“Stay here,” she said when she’d finished washing and drying his back, and got the tin of ointment.
He let out a slight hiss when she smoothed the ointment on the bruises at his shoulder and upper back, cool at first, quickly warming from the heat of her fingers. When she got to his lower back and dipped her fingers just inside the waist of his drawers to reach the bottom edge of the bruises, he let out a quiet moan.
“Am I hurting you?”
“You have no idea,” he muttered, so quietly she barely heard him.
She yanked her hand back, horrified she’d added to his discomfort.
“Got anything else to drink?”
“I set chamomile tea to brew a little while ago. Would you like a cup?”
He nodded and scratched his head.
Without thinking, she patted his upper arm before she rose from the bed. She stirred a spoonful of honey into the cup. “Here.”
He slowly rolled over and sat up before he took the proffered cup and sipped. His brows rose and he licked his lips. “Honey?”
Staring at his mouth and thinking about the times she had smoothed healing balm over his split lip with her finger, she barely heard him.
He tilted his head to the side, and his knowing grin told her he probably recognized the lascivious direction of her thoughts.
“Yes. Honey.” Spying the still open tin on the table, she cleared her throat. “I need to finish, uh, the rest of you.” She gestured vaguely at his chest and grabbed the tin in case he misunderstood.
Watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed the rest of the tea, she forced herself to keep breathing. Setting the empty cup on the table gave her a moment to collect her unruly thoughts, so she was all business when she sat on the edge of the bed again, tin in hand.
“Um. This is easier if you lie back.”
His smile had a mischievous glint as he sat there, their faces only inches apart. Before her breathing got out of control and she started panting, he finally lay back on the pillows.
As she massaged the ointment into the first bruise, he held up his left hand and examined his nails. “It’s been a while since I was dirty with actual dirt.” He scratched his head again.
“There was a lot of mud in your hair.” Thinking back to his appearance when she’d first seen him after the fight, covered in mud and blood, she shuddered. “I could wash it for you.” Confident she had smoothed the ointment on all his bruises—which were beginning to fade nicely—she put the lid on the tin.
He hadn’t replied. Was staring at her.
“I often did it for patients in the infirmary. You won’t even have to get out of bed. We can do it right here.”
He raised one eyebrow and gave her a sly grin, and she realized how her words could be misconstrued.
She felt her face flush, probably to the roots of her hair. She wagged a finger at him and brought out her Teacher voice. “You are being naughty, sir. Do you want your hair washed or not?”
“Yes, ma’am. Please wash my hair.” His words and tone were contrite, but his grin was not.
More towels—goodness, the extra laundry they were creating for Sally to wash!—and more warm water in the ewer.
“Scoot over a little, sideways on the bed.” As soon as he was in position, she tugged one of the blankets up to his chest so he wouldn’t get chilled, and replaced the pillow under his head with a folded towel. She dipped a cup in the water and dribbled it over his hair, making sure the excess fell into the basin on the floor and not the carpet. Using one hand to pour and the other to spread the water through his long strands, she soon had all of it dampened. “Does that hurt?” With her fingers she gently probed the edges of the goose egg on the back of his skull.
“Heavenly,” he mumbled, his eyes closed.
Nonplussed, she rubbed her hands on the bar of soap and began to work it through his hair, occasionally lifting his head with one hand. She gently massaged his scalp with her fingertips and carded her fingers through his long hair, paying extra attention to the white streak. All in the name of loosening any dried mud that lingered, of course.
He made a little humming sound when she poured more warm water and continued massaging.
“You stopped singing and writing music after your parents and brother died.”
He went silent. He was so still, he might have been holding his breath.
