by Molly Wens
He picked up his scissors from the table again, eyeing her panties. Somehow, the thought of removing them seemed like a violation of the defenseless woman. Removing the other articles of her mangled, wet clothing had been more of a mercy than a violation, but the underpants was a different matter. With a deep breath he bent to take hold of them. Looking closer now at the fragile lace, he could see the tears in the delicate fabric. The flesh underneath was inflamed with angry-looking scratches.
He snipped the lace away to look more closely at the injuries. There were several small scratches among the soft hair of her mound and one long gouge punctuated by numerous crescent-shaped marks that could only have been caused by fingernails. Judging by the size of the marks it had been a fairly large hand that had done the damage, probably the same one that had left its print on her breast. His suspicions were confirmed; someone had at least attempted to rape her, leaving her in the wilderness to die of exposure. He felt the heat of rage rising up his neck.
She had to be a hell of a woman to survive what she had been through. Looking at her face again, he felt a grudging respect for her. She must have the spirit of a fighter in her—a good thing. She would need that spirit, that will to live, to survive the battle that was ahead.
He turned back to her marred sex. He wondered if her attacker had been successful. If he had, there was a danger of serious infection, even toxic shock. Moving his hands lightly over her knees with a guilty twinge, he pulled them gently apart. He picked a lamp up from the table, holding it close to the apex between her legs.
The scratches at the top of her mound were raw and inflamed. Infection was already setting in. The bastard's nails must have been filthy, he thought. Taking a steadying breath, he reached out a hand to probe the soft flesh between her legs.
The woman's body contorted and her hand grasped his wrist, her jagged claws poking through the shredded covering tied at her wrist and digging into his flesh with surprising strength as she tried to fend him off. Her ragged voice screamed painfully, “NOOO!” The sound died away to a weak moan that bubbled to silence in her throat. A quick glance at her face showed that her eyes were still closed and a fine sheen of perspiration was showing on her forehead and upper lip.
Leaning close to her ear he spoke in soothing tones, trying to calm her and allay her fears. She slowly relaxed her grip on his arm until her hand rested softly against his. He tried to withdraw his hand from the tender, silken flesh only to feel her hand pressing down on his, holding his fingers in place. Another moan elicited from her throat as her hips moved imperceptibly against his fingers. There was a definite reaction in his groin to her actions, punctuated by self-loathing for such a response to the helpless woman. Taking advantage of her stricken form never crossed his mind, knowing that her reaction to his touch was more a need for comfort than desire to appease any carnal appetite. Then she was fighting him again, both arms flailing in the fevered throes of hellish nightmares.
He removed his hand from between her legs and gathered her against him, holding her tightly while he sat on the edge of the bed lest her thrashing cause her body further damage. She quieted almost immediately, curling against him, her head on his chest. For a moment, he held her and nothing more, feeling the soft heat of her nestled tenderly under his chin.
Finally, lifting her slight weight, he carried her to the tub and cautiously lowered her into the tepid water. She groaned as her body began to shiver again, the shaking making the water slosh slightly. He supported her with his left arm behind her shoulders as he smoothed water over her ravaged flesh. Another cry of anguish rang out at the stinging pain that invaded her fevered delirium.
He continued to speak in soft tones as he went about the task of cleaning away the blood and grime that soiled her skin. Removing his arm from round her shoulders, he carefully laid her head against the edge of the tub.
He took each of her hands in turn to gently massage water into the clinging fabric and work those remnants loose from the scabby flesh of her fingers. The skin underneath was cut clean to the bone in some places with blisters caused by frostbite. The fingernails displayed bleeding cracks with one nail completely missing. Again, he wondered at what the woman must have endured to get this far into the wilderness and still be alive.
Clutching the bar of soap, he worked the cloth over it to produce a fine lather. He gently worked the soapy cloth over her face while his other hand spanned the back of her skull, supporting it. He scooped small handfuls of water over her face to rinse away the red-tinged lather, revealing the delicate texture of her skin, marred by injury.
He washed the rest of her body with the same painstaking care, his big hands infinitely gentle. Small sounds, little grunts and soft moans, came from her throat every time the cloth encountered a wound.
When he was satisfied that the rest of her was thoroughly washed, he turned his attention to the hair that was plastered to her head, crusted with blood, dirt and debris. Though the floor was already wet, he decided it would be best to have a pan or a pail to catch the water that would soon be dripping from her tresses. He fetched a large basin from the cupboard in the kitchen and placed it on the floor at the end of the tub.
Slipping his large hands under her arms, he lifted her along the copper wall of the bathtub until her head lolled back over the edge. He gently lifted the stiff, encrusted hair to dangle over the rim and hang down to the basin.
He held up a lantern to closely inspect what injuries he might find in her scalp. The wounds on her head were numerous. He located three good-sized goose eggs and several lacerations, the one just above the hairline at her forehead being the worst. It needed stitching but with the amount of dirt and debris in the cut he decided that it might be best to leave it open in case of infection.
Wondering if he would be able to get the tangled mess clean, he retrieved a bucket from the hearth and began carefully pouring the warmed water over her head at the hairline. The water that ran through her snarled hair came out at the ends to run into the basin, the color of mud tinted with red.
Starting at the scalp, he worked the soap into her hair, scrubbing gently and trying to avoid aggravating her wounds. He rubbed the bar vigorously over the length, stopping from time to time to remove sticks, leaves and other debris from the tangles. The lather turned a dingy rust color as it did its job of removing the soil. He rinsed the hair by pouring more water over it and squeezing out the excess into the basin. He lathered it again, and for good measure, washed it a third time, emptying the basin into the empty buckets in between washings.
He was finally contented that she was thoroughly clean. The only thing he could not figure out how to do was to stand her up and use fresh water to rinse her entire body, so he had to forego that step. After using a clean towel to absorb the excess moisture in her thick hair, he reached into the cloudy water to lift her out.
The moment that the air of the room hit her wet skin, the shuddering in her muscles started all over again. Quickly, he carried her to the chair and set her upon the soft cotton of the blanket, using the edges to pat her dry. The way the woman's moans increased, he knew that he must have been causing her pain. He stopped what he was doing, deciding it would be better to wrap her damp body in the cotton and let the moisture be absorbed naturally.
He lifted her into his arms again and felt her snuggle against him. Her arm glided slowly from beneath her covering to wind upward around his neck. Once more, he felt a stab of some emotion that he dared not name, as he gazed at her battered face. The force of that sensation dropped him slowly into the recliner where she curled a little deeper into him.
Cradling her frail body in his arms, he could not help the wave of protectiveness he suddenly felt for this pitiful creature. She had suffered appalling atrocities, and courageously fought to survive. There was more to her than just the fragile, damaged body that he held. This was a woman worth saving, and he would do whatever was necessary to see that she recovered.
He raised a hand to
her face, and with some relief, found that her temperature was lower now. Waiting for her to relax some, her sleep to normalize a bit, he held her and soothed her with gentle strokes of his hands. How long had it been since he had held a woman in his arms?
His mind wandered back in time to the smiling face of a woman he used to know. Her dancing blue eyes and easy laughter had warmed his heart and given him joy. But another image tainted the memory, the image of that same face, bloodied and mangled, her shattered body hanging limply in his arms. The pain of those memories rocketed through him, as it always did, causing him to clutch more tightly to the fragile creature in his arms. She groaned in protest, and he quickly relaxed his grip, raising a hand to press her head against his chest.
She sighed softly under his touch, a sound that stirred him to his core. Each stroke of her hair against the callused palm of his hand brought him a satisfying warmth. Gazing at her face, he studied every angle and curve. Her ears were nipped by frostbite, leaving them swollen and raw. The delicate skin over her nose, forehead, and cheeks was wind-burned and would soon peel away. Her lips were cracked, blistered and bruised. The swelling of her nose made him wonder if it had been broken. Both eyes were blackened and her right cheek had been scraped raw.
Despite all of this, anyone with eyes could see that she was a beautiful woman. Her heart-shaped face was perfectly proportioned; the bones finely carved as if a great artist had had a hand in her creation. Dark lashes, long and curling, settled against the purple bruises that hid the exquisite texture and pale color of her skin.
Her hair, drying in the warmth of the flames, was becoming a spiraling mass of curls that probably hung halfway down her back. It had a fine texture that felt like silk to his touch. The color was most unusual, now that the tresses were clean. He had thought it would turn out to be black when it was wet, but it was drying to dark brown with deep, dark red highlights that caught the flame in the light of the fire. It gave him the impression of a molten blend of mahogany and copper.
He let his thoughts wander to her body as he had seen it, prostrate and dwarfed by his big bed. She was too thin, but had curves in all the right places. He could feel the softness of her through the cotton of the blanket, a sensation that was anything but unpleasant. She was so small that it would be easy to break her in two. That thought brought back that fierce protectiveness that he had not felt for someone in a long time.
Suddenly aware of the turn his thoughts had taken, he had a surge of anger at himself. She was just another inconvenience to him, a mewling, sick woman who would need constant care, and he would be glad when he was shed of her. Still, when he rose to remove the soiled blankets from the bed, he set her down with gentle care on the chair he had just vacated. He ignored her whimpering protest, removed the wet, dirty blankets and pulled down the warm quilt and sheets that made up his bed.
Skoll had taken advantage of Bryce's brief absence, to investigate the bundled woman. His massive head easily reached over the arm of the big chair to sniff at her face and hair. Moving around to the front of the chair, the animal continued his sniffing inspection. As Bryce turned back to the woman, it seemed to him that she was reacting to the dog's presence, moving imperceptibly toward Skoll as if to touch him. The dog licked her face before Bryce could stop him.
"Back, Skoll. Go lie down,” the dog's master commanded. Skoll hesitated, looking longingly at the woman, before settling on his rug in front of the fire. Bryce wondered at the dog's behavior. He usually detested all strangers, snarling and growling at the presence of any human being. If Skoll's intended target did not take immediate heed, Bryce would be hard-pressed to keep the dog from attacking. It was as if the dog had fallen in love with the woman.
Bryce moved to pick her up, carrying her to the bed before unwrapping the blanket that shrouded her naked body and laying her on the clean linen on his mattress. He drew the blanks to her chin and prepared bandages, ointments and antiseptics for dressing her wounds.
He started at her head and worked his way down, exposing each part of her as he worked quickly, before covering it again. He used the antiseptic cautiously to clean her head wounds, the stinging pain of the strong liquid wrenching whimpers and moans from her. With a careful touch, he gently stroked salve onto her wind-burned face, mindful of damaging the irritated epidermis and the bruises that lay beneath.
It was a difficult task to wrap her small, frostbitten fingers and toes individually, his large hands felt clumsy and inadequate attending to the delicate task. With that task completed, he spread antibiotic ointment onto the abraded flesh of her limbs, bandaging the worst of the wounds. He inspected her abdomen again; to be sure he had removed all the debris that had been imbedded in her soft flesh, before dressing the wounds.
The ugly, bruised handprint on her left breast gave him cause for concern. It looked painful, the flesh of it swollen to the point of being hard, and the nipple standing erect, red and inflamed. He knew it must have been causing as much discomfort as any of the other wounds. Withdrawing a bottle of liniment from the medical kit and pouring a small amount onto his fingers, he hesitated as he glanced at her still face. This would not be a good moment for her to finally come round, with his hands on her tit.
Finally, with a resigned sigh, he gently massaged the healing oil into her abused flesh. As he worked, a small, faint moan escaped her lips, her muscles tensing and drawing together under his fingers. He had not seen her move but it seemed that she was pushing her breast into his hands as if she were enjoying his touch. Experiencing some small pleasure himself at the feel of her hot flesh against his own, he hurried to complete the task. He moved to apply liniment to her blackened ribs before wiping his hands on a towel.
Once he had finished, he removed one of his flannel shirts from the bureau near the closet, shaking the shirt free of its folds. Returning to the woman's side, he sat on the edge of the bed to lift her torso and lean her head against his chest. Looking down her back, he saw more scratches, and reached for the ointment.
Applying the greasy medicine with his fingertips, he encountered the definite texture of scar tissue. He stood, leaning forward and bending her lifeless body over his arm to get a better look at the flesh of her back. As he pulled the lamp closer, he could see three slithering marks that spanned her lower back to disappear where her bottom came into contact with the mattress. A fresh onslaught of rage rose in him as he wondered who would whip this tiny, elfin woman to the point of cutting her skin.
That protective spirit was back, causing him to make silent vows once again to the unknown woman whose eyes he had not even seen. She would most likely recoil in horror when she opened them at last to see the monster that he had become. He ran a gentle hand once more over the heat of her graceful back, knowing that it would likely be one of the few chances he would get to touch another human being without the shudder of revulsion that was so common in his experience.
He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to shut out the grief that he had banished long ago, since coming to this desolate place. He could not allow the presence of this mysterious woman to remind him of all that had been taken from him, all that had made his self-imposed exile necessary. Mustering his anger once again for all things human, he shoved her bandaged arms into the sleeves of the warm flannel, perhaps a bit too roughly, for she moaned pitiably.
With a gentler hand, he lowered her head back down to the pillow and buttoned the shirt closed about her tortured flesh. As soon as he had the garment pulled down over her legs, he could see that it reached just passed her knees. Once again, he was struck by the diminutive size of the tiny woman, and once again he wondered how anyone could hurt someone of such delicate beauty.
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Chapter 4
Dawn was approaching by the time he had finished seeing to the wounds of the unknown woman and had her comfortably ensconced in the ancient bed he called his own. Bryce felt the fatigue that was pulling at his body, tempting him to rest, but he had t
o get something nutritious into her.
Dehydration was a major concern as well. Drawing his hand up to pull at the thick beard that hid most of his face from sight, he tried to decide the best way to get food and liquids down her throat. He opted for soup, deciding to kill two birds with one stone.
Moving to the kitchen, he pulled a can of broth out of his extensive storage pantry. He had just put the soup into a pan on the ancient, pot-bellied, wood-burning stove when he heard screams, grief-stricken and full of horror, coming from the next room.
Setting the pan off the heat, he strode quickly to her side. She had the bedding tangled about her legs, her arms thrashing about, as she fought off the shadowy nightmares of her delirium. Her eyes remained closed as she clawed blindly at the air around her with her bandaged hands. The wound at the top of her head was bleeding again, the sticky crimson soaking through the white gauze that was wrapped over it.
Bryce seized her arms as another scream ripped from her throat. She fought harder, trying to free her legs. Pressing his weight down on her thrashing body, he talked to her softly, attempting to calm her fears and soothe her mind. Within moments, she settled some, mumbling unintelligibly and quivering slightly.
He brushed a stray lock of hair from her flushed face, shaking his head at the rising heat of her skin. Untangling her legs, he tossed the bedding back, away from her shuddering limbs to allow the air to cool her fever. The sounds coming from her throat were hoarse and raw. Mere exhaustion and injury were not the only causes of this fever. There was something else depleting her weakened body, a virus or other infection. She showed all the signs of influenza and he fervently hoped that was not the case.
