Warrior Reborn by Melissa Mayhue Page A

from one of the newcomers to the other.
    Weariness rode their shoulders, evidence they had traveled long and hard to reach their destination. Both men had hair in shades of gold, but there the similarities stopped. The larger of the two wore a neatly trimmed beard, his hair hanging loose around his shoulders, and he dressed in finely made clothing, while the smaller man wore what appeared to be oversize castoffs, and his hair barely brushed his shoulders.
    As they passed her on entering her chambers, she realized the second man was hardly what she could consider small, towering over her as he did. He was equal in stature to Ulfr. No, it was only that the first was a great bear of man.
    The larger of the two, obviously the one used to being in charge, spoke up first.
    “Begging your pardon, my lady, but on our travels here, my brother was set upon by thieves. He’s a nasty bump to his head and, with their having taken his boots, he’s blisters upon his feet now. We’ve a need for an herbal poultice to help with the healing.”
    “It’s not all that bad,” the second man added. “You don’t need to put yourself out, ma’am. I’ll be fine.”
    Something about his words, something in his voice, tickled at the back of her mind.
    “Sit. Remove the bindings from your feet,” the first one said as if his brother had never spoken. “Allow the healer to see for herself.”
    Christiana pushed away the odd feeling, attributing it to the strange disquiet and worry she’d battled all morning. “Here.”
    She pulled a small stool forward for the man, regretting her choice as soon as he bent down to perch awkwardly upon it. She dropped to her knees on the floor next to him, pushing his hands away to loosen the bindings herself before he lifted his foot for her to examine.
    The animal skin he’d worn had rubbed againstthe bottom of his foot until liquid-filled blisters had risen and, some of them, burst. The knowledge of the pain he endured knotted her stomach.
    “I can help you,” she assured, looking up to find him staring down at her with a gaze so intent, she floundered for her next words. “I’ve a . . . a balm,” she began. What was it about him that so put her off her comfort?
    “It’s a poultice what he’ll be wanting, my lady,” the one standing interrupted. “Made of good herbs.”
    “My balms are made from good herbs,” she explained, her eyes still held by the man in front of her. “But if you prefer a poultice, I can see what—”
    Her words froze in her throat as her fingers brushed over the man’s skin. A prickle of awareness ran the length of her arm and she jerked her hand away.
    Only his hand darting out to grasp her elbow saved her the embarrassment of toppling backward onto her bottom right there in front of them.
    “Steady,” he advised.
    What had that feeling been?
    “A . . . a poultice,” she managed, pulling away from him to rise to her feet. Steady? Not with that man’s hand upon her. “Herbs, yes. Of course.”
    “Of course,” the standing man agreed.
    “For wounds,” she murmured to herself, turning her back on her visitors as she moved to the wall shelves to search among her dwindling stock.
    She ran her hands over the jars to gain time to recover her senses.
    He had felt it as well, she was sure. The dark centers of his eyes had widened in acknowledgment of what had passed between them, like polished jet rising from a churning green sea.
    “Comfrey,” the big man advised. “And Jupiter’s Beard. Yarrow. I don’t suppose you have calendula?”
    “Calendula? No.” It surprised her that this man knew his herbs so well, especially when he named one she’d never heard of. “But I have others I would use, if they meet your approval. Agrimony and betony are two I like for wounds.”
    At his nod, she dumped the various herbs into a stone bowl and ground them with the pestle before adding a splash of whisky she kept on the shelf for exactly that