her blade from her boot and cut away Tristan’s pants from his right leg, tossing aside the material. The men had placed the earl on his left side, so she had a good vantage point of seeing how the arrow had entered the front of his leg and then emerged from the back. Using her fingers, she gently explored the area and sighed. She wouldn’t need to use the tongs to screw apart the wound and widen it in order to reach the arrowhead.
“I’ll be able to forego the tongs,” she told the couple, relief pouring through her.
Nan tied a piece of the soaked linen to the end of the shaft. She would push it from the front through Tristan’s wound and bring it out the back side. This would be the only way to remove it cleanly.
“Elysande, hold his ankles and keep his feet still. Michael, press down on his shoulders and upper body. When I begin, he may try to fly off the bed.”
They situated themselves while Nan washed and dried her hands. Both nodded at her that they were ready and she began to push the shaft deeper into Tristan’s leg. He awoke with an unearthly howl. Elysande climbed onto the bed and sank her knees against his ankles and hovered over them as Michael pinned the nobleman to the bed so he couldn’t thrash about.
Nan worked quickly and managed to push the arrow in until it disappeared in the front, before she pulled it completely out from the back side of his thigh. Sweat broke out across her brow. She glanced at the still form of Tristan Therolde. After several gasps through gritted teeth, he had either passed out from the pain or the herb had finally overtaken him. Either way, he was quiet now.
Elysande and Michael released him and stepped back.
“You may leave,” Nan told them. “The rest is easy and I can manage alone.”
“Are you certain?” Michael asked. Elysande was stark white and couldn’t speak. Her husband put his arm about her shoulders.
“I am. Go,” she urged.
They left the bedchamber and Nan got to work. First, she poured boiled water over the bleeding wound and then washed it with liberal amounts of white wine, drying it carefully. Then she dipped more linen strips in honey and cleaned the wound until the blood flow ceased. After that, she stitched and packed the wound, dressing it with a poultice of barley and honey mixed in turpentine, binding the poultice to Tristan with more layers of clean linen.
Exhausted, she stepped back and assessed her work. She had done what she could to remove the arrow and prevent infection from setting in. It would be important to clean and redress the wound daily for the next week.
She decided to remove his clothing. In case fever set in, it would be easier to bathe him in order to bring the fever down. She removed his boots and placed them on the floor next to the bed. His pants were already ruined so she took her dagger to what was left of them. Soon, his legs were bare, great tree trunks of muscle. Her eyes kept roaming back to his manhood. In all her years, she had never seen a man uncovered below the waist and found him to be fascinating. She shook her head to clear it and worked his gypon from him, folding and placing it on the edge of the bed. Though she had seen many a bare-chested man in the training yard, none had drawn her interest quite as much as Tristan did.
Nan skirted a hand along his huge upper arm and then along his chest, covered in a matting of soft, tawny hair that matched the hair atop his head. The muscles bunched under her fingertips. Touching him thrilled her, seeing so much raw power on display. As she ran her palm from his throat down to his belly, his manhood suddenly leapt to life. Nan pulled back her hand in haste and then paused.
Curiosity got the best of her.
She reached out and touched the growing shaft. The small appendage had increased in size almost instantly. She gripped the shaft in her hand, feeling how firm it was. Then she stroked its head, silky smooth and so different from anything she’d seen or felt before. Guilt washed over her. She should not be taking such liberties with an injured, unconscious man.
Tristan was much too large to move under the covers. She rolled him to his back and folded the bedclothes up on one side and went to the other, doing the same. At least he was covered somewhat now.
Nan pulled the lone chair in the room over to the bed and sat in it. She planned to stay with him through the night in case he needed something and would check at regular intervals to see if fever struck. By the light of the burning candle next to the bed, Tristan looked younger in sleep than he did when awake. Temptation called out to her. She rested her hands against the bed as she leaned over and pressed a kiss upon his brow.
His hand shot out, latching on to her wrist. Nan pulled gently, not wanting to disturb his rest. His fingers held her in a vise. She tried to pry them away and failed miserably. Deciding to let him hang on to her, as if she had a choice in the matter, she sat.
Or tried to sit.
The chair was just out of reach of her bottom.
Frustration filled her. She didn’t want to stand all night but she didn’t know how to free herself from his iron grip. Giving up, she crawled onto the bed and lay down, facing him, her captured wrist between them.
She closed her eyes. Mayhap he would release her sometime during the night and she could return to her vigil in the chair.
Or not.
Nan drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 8
Tristan first became aware of the subtle floral fragrance as he drifted awake. He had inhaled it for several nights while seated next to Nan. The intoxicating smell rising from her skin stirred his blood. Then he noticed the warmth against his fingers. Moving his thumb slightly, it caressed soft skin, more silken than a fine garment from the Far East. Last, he listened and heard the light, even breathing near him and felt the puff of warm air against his neck.
Everything rushed back to him at once, crowding out all the sensual pleasures he’d noticed, leaving him conscious of the dull pain in his throbbing thigh. He opened his eyes and turned his head.
Nan lay next to him, her lips slightly parted as she slept. Memories of the night flooded him. The woods. The boar. His daring leap to save her from certain death. And his reward—her arrow launched into his flesh. He glanced down, not at the wound in his thigh but to see his fingers holding fast to her wrist, his thumb moving slowly back and forth. She stirred slightly, a half-smile touching her lips.
His wound didn’t hurt as much as the entire left side of his aching body, the victim of his encounter with the boar. He realized how lucky he was not to have been killed by the wild beast or Nan’s arrow. He had lived—but for what reason?
It was the second time in life Tristan had asked himself that same question.
After the first instance, he’d received no answer. He wondered if this time would be the same.
Instead of worrying about something beyond his control, he decided to enjoy his unparalleled view. Nan still wore the yellow cotehardie from last night, now wrinkled, but the pale fabric enhanced her dark hair and the long lashes swept against her cheeks. His eyes dropped lower. An expanse of creamy flesh was revealed, thanks to the way her cotehardie bunched as she slept. Tristan enjoyed seeing the curve of her breasts, more of them on display than usual. He longed to run his tongue along the rise of the perfect globes and hear her sigh of pleasure as he did so.
The thought startled him. Somehow, this woman had slipped under his skin and invaded his waking—and dreaming—states. He’d always been a man who took his own pleasure with a woman and never thought about if she gained satisfaction from their coupling. Yet every fiber in his being wanted to please the beauty slumbering next to him. Why this woman and none before her?
What was so different about Nan de Montfort?
Without bothering to ponder an answer to his own question, Tristan instead
chose what he longed to do. Easing onto his side, he ignored the silent scream his body made in protest and placed a palm against Nan’s porcelain cheek.
So soft . . .
He tilted his head and pressed his lips against hers, drinking in the wafting floral fragrance. Nan wriggled and made a low noise. Tristan’s thumb stroked her cheek as he feathered light kisses from one corner of her mouth to the other.
She awoke.
He knew instantly when it occurred. Her body stiffened. He didn’t know if her eyes opened as he continued brushing his lips against hers. She held still for a moment and then two things happened. Her free hand slowly slid up his bare chest, while her tongue darted out and teased the seam of his lips apart.
Hunger for her burst inside him. He cradled her cheek and answered her call, his mouth yielding to hers. Their tongues mated lazily at first, exploring one another without rushing. His ran along the roof of her mouth, bringing a muffled giggle from her. She must be ticklish. That brought all kinds of wicked ideas to him.
Tristan’s hand pushed into her hair, wishing the long locks weren’t braided. Knowing that it would take too long to undo the braids, he dragged his hand along her neck to her shoulder, down to the curve of her hip, and then he brought it around to clasp her buttock. Squeezing it, she sighed into his mouth, her hand now clutching his shoulder, the nails digging in.
He kissed her for so long that he lost track of time. All that mattered was the heat between them. Tristan sampled Nan’s sweetness over and over, yearning to do more, but he knew her to be a virgin and was aware that she would only give herself to the man she loved.
Those thoughts brought him crashing back to reality. He broke the kiss and opened his eyes to drink in her beauty.
Large, blue eyes stared intently at him as she breathed quickly in and out, her chest heaving, her breasts threatening to spill from her dress. Her already swollen lips would be bruised from their love play, which gave him immense satisfaction. Suddenly, Tristan wished he could wake up to this woman by his side every day.
Even if she had shot him with her arrow.
“Good morn to you,” he said.
Her hand went to his forehead. “You have a slight fever,” she told him. She sat up and started to pull away but his fingers tightened around her wrist, keeping her captive.
“Should we talk about it?” he asked, wanting to discuss their kiss and what had been unsaid between them.
Confusion filled her eyes. “What? That I shot you? You do remember that, I’m sure.”
He kept the smile from his face. “Aye. ’Tis not every day that a beautiful woman tries to kill me.”
She sniffed. “I was trying to kill a boar. You got in my way.”
“I am glad,” he replied.
Nan looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “You’re glad. Glad that I sent an arrow into you.”
“Glad that whatever happened led us to be here.” Tristan tugged on her again as she tried to move away. When she gave him an exasperated look, he spoke the truth. “I am reluctant to release you.”
“Why?” she asked, chewing on that full bottom lip that drove him to distraction.
“Because I want to do this again.”
This time, Tristan yanked hard on Nan. Not expecting the sudden move, she fell against him. Only then did he release her wrist in order to cup her face with both of his hands. He kissed her, feeling her lips throb against his as much as his thigh throbbed—though he’d never tell her that. She clung to his shoulders as he deepened the kiss. Wanting, needing, to consume her.
A tap on the door startled them both. Nan scurried off the bed and plopped into the chair nearby. Already, Tristan missed her.
The door swung open and Lady Elysande appeared with a tray in hand. She came to the bed.
“I see you are awake, Lord Tristan.”
He pushed himself up and groaned at the effort. Nan jumped to her feet and plumped the pillows behind him, feeling his forehead again.
“Lord Tristan has a slight fever,” she announced. “We need to send for cool water to bathe him. Did you bring broth, Elysande?”
“Aye, and plenty of bread. Are you up to eating, my lord?”
His stomach rumbled loudly in response. “I suppose there’s your answer.”
“You look tired, Nan,” Elysande chided. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Some,” Nan said, avoiding his glance, which made him chuckle.
Lady Elysande looked his way. “Something I said, my lord?”
Thinking quickly, Tristan said, “If I snored, as my brothers always claimed, then I doubt Lady Nan got much rest at all.”
“Why don’t you go wash your face and change your clothes, Nan?” Lady Elysande suggested. “I can stay with Lord Tristan while he eats and then we can both bathe him to help keep the fever at bay.”
The thought of Nan’s hands on him heated Tristan’s blood.
“I will freshen up as you suggest,” Nan said, “but you may stay with Lord Tristan and see to his needs for now.”
“Are you going to the butts instead?” Elysande asked.
“Nay. I need to gather clean linen and the items to make a new poultice for his wound. Do you have any St. John’s wort or comfrey?”
“I do. Are you making a different poultice from the one you created last night?”
Nan shook her head. “Nay, that will remain the same. Mother always said barley and honey keeps a wound clean and closes it quickly, especially when mixed with the turpentine. The other herbs are ones I can use in treating the bruises along his side.”
Tristan looked at the left part of his body. Deep bruising in purples and blacks adorned him. “I suppose that’s what happens when colliding with a charging boar at full speed.”
Elysande shuddered. “You are fortunate to be here, my lord.” She glanced at her cousin. “And to have someone as knowledgeable as Nan to care for you. You never seemed to care much for herbs, though,” she mused.
“Just because I don’t live to talk about herbs as Mother and Alys do does not mean I did not learn from them both. I know how to care for many ailments, especially ones that occur in the training yard and on the battlefield.”
“You know where I keep the stored herbs,” Elysande said. “You’ll find everything you need there. Take your time.” She gave Nan a sweet smile and watched as she left the bedchamber.
Once the door shut, Lady Elysande turned to him, her smile now gone. In its place, accusations filled her eyes. “Fever or not, Nan’s lips were swollen. My guess is from your kiss, Lord Tristan. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Tristan could almost see the waves of anger emanating from the noblewoman and sought to placate her.
“My lady, I must say—”
“Whatever you say is unacceptable to me. Though I did not give birth to her, Nan is like a daughter to me, Lord Tristan. I am as protective of her as I am my other children. If you think to dally with her, you will have a serious problem. There’ll be no talk of which horses you might purchase. Horses will be the least of your concern. You will be expelled from Sandbourne and never allowed on our lands again.”
“Lady Elysande, I do not wish to toy with Nan.”
“Good. She may appear invincible to all who meet her but Nan has a tender heart. I would not see her hurt by anyone. Including you.”
Tristan swallowed. “I’ll admit that we did kiss. I am attracted to Lady Nan. However, I know of her desire to wed a man who will love her.” He paused. “I am not that man.”
She eyed him carefully. “Then see to it that you keep your hands—and your lips—to yourself.” Setting down the tray, she added, “Eat what you can. I will bring water to bathe you.”
With that, the noblewoman left him. Tristan only hoped he could adhere to Lady Elysande’s advice.
*
Nan hurried from the bedchamber, thankful that Elysande had not walked in on them while they kissed.
They had kissed. Multiple times.
> Why had they kissed?
She lived in an orderly world of her own making. Went where she chose. Did what interested her. Depended upon no one but herself. By the Christ, she liked her life the way it was.
Or had been—until the Earl of Leventhorpe had crashed into it and disturbed everything.
Nan admitted to herself that she liked him better than she had when he first arrived at Sandbourne. Else she wouldn’t have kissed him. Or let him kiss her.
Why did he keep kissing her?
If she found the answer to that, she could figure out how to keep him from doing so again. Nan didn’t like to be bewildered and unsure of herself.
Lord Tristan made her feel both of those things.
She dug through her trunk, trying to decide what to wear and then stopped. She refused to dress in order to please him. Pushing all thoughts of looking feminine for him aside, she stripped off her cotehardie and the smock beneath it. Rolling them up, she tossed them onto the bed. She would don what she felt comfortable in. What she usually wore. What acted like a second skin. Nan yanked on a pair of dark brown pants and a hunter green gypon. She replaced her boots and took a deep breath.
“Better,” she told herself. She was no longer dressed like a woman. She wouldn’t think like one or act like one. She would be her usual self around Lord Tristan.
And she would stop kissing him. She’d threatened to cut off his balls if he touched her again, yet she’d allowed him to kiss her senseless. No more nonsense.
As she marched to where Elysande stored her herbs, she admitted she was partially to blame. After all, she had curled up next to a naked man in his bed. What else was he supposed to think? She hadn’t had the time to explain to him how she was unable to sit in her chair. That wouldn’t be a problem in the future. If he grasped her—in sleep or otherwise—and refused to let go?
Nan would bite his fingers. To the bone, if necessary.
She located both the St. John’s wort and oil to mix with it. This could be applied to all of his bruised areas. For the most severe bruising, she could gently place a few drops directly onto his skin and allow it to soak in. She also found the comfrey, which her mother used for many different kinds of skin problems. After a day or mayhap two of using the wort, she would need to create poultices from the fresh leaves of the comfrey and employ those to promote healing and reduce any bruising and swelling that remained.
