Page 16 of Her Dark Seduction
“Hold out your arm.”
He did so, laying it on the table with the wound facing upward. I took his hand and curled my fingers between his.
“I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Making a swift, deep cut down his forearm I traced the wound to re-open it. His arm muscles tensed, and he curled his fingers round my own, but he made no sound. Using the edge of the blade, I scraped away the infected flesh and thick, yellow liquid. Dropping the knife, I dipped a cloth into the hot water then held it against the wound, letting the heat draw out the infection. I was able to work calmly and efficiently, taking satisfaction in my abilities. Sawford’s earlier comment about my delicate tastes had pricked my pride, and I was determined to show him I was no faint-hearted creature. I stopped as my train of thought caught up with me. Why should I care for the opinion of a soulless creature like Sawford?
“Is it too much for you?” he asked.
I wondered at the lack of emotion in his voice. The pain must be unendurable.
“Not at all. I’ve treated worse. Keep still,” I admonished him as he moved his arm. “I need to dress the wound. You’re a fool for not coming to me earlier.”
“Surely you would not have wanted the wound—or its purpose—to become widely known.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I care not, Monsieur. ’Tis your own pride that prevented you from seeking help. The pride of men is the bane of society and of the lives of women. But, I would expect nothing else from a base born servant.”
He gripped my hand and I winced. “Better to be base born and earn your means than to languish in wealth and inherit it. Or indeed, to marry it by taking a wife you despise, merely for her dowry.”
“A man is able to do that,” I retorted, “but what of women? We are nothing more than chattel to be treated as our owners see fit—forced to marry menwedespise to further others’ causes. ’Tis little wonder we think only of ourselves. Do you think I care what happens in the world outside? I have no control over my own destiny, let alone that of others. What I think or feel is irrelevant to anybody but myself. I am merely a possession, a tool to be used for others’ personal gain—as you have done yourself.”
“Do not condemn me for seeking an honest wage. I have worked and fought hard for it all my life.”
“I know nothing of your history, Monsieur, but for the past few sennights, your ‘honest wage’ was earned by brokering my sale to Lord Mortlock, whoring me out, and acting as a stud to produce an heir for your master.”
He did not reply, and I picked up a bandage, giving him a look of hatred. “I believe my definition of honesty differs from yours.”
He set his jaw into a hard line, and the scar on his chin whitened. I applied the herbs to the wound then bound it, securing the bandage with a knot.
“I will need to see this wound again in case the infection spreads. You may go now.”
He nodded curtly before rolling his sleeve down. Without another word, he turned his back and left the room.
I was not summoned to the solar that night. Initially, I was relieved to be left unmolested but as the night wore on and sleep eluded me, I lay, watching the dim light of my candle and felt nothing but an acute sense of loneliness. Eventually, I fell asleep, my dreams disturbed by images of reddened, wounded flesh and a piercing pair of brilliant blue eyes.
****
I woke the next morning to the sound of Harwyn moving about in my chamber. I felt so tired and struggled to sit up. She rushed over to help me dress, and I let her administer to me in silence, standing up after she had secured my veil over my hair.
“Come, Harwyn, to the garden.”
We spent the morning collecting calendula flowers. I had spotted their bright orange color in the garden and remembered how Maman had pointed them out to me at Shoreton, telling me of their healing properties. I had helped her make salves and, though I was unsure of the exact proportions, I was confident I could produce something far more effective in treating infected wounds than the herbs in my store.
When our baskets were full, we returned to my treatment room, and I sent Harwyn to the kitchens for oil, beeswax, and a large boiling pot, while I started to pick off the delicate petals. She returned with everything we needed to make the salve, including jars for storage. By the time the daylight began to fade, we had picked off all the petals and left them to soak in the oil in a bowl. It was too late to start the process which would draw out the healing compound, so we left the petals steeping in the oil and tidied up the room.
It was only when we went to leave, I noticed a piece of folded parchment under the doorframe. With a sigh of frustration, I picked it up and unfolded it, immediately recognizing the hand which had penned the words written on the parchment.
“Oh, lady, ’tis him again is it not?” Harwyn sighed. “You have gone as pale as a lily. What does he say?”
It was another poem extolling the beauty of my hair, likening it to the midnight black of a clear night sky. Again, he had finished with a brief note of comfort, but what made me gasp was the final line.
I would have you write to me, dearest Lisetta. Let me know you have not lost hope. I will await your answer by the seat in the rose garden when the sun sets tonight. Your loving friend and protector,
Tarvin de Fowensal.
Not only had he asked me to respond, but he’d signed his name.
“Tarvin…” I breathed.
