“Oh aye?” he murmured. “Should I be concerned for me life or limb?”
“Only if ye keep talking,” she replied, though the corner of her mouth twitched.
She reached for the torn edge of his tunic, fingers brushing warm skin slick with drying blood. He inhaled sharply at the contact, more from the unexpected intimacy than the pain.
“Shirt,” she said.
He hesitated only a moment before pulling it over his head. The movement drew a low hiss from him as the fabric dragged against the cut along his side.
She tried very hard not to stare.
Seven years had carved him from marble. Broader shoulders. New scars crossing his chest and ribs like faint pale lines of history. The firelight traced muscle and shadow, reminding her far too vividly of another night when she had learned every contour by touch rather than sight.
Focus, she told herself.
She dipped a cloth into the bowl and began to clean the wound, movements careful but firm.
“Ye are lucky,” she murmured. “It is shallow.”
“So ye say.”
Her fingers steadied his arm as she worked. She could feel his gaze resting on her face, heavy and unblinking.
“What is it?” she asked without looking up.
“Nothin’,” he said.
“Then stop staring.”
“I am making sure ye ken what ye’re doing.”
She snorted softly. “If I didnae, ye would probably already be dead.”
He huffed a quiet laugh.
The tension between them tightened rather than easing. Each brush of her fingers against his skin sent small sparks up her arms. She refused to acknowledge it, focusing instead onbinding the cut with practiced movements she had learned from watching Erin.
When she finished, she sat back slightly, exhaling. “There.”
Only then did she allow herself to truly look at him.
Her gaze lingered before she could stop it, tracing the lines of his chest, the rise and fall of breath beneath skin warm from battle and proximity. Memory flickered, unwanted and vivid.
A particular scar caught her attention. It curved near his ribs, jagged and pale.
Her brow furrowed, and she reached out without thinking. Her fingertips brushed the scar gently.
He watched her hand, an unreadable expression crossing his features. “Three years after we met,” he said quietly.
She stiffened, withdrawing slightly. “I daenae ken what ye’re talking about.”
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest.
She almost smiled despite herself.
“Ye ken that ye lie quite poorly,” he said.
“I ken that ye think too highly of yerself,” she retorted, though her voice lacked real heat.