“That seems unlikely.”
“You are blushing.”
“It’s cold in here.”
“You are almost sitting in the fire.”
“I object to this entire conversation.”
“So noted.”
* * *
Three nights later Geoffrey arrived bleeding. He came through the lower hall after midnight with mud to his knees, a split riding glove, and blood dried stiff along one sleeve where a knife had apparently glanced across his forearm during an argument involving grain shipments and men too tired to remain civilized.
“The grain nearly killed you?” I said.
“The grain was extremely hostile.”
The Baron looked at the cut once and said, “Sit down before you fall down.”
“I am perfectly capable of remaining upright.”
“You are swaying.”
“That is tactical balance.”
“It is blood loss.”
Father William appeared with bandages and wine, which suggested long clerical experience with aristocratic nonsense.
Later, after the Baron had finally gone to bully the quartermasters and Father William had declared Geoffrey “annoyingly alive,” I found him alone in the study beside the fire.
His injured arm rested across the table while candlelight flickered gold against scattered maps and correspondence.
“You shouldn’t be moving it,” I said quietly.
“I had hoped to impress you with my stoicism.”
I crossed the room before overthinking it and sat beside him with the fresh bandage Father William had left behind.
Geoffrey watched me silently while I untied the earlier wrapping.
The cut was shallow, thank goodness. Still, something inside me tightened unpleasantly at the sight of blood against his skin.
“You frightened me,” I admitted softly.
His gaze lifted immediately to mine. For a moment neither of us spoke. Outside, snow whispered softly against the shutters.
Very conscious of infection and no antibiotics, I cleaned the cut carefully with wine while Geoffrey tried very hard not to react to the sting.
“You are making that face again,” I said.
“What face?”
“The one heroic men make when pretending pain is a personal insult.”
“I am extraordinarily brave.”