She had to stop deluding herself. She had let her fantasies carry her away once, and she was now perfectly aware of the monsters and heartbreak that lay in wait on that path. She’d made a fool of herself already. If he had any tact—and Richard had tact in spades—he wouldn’t mention it.
She summoned whatever poise she could muster. “How’s your wound?”
“Better. It’s so kind of you to ask, my lady.”
And why in the world did his “my lady” sound like an endearment to her ears? Charlotte scanned his injury. It was regenerating well, but a budding infection promised to blossom into a serious problem. “I’ll need to heal you when we stop.”
“Why not now?” He touched the curve of the seat next to him.
She blinked. He was sprawled on the seat, tall, handsome, dangerous, and he was smiling. It was a wicked smile, inviting, no, seductive, as if he was promising her that if she sat next to him, he would claim her, and she would enjoy it.
Get a grip. You’re not some schoolgirl. Charlotte forced a shrug and invited him to the seat next to her with a nonchalant wave of her hand. “Why not?”
Richard rose and sat next to her. She caught a hint of the same scent she remembered from last night, a rich, slightly spicy sandalwood mixed with smoke. Gods, this wasn’t any better.
Don’t look at his eyes or his smile, and you’ll be fine. Her gaze paused on the sharp line of his jaw, his lips . . . She wanted to kiss him.
Argh.
She forced herself to concentrate on the injury, which was hidden by his doublet. His arm was out of the sling. “Why did you put your doublet back on?”
“It seemed like a bad idea to travel surrounded by cutthroats with my bum arm on display. Jason’s people are like sharks, you see. A hint of weakness, and they’ll rip you to pieces.”
“Take off your shirt.”
“I’m afraid I may need some help.”
She could’ve sworn there was a hint of humor in his voice. Perhaps he found her attraction amusing. It seemed out of character for him to toy with her, but then, men did strange things when women were involved. Perhaps he was laughing over her discomfort in his head.
She had to stop letting her thoughts run around like wild horses. They were carrying her off to crazy places. He needed help getting the jacket off? Fine. She would assist him. Charlotte stood up and gently helped him pull the doublet off, revealing a long-sleeved dark tunic underneath. She would’ve liked to yank it off of him, just to make her point, but her professional pride wouldn’t permit her to purposefully cause pain to a patient.
His arm was still covered by the sleeve of the tunic. Would she have to peel it off him? Her mind conjured up images of his body beneath the tunic, the tight, strong muscle under the bronzed skin. No. No, that was completely out of the question.
“Do you have a knife?” Charlotte asked.
He pulled a knife out and offered it to her, handle first.
“Perfect.” She took the knife and slit his sleeve, exposing the bandage. She handed the knife back to him. He reached for it. His fingers brushed hers, and every nerve in her stood at full alert. Utterly ridiculous.
She removed the tape and the bandages. The cut hadn’t bled as much as she expected. Richard had a remarkable talent for quick recovery. She touched the gash, letting the current of golden sparks wash over it. Richard held completely still.
“You’re permitted to wince,” she said.
“Only if you promise not to tell anyone.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
She placed her hand over the wound, her fingers touching his carved biceps, and channeled her magic, repairing injured tissue, melding the blood vessels, and purging any hints of infection. She sealed the skin, painfully aware that he was sitting right there, only inches away. She wanted his tunic off. She wanted to touch that bronzed skin and slide her hand up the hard ridges of his stomach to caress his chest.
“All done,” she said.
“Thank you.”
An ugly mess of a burn scar crossed his shoulder a couple of inches above the wound. The edges of the scar were perfectly straight as if someone had heated a rectangle of metal and pressed it against the flesh.
“May I?”
“Of course.”
She touched it. The heated metal had to have been held to the skin for at least a few seconds. “Were you branded?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Barbaric, to inflict this sort of pain on a human being. “Who did this?”
“I did it.”
She looked at him. “You did this to yourself? Why?”
He sighed. “I had a tattoo on my shoulder. I wanted it gone.”
“And you thought disfiguring yourself was the best way to go about it?”
“It seemed fitting at the time.”
“What in the world was on your shoulder that you wanted it gone so badly?”
“My wife’s name,” he said.
“Oh.” She pulled back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve come to terms with it. I was young and very much in love. I did ridiculous things like pick wildflowers and leave them on her balcony, so when she woke up, she would see them first thing in the morning.”
No man had ever brought her flowers. Elvei favored more substantial gifts. It must’ve been so sweet to wake up to a balcony filled with wildflowers. It was at odds with who he was now: a grim swordsman who killed so efficiently, it could’ve been an art.
“I wrote dreadful poetry. After we were married, I’d hide small gifts for her around the house.”
“I haven’t known you that long, but that doesn’t seem like you, Richard. You are . . .”
“Bitter? Fatalistic?”
“Practical.”
He grinned at her. “As I said, I was young and romantic. Or a sappy moron, as my brother put it. Marissa hated the Mire. She hated everything about it. I wanted her more than anything, so I became what I thought she wanted in order to win her. It worked. She married me.”