Magdalen gently pressed a warm, wet cloth to Cyn’s wound. He hissed in a breath. His hands tightened on the seat of the chair he’d sat in once a quiet, controlled calm had finally settled inside the tavern.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
“Do not apologize,” he ground between his teeth. “You did not stab me.”
True, although that fact didn’t make tending him any easier. After considerable grumbling, he’d removed his cloak, tunic, and shirt to allow her to clean his injury. His clothing, stained with an alarming amount of blood, lay on the table beside him.
The wound was still bleeding, although more slowly now. Equally unsettling, when she’d insisted that she clean the injury as swiftly as possible to help stave off corruption, she hadn’t thought ahead to the fact that she’d see him naked from the waist up. She’d seen half-naked men before, of course, in Glemstow Keep’s bailey, when they’d washed off after an afternoon of weapons training in the tiltyards or after wrestling one another in friendly matches. Witnessing Cyn in this state of undress, though… This was different. Her hands were unsteady and for some reason, ’twas difficult for her to breathe.
Cyn is hurt, the voice of reason inside her scolded. Tending his wound is far more important than your foolish anxiety.
Indeed, ’twas. Vowing to remain focused, she asked, “Why was Northcliff so determined to get the vial of poison?”
Cyn flinched as she shifted the cloth. “Only he can tell us for certain. However, the vial—the style of it and the materials ’twas made from—might have led us to the person who made the poison. That man, or woman, likely has information on the traitors and their upcoming plots.”
“I see.” She rinsed the cloth in the bowl of boiled water the bartender had brought along with a few linen towels; a couple of them she’d torn into strips for bandages. She pressed the damp cloth once again to Cyn’s shoulder. His eyes closed, he pressed his lips together, clearly stifling a groan.
“I remember the vial well,” she said. “Once I find a quill and ink, I will draw it for you.”
His eyes remained closed, but he nodded. “Thank you.”
Water trickled down the left side of his chest—her fault, for not thoroughly wringing out the cloth. Setting it aside, she snatched up a dry linen towel and wiped away the reddish-colored water, noting the scars on his skin as she worked. Some were small, others as long as her hand. Yet, the scars didn’t detract from his masculine beauty. His torso, rippling with muscle, was one of the most impressive she’d ever seen. How shameful that she wanted to run her fingers over his skin, to feel his bare flesh beneath her fingertips.
She dragged her gaze back up to his face. His eyes remained shut. He was clearly bracing for more torment.
“You will be glad to hear that I am almost done.” She rinsed the cloth once more, hating to see him in such pain. “I am sure that with a few stitches and Borden’s ointments, the wound will heal well.”
Cyn grunted as she again pressed the cloth against his broken flesh.
Water dripped down his ribs and spattered on his woolen hose. A few drops had even landed in the middle of his lap, where his hose bunched over his male parts. After dropping the wash cloth back into the water, she grabbed the dry cloth and wiped his skin—
His hand curled around hers, trapping it and the cloth against his ribs. Her gaze met his, and her breath hitched, for what she saw now in his eyes wasn’t pain.
Slowly, so slowly, his gaze slid down to her mouth. Sensual hunger smoldered in his eyes, and her lower belly clenched in anticipation. She ached to kiss him; ached all the way to her soul, the need sharpened by the turmoil of all that had taken place moments ago. She’d been so afraid of losing him. Thinking about what could have happened, if the fight had gone differently…
How she longed to climb into his lap and kiss him, over and over, to drown in the joy that he was alive and going to be all right, and that they had the rest of their lives to be together.
The brush of Cyn’s thumb was her only warning; she became aware of approaching footfalls. Cyn’s hand fell away, and, fighting a blush, she tossed aside the cloth and sorted out several lengths of bandage on the table.
“How is his wound?” William asked, halting by the chair.
“’Tis clean and ready to be stitched.”
“Not stitched. Sealed,” Cyn said, looking at William.
“Sealed?” Magdalen’s gaze shot to the fire in the hearth. Surely he didn’t mean—
“A hot iron will stop the bleeding,” Cyn said evenly, his attention returning to her. “As sheriff, I have much to do this eve. ’Tis vital to stop the flow of blood.”
Feeling ill, Magdalen pressed her hands to her middle.
“I will see to it.” William strode to where the proprietor was righting chairs and overturned tables, and then the two men disappeared into the back of the tavern.
Cyn caught hold of one of her hands. Bringing it to his mouth, he kissed it. “’Twill be all right.” He smiled, although the mirth didn’t reach his eyes. “Many knights had their wounds sealed in such a manner on Crusade. ’Tis quick and effective.”
He spoke calmly enough, but somehow, he seemed despondent. What wasn’t he telling her? He was going to be all right, wasn’t he?
“Cyn?” she whispered, a chill of dread crawling down her spine.
“I look forward to getting your drawing of the vial, as well as a written statement of what occurred here today.”
“Of course. I can do that now. I will ask the barman—”
He squeezed her fingers. “You can work on it once you reach Glemstow.”
“Glemstow?”
“’Tis best if you leave now. I will have a couple of my men escort you home.”
He spoke as if ’twas the right course of action for her. Yet, she didn’t want to leave his side, especially not when he was going to have a red-hot iron pressed to his flesh. No matter how brave he intended to be, the pain would be horrendous.
“I know what you are thinking, Magdalen, but I want you to go.”
Her heart ached so badly, she could hardly breathe. “Why?”
“I need to get accounts from all of the folk in this room. I must also take the traitors to the town gaol. My duties will demand all of my attention for the rest of the night.”
“I understand. If I can help—”
“There is also another matter I must resolve.” His tone roughened. “One I should have settled long ago.”
His killing of Andrew while on Crusade. That long-simmering torment shadowed Cyn’s gaze and threaded through his words. How she yearned to wrap her arms around him, to kiss him, but he seemed determined to shut her out.
“I will not go,” she said, pressing her other hand over his.
Sadness flickered across his features. “You must.”
“But—”
“I care about you Magdalen. I care a great deal. For us to be together, though—”
Oh, God. “’Tis what I want, too! So very much.”
He shook his head, averted his gaze. “I must be worthy of you.”
She choked down a sob. “You are!”
“Nay, I am not.”
Despair knotted inside her, tangling her joy, hopes, desperation into a snarl of confusion. As he pulled his hand free of hers, she asked, “W-what will you do?”
“I will ride to London to speak with the King; there is no greater authority in this land. I am going to confess all that happened that day on Crusade, and I will accept his judgment.”
Tears burned her eyes. “What then?”
Cyn shrugged. “Then I pray that my soul will be free. If I deserve punishment for my actions and for all of the years I kept my silence, I will face it with dignity and honor, knowing that I am a better man…because of you.”
“Oh, Cyn,” she whispered, tears trailing down her face. “Please, do not make me leave you.”
“We found an iron that will work,” William said, returning from the rear of the tavern with a metal stick as long as her arm. He shoved it into the blaze.
“Good,” Cyn said over his shoulder. “Magdalen should return to Glemstow.”
“Agreed,” William said. “I will send some of my men to escort her.”
“Please, Cyn,” Magdalen said, hating how lost she sounded. “Please, I lov—”
“Go,” Cyn rasped, gently pushing her in William’s direction.
Oh, God, she was losing him.
“Cyn!” she sobbed.
The chair scraped as he rose and headed for the hearth. “Be well, Magdalen, until we meet again.”