“But it does not burn as hot.”
“True.” Next, I inspect his arm. The redness and infection have gone down by half. “But your other injuries. Your ribs—”
“You will bind my ribs tightly so they will not move. I can ride with only one hand on the reins.”
I look up into his cold blue eyes that are not cold at all. “And what of your lance wound?” I reach for the blanket so I may look at it.
The wound is still red, the flesh angry and swollen and oozing. “It will hurt like the very devil,” he concedes, “but the pain will help keep me alert.”
The man is truly mad, possessed by battle fever even when there is no battle. “Everything I know of blood poisoning says the patient must rest in order to be strong enough to fight off the infection.”
“Put another sack of mud on it,” he says, as if that will make this scheme more reasonable.
“I plan to,” I say, annoyed that the person I risked so much to rescue is now ordering me around as if I were a serving wench.
He leans closer, pressing his case. “You know I am right. We will move at a slug’s pace in a cart and be an easy target for any pursuers. Or random bandits and outlaws, for that matter.”
And of course, he is right. I glance behind me at the door to the courtyard, where the three men-at-arms lay dead, a chill moving across my shoulders at how very close d’Albret came to discovering us. “Very well,” I concede. D’Albret has cast his net, and if we do not get moving, he will find us.
We spend the next hour making our plans. We will sleep one more night here, then leave as soon as it is light enough to see. I make another small fire in the hearth and set the mud and herbs for another poultice to boiling. When the mixture is nearly hot enough to blister skin, I fill a linen square with the mud and herbs, wrapping it as quickly as possible so the heat does not escape, nearly burning my fingers in the process.
As I move away from the hearth, the jailor comes in from the yard, where he has collected every weapon d’Albret’s men carried. He sets them down next to Beast, then moves to take a turn at the dwindling embers in an attempt to prepare something for our empty bellies.
Beast hisses as I lay a poultice on his shoulder. “Lie still,” I tell him.
“I am,” he says between clenched teeth, then hisses again as I place the second poultice on his festering leg wound.
He glares at me. “You needn’t enjoy this so much.”
I send him a scathing glance. “You are deranged if you think I am enjoying being trapped in an abandoned hut with an ogre and a gargoyle as my only companions.” I turn away from him to collect the linen strips I made from the soldier’s unused shirts, surprised to realize I am enjoying this. There are no vipers slithering about underfoot nor nightmares lurking in the shadows.
When I turn back to him, I make sure none of my thoughts show on my face. “Can you sit up so I can bind your ribs?” If he cannot sit, best we know it now so we can alter our plans. He grunts an assent, the muscles in his abdomen shifting and rippling like waves as he pulls himself into a sitting position. His eyes close for a moment.
“Are you going to faint again?” I hurry around to block his fall so he will not crash to the ground. Although like as not he would just take me to the floor with him.
“No,” he grunts.
I wait a minute to be sure he isn’t fooling himself, then go back and pick up the linen strip and begin wrapping it around his torso. Even after being locked away for more than a fortnight, he is as thick as a tree trunk.
“For a woman with a sharp tongue, you have surprisingly gentle hands,” he says.
“I think your injuries have caused you to lose the feeling in your body, for while I am many things, none of them are gentle.”
He says nothing but watches me, as if trying to peer past my skin and my bone to my very soul. Under his scrutiny, my movements grow clumsy. “Here,” I say shortly. “Hold that in place.” I turn and fetch another piece of linen.
“Did these brothers of yours suffer broken ribs often?” he asks.
“Once or twice,” I mutter, busying myself with the second strip. “They were clumsy lads and constantly falling from their horses.” I do not meet his gaze, for of course they were not. Pierre’s ribs were broken when, at twelve years of age, he was unseated from his horse by a blow from a lance in tourney practice. My father kicked him until he rose to his feet and remounted his horse. He suffered far more from my father’s kicks than from the fall.
And Julian—ah, Julian. His ribs were broken while trying to protect me from my father’s wrath.
“What’s wrong?” Beast asks softly.