Page 35 of A Second Chance for Carys
No, perhaps not compared to what it could have been, but it was still bad enough. It wasn’t very deep but it was as long as her index finger. “It’s going to require stitches,” she said, feeling close to swooning, a most unusual reaction for her. She was not one to faint at the sight of blood. So why was she so unsettled?
“Sit down,” James ordered when she wavered.
As her legs were about to give way from under her, she was only too glad to comply. A stool was conveniently placed behind her and she fell rather than she sat on it. In a dazed state, Carys watched as James went to find a needle, some thread, a square piece of linen and a pitcher of water. His gestures slow and measured, he placed everything on the table next to where she was. Then he squatted in front of her, his hands on her knees.
“I’ve seen your embroidery. It’s exceptionally good.”
“I-is it?” she stammered. Why on earth was he talking about this now? Embroidery? What did it have to do with any of this?
“It is. And so I would like you to stitch me up. Old Agnes’ sight is going and I fear she will only butcher me. Much better to have someone skilled with a needle to see to my wound, don’t you think?”
Her heart skipped a beat at the idea of stitching him. Say what he might, this was nothing like embroidery, and she was already feeling lightheaded. Could she do what he was asking in such conditions?
“Mistress Ivy in the village is also a skilled healer and her sight is fine,” she croaked. “We could send someone to her and?—”
The hands at her knees slid higher, silencing her. She could feel the heat of his palms through the material of her dress. “Please, Carys. No old Agnes, no Mistress Ivy. No other healer I don’t know. I want you.”
Though she knew what he’d meant to say, the words sounded like a declaration. He wanted her, in more ways than one. Her heart started to beat a fierce rhythm, because she wanted him too, in more ways than one.
“If you’re sure.” The words had difficulty passing her mouth.
“I’m sure.”
“Then it’s your turn to sit down.”
With a smile, he straightened back up and helped her to her feet. Fingers entwined, they stared at each other a long moment. Was he about to kiss her? Her heart started to beat wildly in anticipation, but he shook his head slightly, as if to say he would not touch her, not while his face was covered in blood.
Forcing herself to be grateful for this mark of consideration rather than dwell on her disappointment, Carys walked over to the table where everything was waiting for her. When she turned around, James took his position on the stool, then lifted his head up in readiness.
She approached on legs that felt barely able to support her. His eyes were burning with feverish intent and appeared darker than ever. Dear, oh dear. It seemed every time she thought she’d seen him at his most forbidding, something happened to make her see how wrong she’d been. Was there no end to the depth of his intensity? Thank the Lord he was only half Egyptian. More masculine power might well have paralyzed her.
“Do your worst. Only, don’t get carried away and transform the scar into a flower, or heaven forbid, a robin. It wouldn’t be very manly.”
His words teased a smile out of her. How could he jest at a time like this? But she was grateful for it, as it helped ease the tension in her body. She needed to be relaxed to do this. “No robin, I promise. But before I do anything, I’m going to clean the wound.”
“Of course. What was I thinking? The easy part first.”
Carys nodded. He was right. The cleaning would be easy, and even pleasurable. For both of them. They had better enjoy it because then the torture would begin. For both of them. With tender gestures, she wiped his cheek, jaw, and neck. As she’d already noticed this morning, he hadn’t shaved. White specks peppered the otherwise black stubble, especially on the chin and around the mouth. It was fascinating, and by the time shehad finished, she was certain she had not cleaned anyone so thoroughly.
Eventually, she could not stall any longer. The bloodied cloth was discarded and she applied herself to the task of fitting the thread through the eye needle, a task made harder than it should have been by her trembling hands. Holding the needle at the ready she turned to him.
“Ready?”
“I think I’m readier than you are.” He eyed her hand with an arched brow.
“Possibly. This is nothing like embroidery. I have not sewn up many wounds in my time, and every time was worse than the previous one.”
“Let us hope that it is the last time you have to do it, then.”
“Indeed,” Carys replied fervently.
The first stitch caused her breath to hitch in her throat. The second made her stomach roil. The last one cost her every ounce of determination she had left. By the time she cut the thread, she was barely able to stand. Ever mindful of her well-being, James drew her to him, keeping her upright with an arm around the waist.
“Don’t go falling now,” he chided, his voice gentle. “If you cracked your skull, I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“If I cracked my skull, I’m not sure there would be anythingtodo.”
Carys gave a shaky laugh, relieved it was all over. Why had she been so affected by a measly three stitches? She had once stitched a cut on her own knee without flinching, despite the pain. So why did she feel on the verge of a swoon for piercing someone else’s skin? She hadn’t been the one suffering.
