“So. Wolf thinks I need to stitch your wound,” Ingrid said, looking nervous at the prospect.
“Yes. You probably do,” he agreed grimly. Though Magnus’ intervention had stopped the cut from being fatal, it was both too long and too deep to be left alone. “Could I have a drink first?” There was no use pretending this wouldn’t be an ordeal. He had never needed as much as a single stitch in his life and he dreaded the prospect.
“Of course.” She handed him a cup full of the excellent ale he’d enjoyed during his stay under her roof. Was it only yesterday morning he’d left? It seemed more like two years. “I’ll get everything I need.”
When she came back, she had a basin of water and a few pieces of cloth in her hands.
“I need to wash the blood off first, so I can see what I’m doing,” she explained almost apologetically. “Will you be able to remove your shirt?”
The mere idea of having to sit up sent his guts into a tangle of knots. “Perhaps I could just lift it?” he said hopefully.
To his relief, she agreed. “It should be enough, as the cut is quite low on the stomach. May I?”
He nodded, only too happy to lie there and have her take charge. Kneeling by his side, she slowly lifted the shirt up, making sure the material wasn’t sticking to the drying blood. No, he wasn’t bleeding anymore. Still, Ingrid clicked her tongue in disapproval.
“What is it?” He frowned. Was the wound worse than he had thought?
She gestured at his chest. “Your shirt will have to be mended as well. It’s cut clean through.”
Well, yes, it would be. He gave a little mirthless laugh and regretted it when pain slashed through his middle. “That is the least of my problems,” he croaked.
Ingrid’s eyes widened. “Sorry, of course. I don’t know why I said that.”
“Probably because, like me, you’ve never been in such a situation. It’s all right. I suspect I might start talking nonsense myself in a moment.”
“I will have to lower the waistband of your braies,” she whispered. “As I said, the wound is quite low on the abdomen.”
He nodded his agreement but when he saw her with her bottom lip caught between her teeth and her hands poised above the laces fastening his braies, his whole body went taut—including the part that should have had the decency to lay dormant. Even though she was not trying to entice him in any way, the gesture was too evocative for him not to react. Only a moment ago he’d thought he was too weakened by the loss of blood and in too much pain to do anything but evidently he was wrong.
Apparently, he could still get aroused.
When Ingrid flushed a vivid crimson, he understood that she’d seen the effect her actions had on his body. Not that it was difficult, placed where she was. He was rethinking the wisdom of having her lower his braies, after all. Another inch and she would expose the tip of his manhood. Quickly he readjusted himself while she turned to dip a piece of cloth in the basin. It made little difference.
Dear lord, this was embarrassing.
“Pay it no mind,” he growled when she turned to face him again. “I’m a man and you’re a woman undressing me, I suppose it is inevitable this should happen.”
“I suppose so,” she answered, wringing the cloth—and stalling for time. Apparently she thought she had better wait until he regained some semblance of control before she did anything. He agreed. The only problem was, it would not happen while she looked at him with flushed cheeks and wide eyes.
“I expect it will go down as soon as you stick that needle in me.”
“I expect it will. But I have to wash you first.”
Oh, God. Washing. He’d forgotten about that. In other words, she was going to put her hands on him, rub him slowly in a place inches away from his straining member. It would be torture for them both. But it could not be helped. He would have offered to do it himself if his head didn’t start spinning as soon as he tried to lift it, but he knew he would never be able to manage. Couldn’t the blasted Saxon have cut his arm? Or at least his chest?
“I’ll go and get everything ready while you... finish your drink,” Ingrid murmured.
While you try to compose yourself, she meant.
And he tried, he really did, calling on all his powers of imagination to picture rotting carcasses writhing with worms and snails crawling all over his flesh. He even, when this didn’t work, conjured up a memory of the man who’d lived next door to him in London, complete with rolls of fat, grimy hands and putrid breath. In vain. When Ingrid came back with her thread and needle, there was still a sizeable bulge at the front of his braies.
Acting as if she couldn’t see it, Ingrid went about wiping the blood from his skin. It was as bad as he had feared. Because she was so gentle, he could not even use the pain she was inflicting as an ally. There wasn’t any pain, just a beautiful, sweet-smelling woman on her knees by his side, with her head bent low over his crotch. Damn the Saxon to hell!
Closing his eyes made no difference whatsoever, because he could still feel and imagine. When she finally stopped, he was hard enough to hammer nails and Ingrid sounded distinctively out of breath.
He opened his eyes again and found her staring at him. His breath caught in his throat. How could anyone look so beautiful in the midst of such grim a task?
“All clean. Now for the hard part.” She flushed at the words, as if realizing what she’d said, then threw the piece of cloth into the basin. “I’m sorry for the pain I will cause you. I will be as gentle as I can.”
Caedmon only grunted and took one last swig of ale, readying himself for the ordeal. At least now his erection should go down. Small mercies. “And I’m sorry to have to inflict such a task on you.”
A tense smile answered him. “Don’t worry about me. I’d much rather be here stitching a wound than in that hut being raped. Again.” She added that last word in such a low voice that he wasn't sure he’d heard her right.
Had she said: “again”? His heart skipped a beat. Had one of the Saxons raped her last night, before he could free her? When? How? It didn’t seem possible. He’d been watching the door to the hut with an eagle eye all evening. If anyone had even tried to enter, he would have stopped them. Besides, the men had all been lying on the floor, trying to survive the mushroom poisoning.
He opened his mouth to ask what she meant but, at that precise moment she stuck the needle in for the first stitch and he gritted his teeth.
This would be hell.
Excerpt from TEMPTING THE SAXON Copyright 2024 by Virginie Marconato
The Noble Norsemen #5
Ten years ago Caedmon left his home town to forget the woman he’s loved all his life and who married another. Now he’s back, with no real plan or hope for the future. The only certainty is that he will never trust another woman again.
After a traumatic experience with a man from her village, Ingrid is determined to live her life on her own terms. She is struck as soon as she meets the Saxon, however. But nothing is what it seems with the intriguing man and when she finds herself leaping to his aid, she is mistaken for his lover.
After days pretending to be a couple, can they become one in truth? Could he be the one to make her rethink her decision?
Romance Historical [Oliver-Heber Books, On Sale: August 13, 2024, e-Book, / ]
Virginie thinks she became a writer the day she decided to write a (very bad, shamefully close to the real story) version of White Fang when aged nine or ten! As for the Middle Ages she fell in love with it at school during a history lesson, then Kevin Costner’s Robin Hood put its final seal on it all. A girl of twelve then, Virginie never recovered!
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