Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel
5
THIS WILL NEED CARE
THE WOMAN CLAD in blue disappeared into the crowd. Hugh watched her go. He couldn’t help himself. Everything about Nessa the healer was sensual—her walk and the gentle sway of her full hips included.
He became aware then of the quizzical and hostile looks he was attracting.
Hugh didn’t often visit the market, and he wasn’t sure what had possessed him to do so this morning. He’d awoken to find the blizzard spent and a deep crust of snow upon the world. And then, after a cup of hot broth and a slab of buttered bread to break his fast, he’d gone to visit the physician. Subsequently, he’d left the camp and walked into town.
He looked down at his bandaged hand. Curse the woman. Did she really think he risked losing it?
He’d seen the way the physician’s gaze had shadowed earlier that morning, heard his muttered assurances of how it would heal given time. But when Hugh had seen the wound, a chill feathered down his nape—it was red and swollen. Hugh was a veteran, he’d seen similar wounds before, and such an injury didn’t usually bode well.
Hugh’s gaze narrowed, and he swiveled on his heel, cutting a swathe through the milling crowd in the direction of the camp.
Enough of this nonsense. It was an odd coincidence that he’d literally run into the comely healer he’d met the day before, especially after months of their paths never crossing—although it was just as well he had.
Hugh’s frown deepened then. He had two men-at-arms to seek out.
John Fullar and William de Clopton would soon find themselves digging privies and emptying slop buckets for the next moon.
Stepping back inside her cottage, Nessa muttered a curse.
She wasn’t the tidiest of individuals by nature, yet this morning she cast a critical eye over the cluttered interior of her dwelling.
Fyfa would have a fit at this. A wry smile curved Nessa’s mouth then. Indeed, Fyfa, one of the sisters of her order, loathed untidiness. Growing up, she’d always despaired at the disorder of Nessa’s sleeping alcove. Nessa hadn’t seen Fyfa in years and wondered if she was still as neat and organized. It was likely—for Nessa’s messy ways hadn’t changed with the years either.
Focusing once more on her shambolic cottage, Nessa’s smile faded.
If she was shortly to have company, she needed to make her home more inviting.
Throwing open the door and shutters, despite that chill air rushed in, she set about clearing up. Firstly, she tidied the wooden table that she used for everything, from preparing food to making salves and tinctures for healing. As such, there were baskets of dried herbs to stack, dusty bottles to put away, and the work surface to wipe down.
After that, she took out the furs she slept on and shook them in the crisp air.
Glancing up at the sky, she saw the faint halo of the sun attempting to shine through the clouds. There was no heat in it this time of year, yet it was a brave attempt nonetheless.
She brought the furs back inside and re-made her bed. Nessa then stepped back, her cheeks warming at her presumption.
Are ye really so certain he’ll succumb to ye today?
Nessa’s lips compressed. Timid women didn’t lure men into their beds. She had to be confident in her ability to seduce Hugh de Burgh. So much depended on her gaining his trust. They had to know where the English would focus their attention next and when precisely they planned to move on. Earlier, after leaving the market square, she’d gone to The Drovers’ Inn and found the serving lass who’d passed on the rumor about Inverness being the enemy’s next target. Yet Nessa had left the inn frustrated; the lass was goose-witted and couldn’t recall most of the conversation.
No, if Nessa wanted to know the enemy’s plans, she had to beguile a man who had the king’s ear.
Moving across to the window, she deftly drizzled a line of honey across the window-sill, murmuring a charm as she did so. It was a simple working: one scattered salt to ward a place, yet drizzled honey to beckon something—or someone—in. She wasn’t going to leave anything to chance today.
Grabbing a broom, Nessa then started to vigorously sweep the dirt-packed floor of her cottage. A frown marred her brow as she worked. She really needed to clean her home more often. However, such tasks always seemed of little importance compared to those of gathering herbs and preparing healing salves. Today, she welcomed the industry—it took her mind off the nerves that danced in her belly.
It was well after noon by the time she’d finished tidying. Closing the window and door, Nessa put another brick of peat on the fire and heated a cauldron of water. The morning’s work had left her sweaty and dirty.
Nessa wrinkled her nose. If she wanted to welcome a male visitor, she needed to be clean.
Stripping off in front of the hearth, she washed deftly before using a tincture of rosemary and lavender to cleanse her hair. Drying herself off afterward, she dressed in a fresh lèine and blue woolen kirtle. Blue was the color of her order—she rarely dressed in any other color. Nessa then prepared herself some bread, cheese, and apples for supper.
She’d hoped to put on a stew—for appetizing smells often made a man feel welcome—yet the day was waning, and after her morning’s industry, she was worn out.
Perched by the fire, her hands wrapped around a cup of warmed apple wine, she wondered if she should work another charm, a stronger one than drizzling honey across the threshold. There was witching that could make a man calf-eyed and lustful.
But she was reluctant to use such a working. Indeed, this was perhaps the real reason she hadn’t followed the original plan.
Aye, she’d used the craft that morning, to draw Hugh de Burgh to the market so that she could speak to him. But that had been a gentle beckoning charm, one that only gave the man a nudge in her direction. To induce someone into falling into her arms was something else.
Nessa scowled then, irritated at her pricking conscience. He’s an Englishman … he doesn’t deserve to be treated well.
Many of the sisters of her order would have told her to save her scruples for someone more worthy—and yet she resisted using the craft on him in that way. In her opinion, there was something abhorrent about coercing someone against their will to lie with her; it was a flagrant misuse of her witch-will.
It was the only aspect of being a bandruì that sometimes made her uneasy—it was a responsibility to wield such influence over others. Perhaps, if she became desperate in future, she would use such witching. But for now, she preferred to use his attraction for her as bait.
Rising from her stool, Nessa went to the door, opened it, and peered out. The shadows grew long, and snow had silently started to fall once more.
For the first time that day, doubt niggled at her. Maybe he won’t come after all?
Nessa muttered an oath under her breath. It served her right for being overconfident. Maybe she overestimated Hugh de Burgh’s attraction to her.
“The cottage needed a clean anyway,” she growled, shutting the door. “The day hasn’t been wasted.”
Brooding, Nessa went to the work table and sorted through the herbs she’d been drying. Placing a handful in a stone mortar, she picked up a wooden pestle and started to pound the herbs into a powder. It was satisfying work, one that helped ease the tension coiled within her. Mixing some boiled water with the ground herbs, she transferred the ointment to a small clay jar. This salve, made of dried woundwort flowers, was useful in cleansing soured wounds. Fresh woundwort was better, yet there wasn’t any to be found in the depths of winter.
Nessa was just poking the smoking lump of peat on the hearth with a stick when a heavy knock at the door made her start.
Gripping the stick, she straightened up, her pulse quickening.
He’s here.
Nessa drew in a deep breath, brushed off her kirtle, and went to the door. “Aye,” she called, naturally cautious. She was a woman living alone after all and was wary of visitors even if she was expecting someone.
“Nessa?” A low yet powerful male voice reached her. “It’s Hugh de Burgh.”
Schooling her features into an expression of gentle concern, she stepped forward, lifted the bar that locked her inside, and opened the door.
The knight stood on her doorstep.
The snow fluttered down gently, settling on the ruby-colored, fur-trimmed mantle he wore about his broad shoulders. He wore an unreadable expression, and his gaze was veiled. He’d paid her a visit, yet she sensed he wasn’t sure about the wisdom of doing so.
She felt his distrust.
Nessa favored him with a warm smile. “Come in, Sir Hugh.” She stepped back and gestured for him to enter. “Get out of the cold.”
He obeyed, although he stamped his boots on the step and shook out his cloak before he did so.
A considerate man, Nessa noted. She hadn’t met many of those over the years.
She took his cloak from him, noting the fineness of the weave, and hung it up behind the door. Suddenly, the interior of her cottage seemed overly cramped. He was a big man, tall enough that his head almost brushed the heavy beams that stretched overhead. Bunches of drying herbs and hangings of bones and feathers swung from many of them, so he would need to be careful.
“You said you’d take a look at my hand?” he said gruffly. Once again, he spoke Gaelic rather than English. It was something Nessa appreciated, a mark of respect he didn’t have to give her—and yet did.
Nessa nodded. “And I will … come, take a seat by the fire.”
He obeyed, yet the tension in his broad shoulders was impossible to miss.
His heavy hauberk jingled as he sat down. Pulling up a stool of her own, Nessa met his eye, taking care to hold it a fraction longer than was necessary. “Let’s take a look at that injury,” she murmured.
Wordlessly, Hugh held out his bandaged hand, and she unwrapped the bandage. And the moment she exposed the wound, she fought the urge to frown.
His camp physician was a fool to let this go on untreated.
The wound, which was long and thin—and looked to have been caused by a blade—was indeed festering. It was red, swollen, and had a sickly-sweet stench that worried her. But even more worryingly, thin red lines had started to spread out from it.
“This will need care,” she murmured.
Hugh frowned. “So, it has soured?”
“Aye.”
Nessa knew she was supposed to be drawing this man into her net, yet it wasn’t in her nature to soften her words about such matters. She had to let him know it was serious, or this injured hand could be the end of him.
It wasn’t the best time of year to heal such an injury. A Storm Moon rode the night sky during the month of February: it was a time of cold, snow, hunger, and storms. Yet they had just begun the waxing crescent phase of the moon, a time of intention, which was favorable.
Nessa rose to her feet, crossed to her work table, and collected some items in a basket before carrying it to the fireside. “This will hurt some,” she warned the knight.
Hugh grunted, making it clear he cared not.
Nessa resisted the urge to smile; most men were like that—until she made them whimper like bairns.
Unsheathing a small, thin-bladed knife from her belt, Nessa held it over the flames, waiting until the blade glowed red.
She then deftly lanced the wound. Blood and pus ran over his outstretched hand. Yet, to his credit, Hugh didn’t flinch or make a sound. Only his face gave him away: white and pinched.
Wiping his hand clean with a cloth, she then poured vinegar upon the wound.
The hiss through Hugh’s clenched teeth made Nessa’s mouth curve in sympathy. She knew it would burn like the devil.
Don’t have sympathy for him. She chastised herself as she wiped away the vinegar with another cloth, careful not to touch the wound. He has spent years burning Scottish towns and cutting Scottish throats. Ye should be using yer blade on his throat.
Aye, perhaps, but Nessa was a healer first and foremost, a protector of life. She couldn’t stand by and not help the sick and injured. Even one of the enemy. Plus, if she healed him, it would be easier to gain his trust.
As if reading her thoughts, Hugh cleared his throat. “Why are you helping me?”
Nessa glanced up. “Ye are hurt.”
Their gazes fused. “Aye … but I am English.”