To Tame A Warrior's Heart

Lady Catrin might be the most aggravating woman he’d ever encountered, but he could not deny the exhilaration he felt whenever they clashed.

He refused to permit the bright glow of Lady Catrin uerch Dafydd to fade away.

Dirk in hand, he clambered over the rock-strewn mouth of the cave and stooped to pass through the doorway. In the faint light he discovered a stone-lined chamber tall enough for him to stand upright, the remnants of a fire pit in the middle. The dirt floor felt smooth and even, as though it bore the imprint of countless feet.

They’d be safe here while he fought the battle to save Lady Catrin’s life.

Reassured, Nicholas hurried to move her inside. Hands numb with cold, he fumbled with the wet leather until the knot gave way and she slid from the mare and slumped against him. Even her slight weight sent a jolt of pain through his upper arm, reminding him that his own wound would need tending eventually.

But he had more important work to do for the nonce.

She moaned as he shifted her in his arms. He could almost believe she’d reached the end of her mettle—almost, but for the fact that he’d never dare underestimate her strength of will. And though ’twould be easier to treat her injuries if she remained in a swoon, he doubted he’d be so fortunate. More likely she’d awaken in a moment, ready to flay him with her tongue.

She felt so small, so dainty as he carried her into the cave. He’d forgotten that she barely reached his shoulder, for the force of her personality made her appear taller, stronger than he knew her to be.

Nicholas wrestled her cloak around to place beneath her and eased her onto her stomach, bringing her arm up to cushion her face. Straightening, he wiped sweat from his brow and went outside for the dog.

Somehow Idris had managed to get off the horse. He leaned against the mare, legs aquiver, his massive head drooping almost to the ground. Nicholas rushed toward him in time to catch him as he fell.

Cursing his two stubborn charges, Nicholas hefted the dog into his arms and lugged him inside. When he laid Idris down on the far side of the fire pit, the dog stared at his mistress and whined. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her,” Nicholas said, ruffling the animal’s coarse fur.

He worked swiftly in the dying light to gather kindling and arrange it beneath the wood in the fire pit. Then, scarcely able to see, he tended the mare, murmuring praise all the while. She’d borne a heavy burden today—had likely saved their lives. He wished he could give her grain and a warm stable to reward her as she deserved. Instead he led her to the stream to drink, then rubbed her down with a handful of dry grass and left her to crop beneath the trees. They’d have need of her again, of that he had no doubt.

He only hoped ’twas a living woman she’d carry back to civilization.

Hands shaking with weariness, Nicholas paused just inside the cave and took a deep breath. In his present state, he feared he’d do naught but harm Catrin in his attempts to help her.

But without his help, she would surely die.

He groped his way to the fire pit and fumbled with the flint and steel until he managed to wheedle a spark from it. After several tries the tinder caught; he hovered over the tiny blaze, tending it carefully until the flames licked at the small mound of wood.

Catrin mumbled something, the words indistinct. The flickering light glinted upon her sweat-dampened brow and highlighted the pain etched upon her face. He could delay no longer.

Taking up a pitch-covered branch he’d found outside, he held it amidst the flames until the end glowed. Thrust into a crack in the stone wall, it cast a bright light throughout the entire cavern.

How should he proceed?

Calm spread through him as the fire began to warm the chamber. Hands steady, he gathered his meager supplies and sought to draw his wits together, as well. Two knives, flint and steel, cup, belt, a cracked wooden bowl he’d discovered in a corner…Were these enough to save Catrin’s life?

Even a simple barber had better tools than this.

Had Catrin worn a purse upon her belt? Though he had not noticed, what woman left her chamber without one, fairly bulging with God knew what?

She moaned as he eased her onto her side and moved her nearer to the fire. Just as he’d suspected, a soft leather pouch hung from her leather girdle by a silver chain. Afraid to let his hopes rise too high, he unhooked the chain and loosened the drawstrings.

He hesitated but a moment before he tipped the contents onto the floor. A surprising assortment of items spilled out. Most looked useless for his purposes, but a small wooden case, smoothly carved with fanciful designs, caught his attention. Lady Gillian carried her needles and pins in a similar box. A spindle of thread lay beside it.

He fumbled to loosen the lid and sent the contents showering onto Catrin’s cloak in a shimmering cascade.

She cursed, capturing his attention. He hadn’t realized she was awake. “Have a care,” she whispered. “Needles are costly, and easily lost.”

“Aye, milady.” Squinting as his vision blurred, he bent to pick them up. “At the moment they’re more valuable to me than all the king’s riches.” He dropped the last pin into the box and replaced the lid. “Now I can care for your wounds.”

Her eyes widened, a spark—of fear, perhaps—making them shine silver in the firelight. “You do know how to sew, don’t you?”

Nicholas’s lips curved into a genuine smile. “I’ve seen it done before.” He shrugged. “Perhaps it’s time I learned.”

Chapter Five (#ulink_f3bd0e20-aeb2-516a-a5eb-1585ecdc63ef)

“What do you intend to do?” Catrin asked. Panic lent her the strength to move so she could better see his face.

“I must remove the arrows from your back, and soon,” he said as he pawed through the contents of her purse. “You’ve a fever, if it’s escaped your notice. And I doubt you could remove them yourself, at any rate.”

A shudder racked her body, whether from fever or the thought of Nicholas Talbot wielding a knife upon her flesh, she could not say. She doubted he’d ever performed surgery on anything other than some hapless fowl at table.

And her back was no sampler for him to display his prowess with a needle!

But what choice did she have?

Impossible as she found it, she had to entrust herself to a man; a man, moreover, more confusing to her than anyone she’d ever met. This could only be reparation from a vengeful God for every sin she’d ever committed—and possibly some she’d only contemplated.

Sweat beaded upon her forehead, and a flood of heat poured through her veins. She could withstand this—she’d suffered worse before and survived.

At least Talbot meant her no harm.

“There’s a small pouch—the green one—it holds a mixture of herbs. ’Tis good for pain or fever.” She nodded when he picked it out of the pile on the cloak. “You must steep it in hot water.”

He wavered as he rose to his feet, and his eyes closed for a moment as though his head pained him. “You should take some, as well,” she added.

Talbot set both knives to heat in the fire, then took up the cup and a bowl and left the cave. Catrin stared at the flames leaping merrily before her and tried not to worry as she considered what Talbot must do. She had removed arrows from hardened warriors, some of whom had screamed worse than a woman in childbirth. And though she prided herself upon her control, her strength of will, she had no idea whether she could withstand Talbot’s surgery without shaming herself before him.

She feared such weakness more than the pain.

Talbot knelt beside her, startling her. “What should I do?” he asked.

“Add three pinches to the water, then stir it with the knife.”

The water hissed as he plunged the blade into the cup, and a bitter scent filled the air. Talbot wrinkled his nose, but wrapped his fingers about the mug for a moment. Still grimacing, he held up her head and brought the draft to her lips.

She swallowed the potion swiftly, grateful for even so foul a drink as this. ’Twould not take long before she began to feel the effects…

She wrapped her fingers about his brawny wrist when he lowered her to the floor. “Best if you wait to take some,” she cautioned. “It might make you sleep.”

“Will it make you sleep?” He set the cup aside and brushed her tangled hair away from her face. His fingers felt blessedly cool, hard yet gentle against her heated flesh, and his eyes glowed pale lavender against his tanned skin.

Never had he turned so tender—so pitying—a look her way. She wasn’t sure she cared for the way it made her feel.

“Perhaps,” she whispered. His pulse beat strong and sure beneath her fingertips, making her more aware of his nearness, his size. She opened her hand and released him. “It matters naught—just do what you must.”