His Conquest by Diana Cosby Page A

you,” she returned as she helped him lie down, concerned by his weakening voice. Once she’d made him as comfortable as possible, she stood. “I will be back in a moment.”
    “Where are you—”
    “I am going to fetch the plantain, which I would have long since returned with had you not been so pigheaded.” She turned away, furious to find tears in her eyes. He’d almost died. She shouldn’t care, should blame his brush with death on his unbending pride, but in the short time since she’d met Seathan, he’d come to mean more to her than was wise. Shaken by the realization, she scanned the woods and hurried away.
     
     
    The rich wash of sunset streamed into the cave, embracing the stone chamber within its soft glow. Linet shifted to keep her back to the sunlight as she gently wiped the ointment she’d extracted from the plantain over Seathan’s wound.
    Hewn muscle rippled beneath her touch, at odds with the deep gash in his left side. At least the injury hadn’t festered. Thank God for that.
    His jaw tightened as she carefully smoothed the gel across his tender skin.
    “I am almost done,” she said.
    He remained quiet.
    She hadn’t expected a reply. Since her return from retrieving the herb, he’d remained silent. She wanted to believe his reserve was a result of his pain. But she sensed more fed his decision not to speak.
    Neither was he ungrateful.
    He’d shifted himself on the floor in response to her abrupt demands. If he’d shown her but a hint of contempt, she would have left him to apply the mixture himself. No, something else stewed within his mind.
    As she applied the next swathe of ointment, he stiffened. She looked up. Stilled. He was watching her, but within the pain shadowing his green eyes, awareness resided as well.
    Heat trembled through her body, spun by her need of him, not as a warrior, but as a man. A forbidden man whom she wanted with her every breath.
    As if he sensed her thoughts, his dark brows narrowed with warning.
    Realization washed over her. Sweet Mary, he wanted her.
    That she could affect this complex man thrilled her, then she grew somber. Seathan was dangerous, a Scottish rebel who viewed her as the enemy. Neither did he know of her blood bond to Fulke. Kneeling here but a hand’s breath away, staring at him, wanting him was like playing with fire—a dangerous blaze that might easily leave her life scarred.
    Unnerved, Linet broke eye contact. “I need to apply the salve on the cuts across your chest.”
    Instead of a reply, he started to lift his tunic.
    At the trembling of his hands, she helped him remove the neatly sewn garment. Honed muscles, battered by bruises and recent cuts, greeted her.
    She silently damned her brother, that Fulke would order a man tortured so. One day his quest for wealth and power would lead to his downfall.
    Seathan motioned for her to begin.
    “You can talk,” she said, her nerves on edge, the silence prodding her awareness of him as if she stood too close to a fire.
    He only arched an ominous brow.
    Frustrated, she swept her fingers through the silky ointment upon the flattened rock, then carefully smoothed the slippery gel over the first of many cuts. She tried to ignore the ripple of muscle, the warmth of his skin against hers.
    And failed.
    “We must stay here for at least two days,” she said to break the tension, “for you to heal.”
    “We will rest this night, no more.”
    The lackwit! “After your blood loss this day, if you try to travel on the morrow, you might die.”
    “If I remain here and do naught, the cost could be many lives.”
    If he’d said anything else, she would have argued. Damn him, why did he have to be so noble, put others before himself? Because he was a leader, a warrior whom men would admire. And follow.
    Linet nodded. “On the morrow then.” But she would ensure they kept their travel slow. As if he’d be able to move faster than a slow walk. But he’d try.
    She gently tugged down his tunic after