Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) (2 page)

Sabine’s small fingers grasped hers, her tongue peeking out to touch her bottom lip. “I do it, Mama. I do it.”

Her little cherub. Afina smiled. The tightness banding her chest eased as she relinquished the spoon. “All right. Would you like a little more, love?”

Even knowing she needed to ration the rabbit stew over the next few days didn’t keep her from asking. She wanted to make sure Sabine was satisfied. It had been so long since they’d had any meat, and if that meant eating less so her babe got her fill Afina was happy to go without. Mayhap tomorrow, were they lucky, she would snare another.

Fortifying herself with hope, she left her stool and headed for the hearth. The heat from the fire wrapped her in a warm embrace as she reached for the ladle. A sharp rap sounded on wood. Afina flinched, her heart stalling as she spun toward the door, wooden spoon raised in defense. White knuckled, she stared at the wide grey planks, alarm fighting logic for supremacy.

It couldn’t be Vladimir...it
couldn’t
be. The swine wouldn’t knock. Kicking down the door was more his style. The thought calmed her a little, but not enough. She didn’t want to answer. It was late and intuition warned nothing but trouble waited outside. Silence hummed, the vibration loud, stretching her nerves tight.

“Go away,” she whispered, unable to take the echoing hush. She hoped voicing her wish aloud would make it come true, would chase the unwanted visitor into the coming night. “Go away.”

“Door, Mama. Door!” Sabine bounced on her stool, eyes bright while she tapped the spoon against the side of the bowl.

Afina leapt the distance between them to grab her daughter’s hand. Placing her index finger against her lips, she mouthed, “Shh, love.”

She held her breath and counted to ten. Nothing. Not a whisper of sound from the other side of the door. Eleven, twelve, thirteen...A second knock followed the first. Oh, goddess. Whoever was standing on the threshold didn’t plan on going away. Afina swallowed and, ladle raised, moved toward the entrance, acutely aware it also served as the only exit.

“Mistress?” The voice, smooth and deep, rolled through the rough-hewn planks in a warm wave, sucking away her tension like sand in an undertow. Afina fought the pull and tightened her grip on the impromptu weapon.

“W-who...” Fingertips brushing the pitted wood of the door, she willed strength into her voice. “Who’s there?”

“The priest in the village told me to come, mistress,” he said, his tone full of gentle reassurance. “I’m in need of a healer...have come seeking your care.”

She closed her eyes and lowered the ladle. Father Marion, the parish priest, had sent him. Thank goodness. She might not be part of his flock, but the priest had always been kind. Could even be relied upon to send her ailing parishioners from time to time.

Afina lifted the bar, cracked the door, and came nose to sternum with a wide, very male chest. She blinked, startled by his size, and stared at the pitch-black leather jerkin. A moment passed before she allowed her gaze to climb over well-set shoulders, a strong neck, only to collide with ice-blue eyes set in the most incredible face she’d ever seen.

Handsome didn’t begin to describe him. Lethal appeal, strength tempered by charm. Cropped short, his hair was shot with gold threads, a bronzy color that matched the hammered coins she’d once taken for granted. A mistake she knew not to make with him. His intensity said it all. He was a warrior wrapped inside aristocratic features.

She tensed, guard up, instincts screaming for her to slam the door in his face. His unusual eyes holding hers, he slid his foot between the door and the jamb as though aware of her intention. “I will pay, mistress.”

Catching a flash from her periphery, Afina’s gaze strayed to the gold coin perched in his fingertips. By the goddess, it was more money than she’d seen in two years. Enough to secure their future, not only for the winter, but in the years to come. She bit her bottom lip, her mind compiling lists and tallying costs. She’d be able to buy a goat, warm clothing, the extra seeds for their garden, see to the repairs, and still have plenty left over. And the only thing standing in her way? Giving aid to a man who radiated aggression and gave new meaning to the word
frightening
.

Could she do it? What if she disappointed him? She wasn’t the best healer. In truth she was a terrible one. Everything she knew she’d learned from Bianca. The healer in their family, her sister had made sure Afina understood the basic principles before her death. On the run, their survival had depended on presenting a united front, but she’d only ever been a helper. And were she honest, not a very willing one. She didn’t possess the stomach for it, shying away from injuries she knew she couldn’t handle. But she couldn’t afford to do that any longer. Sabine needed her to be strong. Otherwise they would starve to death.

She met his gaze then shied, looking away. “Y-you’re hurt?”

He nodded, raised his arm, and held it out for her inspection. Blood dripped in a steady stream, leaving droplets on the edge of a wooden floorboard. Without thinking, she reached for his hand, cupping it with her own. He stiffened. Unease forgotten in the face of his pain, she ignored his reaction to her touch and admonished, “Why didn’t you tell me you were bleeding?”

Bumping the door aside, she tugged on his arm, wanting a better look at his injury. He hesitated, resisting the gentle pull as though uncertain he wanted to cross the threshold. She tugged again, her focus on the nasty gash bisecting the outside of his forearm. “Come into the light, sir. I cannot see the extent of the damage if you remain out there.”

He inhaled. The slow, deep breath alerted her to his tension, signaled nervousness of some kind. Afina knew the emotion well, fought to contain it with every breath she took. Day in and day out, she struggled with worry, an edginess she wore like a scent. He wore it too, though it smelled different. Lean and hungry with a touch of rebellion. Aye, under all the lovely bone structure was a man in need of repair and the soothing touch that went with it.

Empathy stole into her heart, and all of a sudden, she wanted to make him feel safe. Absurd—completely laughable—considering she doubted anything made the hard-faced warrior afraid. Add that to the fact he scared her witless and the notion made her think she’d lost her mind. But if she was to tend his wound, she needed him to trust her.

Squeezing his hand, Afina deployed a technique that had served her well in the past. She put them on familiar terms. “What is your name?”

He gave her a strange look and let her pull him past the doorframe. “Xavian.”

“I am Afina,” she said, infusing her tone with warmth she didn’t feel. “And that wee cherub is Sabine, my daughter.”

Forever friendly, Sabine gave him a toothy grin, rapped the spoon against the edge of the bowl, and chirped, “Hello!”

Afina dropped his hand and gestured to a stool before turning to retrieve her healer’s satchel. “Sit. I will gather my things and tend you at the table.”

Again he hesitated, but in the end obeyed and took a seat, as far from Sabine as he could manage. Afina hid her smile. A grown man afraid of a wee lass. ’Twas inconceivable, but true. She’d seen it many times. Observed men hardened by battle and hurt by war fairly run in the other direction when faced with a child. When she encountered someone like that, she knew they’d forgotten joy, had no idea how to handle an energetic bundle filled with nothing but merriment.

Curbing the inappropriate burst of amusement, she grabbed her bag and the large bowl from the shelf above it. Hands full, she turned and nearly jumped out of her skin. Another man, dark to Xavian’s light, stood in the open doorway. Her breath stalled as his black gaze swept her then the tiny confines of her cottage. The door swung closed behind him with a click, and her grip tightened on the satchel. Leather groaned in protest as alarm knocked around inside her head.

Xavian studied her expression then glanced over his shoulder. “Relax, mistress. ’Tis only Cristobal. He’s with me.”

“Oh,” she said, resisting the urge to pound on her chest to restart her heart. She took a shallow breath. No matter how much she disliked having two large men in her home, she must stay calm. Xavian required her skill, such as it was, and she needed the coin he offered to secure their future. She pushed past fear and set the bowl along with her bag on the tabletop.

Sabine greeted the newcomer in her usual fashion. “Hello!”

“
Salutari
, little one,” Cristobal said, a smile in his voice. Hooking a stool with his foot, he sat across the table from her daughter.

Sabine grinned.

He grinned back.

Afina blinked, amazed by the exchange. Fierce-looking men didn’t generally engage her two-year-old in conversation. Neither did they reach into the pouches at their waists and offer her toys. But as Cristobal rolled the dice across the table to Sabine, she forced herself to reconsider, to remember a lesson long forgotten. Never judge another by appearance alone.

“Cristobal enjoys children.”

Xavian’s deep voice stroked along her spine, leaving pinpricks of heat in its wake. Afina flinched and dragged her attention from the strange pair. She collided with his ice-blue gaze, wondering what that meant, exactly.
Enjoy
in the way a wolf does a lamb or a child his favorite playmate?

An image of razor-sharp teeth and lupine eyes flashed through her mind. She cleared her throat. “Towels. I will fetch them then begin.”

She forced herself to move at a steady pace and, with quiet efficiency, gathered the rest of her supplies. Xavian tracked her movement. She felt his focus keenly, registered his gaze as prickles exploded across the nape of her neck in a warm rush of sensation. The tingle of awareness frightened her, made her tense with the need to rush him out the door. Something about him wasn’t quite tame. She got the sense the only rules he followed were the ones he made for himself. And for a girl who needed the rules to feel safe, that wouldn’t do.

Afina set the small kettle she carried on the table. Iron bumped against wood. The uneven thump sounded loud in the stillness, an unanticipated announcement of her ineptitude. She paused, waiting for the accusation, any sign he understood the cryptic message. He said nothing and waited, patient in her moment of hesitation. In a flurry of movement, she placed the folded towels to one side then flapped one square open and spread it on
the wooden planks. Without being told, Xavian placed his forearm on the linen and, with the flick of his fingertips, gestured for her to begin. She quelled the urge to run in the other direction, wanting to scoop Sabine up and head for the hills so badly the impulse made her mouth dry.

The rattle of dice and Sabine’s giggle rippled, joining the crackle of fire in the hearth. Grateful her daughter was occupied, she flipped her bag open and extracted a small vial of liquid. Lightning quick, Xavian encircled her wrist, his grip just short of bruising. Air rushed from her chest in a puff, and her gaze shot to his. The instant she made contact, he raised a brow, a clear question in his eyes.

She swallowed. “Distilled witch hazel. I must clean the wound before I stitch it. Otherwise you will suffer an infection.”

He held her captive a moment more then uncurled his fingers, releasing her from the calloused shackle. She drew a soft breath and, spreading the liquid on the linen, shifted closer. His heat reached out, wrapping her in warmth scented by male and something more. Rich and earthy, he smelled fresh and clean, like the forest after a summer storm. Afina inhaled and dabbed at the wound, sifting like a bloodhound through the complexities of his scent, wondering how he’d come by it. Did he use a special soap? What blend of herbs would create an aroma so full of woodsy delight? She leaned toward him, nose twitching, brain working to unravel the mystery ingredients.

He shifted, and she flinched as the backs of his fingers brushed the curve of her cheek. Unaccustomed to being touched, she stayed stone still, afraid to look at him while he pushed the hair that had fallen into her face over her shoulder. His hand hovered close, and hers stopped above his injury, a stunted breath tangled in her throat.

His tone soft and even, he murmured, “There, now you can see what you are doing.”

Afina nodded her thanks and straightened on a shaky breath. Her gaze averted, she reached into the satchel and pulled out a fine bone needle. “I’ll stitch it closed then apply salve and wrap it.”

His chin dipped, and he angled his arm to give her better access. Fighting queasiness, she imagined Bianca, pictured her steady hands, replayed every instruction her sister had given her, and set needle to flesh. Her stomach clenched, rolling in protest. She inhaled through her nose, ignoring the slight tremor in her hand and, with steady precision, closed the gash with tight, narrow stitches.

“You’ve a gentle touch,” Xavian said, his voice mild and full of approval. “You are very good at this.”

Afina almost snorted. Good at it? Was he soft in the head? The man obviously hadn’t been hurt very often. She wasn’t stupid enough, however, to correct him as she tied off the threads. If he wanted to believe she was an accomplished healer, so much the better. His ignorance walked her one step closer to the gold coin. Hmm, she could almost taste the goat’s milk.

“You’ll need to keep it dry,” she said. “No water or soap on the wound.”

Slathering thick ointment over the injury, Afina peeked at him from beneath her lashes, wanting to be sure he paid attention. The goddess preserve her, he was well put together, much too appealing for his own good. Good thing he frightened her. Otherwise she might be tempted to talk with him awhile, to make him stay a little longer.

She gave herself a mental slap. What was the matter with her? She didn’t have time for a man, never mind the inclination. No matter how compelling, Xavian needed to go...and go quickly.

Bandage in hand, she wrapped his forearm, tied a knot just below his elbow and, tone brusque, instructed, “Change the bandage every day. The stitches need to remain for ten days then you can cut them out one at time. Be very careful about it. You don’t want to reopen the wound.”