Page 59 of The Saxon Lord's Unwanted Bride
She pushed against the bandage with her fingertips. The gentle pressure on the bone increased the pain, and he gritted his teeth. Eventually she finished and stood up, tears spilling onto her cheeks.
“What ails you, woman?”
She took his hand. “I beg you, my lord, you must remain abed, and not venture out again. With such an injury, even the strongest of men must rest, to let his body heal. If not, you could still lose your leg—or be disfigured for life and end up like – like…”
She broke off and cast her eyes down. He took her chin in his hand and tipped her head up. With his thumb he blocked the path one of her tears and wiped it away.
“Like what?” he said softly. “Your arm? Is that what happened to you? A break which never properly healed?”
She nodded and he released her.
“How did you come byyourinjury, Eloise?”
Once again, terror flared in her eyes, then she closed them and shook her head.
“We’ve no time to lose. You must return to your chamber.” She held out her arm. “Let me help you.”
“Now who’s the fool!” he said. You’re no larger than a child. I can manage by myself.”
“I’m stronger than I look.”
Even bent over in pain, Harald dwarfed her in stature. But she stood firm.
Aye, wife, you are strong. Your true strength comes from within.
She circled his waist with one arm while he held onto her other arm, careful to avoid her deformity. Why couldn’t she bear to speak of it?
By the time they reached his chamber, he was perspiring with pain. He collapsed onto the bed with a sigh of relief, followed by a howl of pain as the motion jolted his leg against the bedframe. Eloise lifted the leg onto the bed and undressed the bandage.
He tried to sit but she placed a gentle hand on his chest.
“Nay, husband. Lie back while I tend to you.”
He closed his eyes and drifted into a doze. Cool hands unwound the bandage before a hot, wet cloth pressed against the wound, causing only a slight sting. Light fingertips caressed the skin before the aroma of herbs drifted across his nostrils. Soft words spoke continually, the musical tones of his wife’s native language spoken in her gentle, soothing voice—which were joined by her maidservant’s deeper, earthier tones.
“Look at his bandage, my Lady! It’s filthy!”
“No matter, Jeanette—I have a fresh one.”
“What was he thinking having that whore tend to him!”
“He wantedher, not me.” Eloise said, quietly.
“Then he’s a fool. Mistress Roswyn cares nothing for him, whereas you…”
“Help me with the bandage, Jeanette.”
“Oh, my Lady! Can’t you see the putrefaction! He could still lose the leg.”
“Hush! My husband sleeps, and I won’t have him disturbed. The splint has held firm and the bones are sound. He still has a chance.”
Her voice stirred a memory, Roswyn’s harsh tones:He loves you not! Do you not see that? and Eloise’s reply, barely audible:Aye, Mistress Roswyn, though he may love you and not I, he is my husband and my duty is to him as wife and healer.
So it was Eloise, not Roswyn, who’d first tended to him—the same woman who administered to him now so diligently and slipped her little hand into his.
Curse Roswyn! Would he never be rid of her?
“Roswyn…”
