Annabel rummaged through the shelves until she found a container of honey and some bandages, smiling to herself at his reluctant compliance. Then she took the cloth bag of comfrey leaves Mistress Eustacia had sent someone to pick.
Lord le Wyse’s appearance was as sophisticated and tidy as she’d ever seen. His dark hair and beard were neatly trimmed, any minor singes from the flames gone. Not the smallest smudge of soot could be seen anywhere on his face, and he wore a crisp white shirt and bright blue velvet waistcoat that smelled of fresh air and dried lavender. Her lord was quite proper in his elegance. If only he would shave off his beard, he’d look positively noble.
“One would never guess you were a hero last night.”
“What do you mean?” He sounded irritable and his eye was narrowed. But the harshness of his voice no longer intimidated her as much as it once had.
“I only meant that you don’t look at all like you did a few hours ago, when you rescued that lamb. You look as if you might be on your way to the king’s court in London.”
“True. I’ve seen the king’s court, and there are no heroes there.”
Her lips twitched with an involuntary smile, but instead of smiling back, Lord le Wyse deepened his frown. Annabel could see his mood was dark, probably because of the pain in his arm, and perhaps worry over the fire.
She stood before him and began to unwrap his bandage carefully. His arm was raw, and blistered over a section a little wider than her hand. She winced. It had oozed watery blood, soaking the bandage in a few spots. She grabbed a pitcher of fresh water and a bucket and slowly poured it over his forearm. He sat unflinching, watching first her hands, then her face from his heavy-lidded eye. She dried his arm and poured more honey over it, placed some crushed comfrey leaves on top, then wrapped it with a clean bandage.
As she worked, a thought occurred to her, and she asked quietly, “Would the king’s coroner investigate a fire like ours, to see if he could discover how it was set and if someone did it deliberately?” She knew the coroner was in charge of investigating deaths, though she had heard of him investigating other matters as well.
“The coroner of this shire is a friend of mine. I have sent for him for just that purpose. However,” he said, fixing his eye intently on her face, his tone becoming harsher, “I don’t wish for the whole village to know of this, so you are not to tell.”
“Of course not, my lord. I won’t say a word.”
As she wrapped the bandage around his arm, his attention suddenly seemed arrested by her hand. He watched her with a new alertness, then grabbed her hand and turned it over to stare at the underside of her wrist.
There on her pale skin was the bruise the bailiff had inflicted on her the day he cornered her inside the butcher shop. The bruise was the size of Bailiff Tom’s thumbprint, dark blue, with a slight green tinge in the middle.
“How did you get this?” Lord le Wyse demanded.
Her face went hot. She didn’t want to tell him, although she didn’t know why she should feel ashamed. It was the bailiff who should feel ashamed.
He tightened his grip on her hand. “Tell me the truth,” he growled. “Did someone hurt you?”
She swallowed, trying to gather her courage. “Bailiff Tom did it.”
“When?”
“Just before he shoved me into the street the day you almost ran me over with your horse.” She bit her lip, hoping he wouldn’t take offense.
She became quite aware that he was still holding her hand, and she hadn’t finished with his bandage. His hand was warm, his palm slightly rough, his skin dark against her much lighter complexion. A cold fear was beginning in the pit of her stomach when he abruptly let go of her.
She quickly finished wrapping his bandage and tied it securely.
“What else did he do to you that day?” Lord le Wyse rasped in a strangled tone.
“He held me against my will, threatened me, and told me I should marry him.”
“Has he hurt you any other time?”
“When I was doing laundry, he held me down, as you saw.” She chose not to tell him about the bailiff trying to kiss her in the butcher shop. She couldn’t think about it without feeling ill. Would Lord le Wyse blame her for the way the bailiff tried to force himself on her?
“I never did anything to make him think I’d marry him,” Annabel said quickly, feeling compelled to explain. “I never thought of him as anything but my father’s friend. I never imagined he was having … thoughts about me. Well, after I saw him looking at me a few times, I realized … but never before that, and I never tried to do anything to — “
“I don’t approve of the bailiff,” he said, interrupting her, “or anyone else, laying hands on you. If it happens again, you are to tell me of it immediately, and I will get rid of him and find a new bailiff. In fact, I’ll throw him out now.”