...Tibald’s gaze locked with Jennie’s, and he groped for the brandy in Napier’s hand once again. More long swallows, his cheekbones reddening with the heat of the liquor, before he thrust the bottle at her. “Do what you must,” he told her.
“Lie back then. It will be easier if I can pour directly onto the cut.” She looked at Napier. “This will sting. Hold him down.”
“I do not need to be restrained like a calf being castrated.”
Jennie rolled her eyes. “I have never seen so much machismo in one place,” she muttered to herself in English. To the knights, she said, “As you will.”
Tibald lay down, and Jennie fetched another cloth from the basket, tucking it under his ribs and back where it would catch most of the drips. She wanted to be sparing with the brandy, especially after Tibald had been so profligate with the bottle’s contents, for she planned to use it again after the wound was stitched. Her stomach churned. She swallowed hard and put a hand on Tibald’s bare, muscular belly to stabilize both him and her. His stomach was warm beneath her palm, and his skin twitched at her touch like a ticklish horse. Behind her, Napier exhaled noisily. Judge me all you like, sir knight. I know you’d rather be touching him yourself.
Jennie tried to ignore the dark-haired knight and moved closer to the bench. She fixed Tibald with a serious look, only to find that his eyes were already focused on hers. His gray-eyed gaze made her stomach flip again, this time with emotion. Unconsciously she stroked her left hand over his belly, keeping away from the wound, thinking only of soothing him before she poured the alcohol over the cut.
It was the wrong thing to do. There was an unmistakable movement from the crotch of his breeches. Tibald flushed wildly, the redness spreading rapidly from his hairline to his neck and chest. She watched with something like fascination until she noted the rapidly rising bulge at the top of his thighs.
Napier will certainly have something to say about that. Jennie lifted the bottle over the wound and poured. In her nervousness over Tibald’s burgeoning erection, she splashed more brandy than she intended. He hissed through his teeth and reached to stay her hand. The pain had an immediate quelling effect on his arousal, much to her relief.
“Lie still a moment,” she told him quietly. “Let the brandy do its work.”
“I am not near drunk enough for this.”
“The wound must yet be stitched.”
“I can manage stitches. This burns like fire!”
“That means it is doing its work.” She leaned across him, pouring the brandy in the thinnest stream she was able, watching as it rinsed away more blood down his side. At last she stopped, satisfied for the moment. “I’m sorry it hurts you, Tibald. Truly. As I am truly sorry to have been the cause of your wound.”
“The fault is partly mine.”
Napier grunted disgust. “While you doves coo, I will find needle and thread. We must close the skin. The cut is not deep, but it will not heal properly if left open like this.”
Jennie ignored him as he left. She set down the bottle of brandy and moved where she could look into Tibald’s face. “Truly, I am sorry.”
He met her gaze again, dark pupils expanding. His hand lifted and unconsciously she took it, folding it between her breasts as she moved closer. He pitched his voice very low when he spoke. “I can still taste you in my mouth. It has been four days, and still I taste you.”
Now it was Jennie’s turn to flush. Heat swarmed over her skin like a cloud of stinging bees, but she did not look away. Her hand clenched convulsively on Tibald’s. She, too, was haunted by their embrace in the commander’s quarters. Even now, though he was wounded, she was perversely pleased by the effect she had upon his flesh. She was tempted to stroke the sweaty hair back from his brow and brush a kiss on his compressed mouth, but she knew Napier would return any moment. It was all she could do not to grit her teeth at the thought...