Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel
6
CLOSE YER EYES
NESSA HUFFED A soft laugh, feigning embarrassment. Even so, the man had a penetrating stare, one that demanded truth. He was no fool. She considered her next words carefully. “Aye,” she murmured, deliberately softening her tone. Hugh de Burgh wore a guarded expression, and he wasn’t likely to bed her in such a state. “But ye are in need of my help.”
She deliberately trailed her fingertips along his wrist before reaching for the pot of salve she’d made up earlier. “It seems yer camp physician doesn’t know what he’s about.”
Hugh snorted. “He’s busy tending injuries more serious than mine.”
Nessa resisted the urge to scowl. Then he’s clearly a fool. She didn’t voice the observation; she was trying to get this man to lower his defenses after all. “Close yer eyes,” she instructed.
Hugh’s lantern jaw tensed, his gaze narrowing. “Why?”
“I’m going to put this salve on yer hand and work a healing charm.”
The knight’s frown deepened. “A charm?”
Nessa smiled. “It’s merely something many wise women in this land use as part of their healing. Humor me, please.”
Hugh gave her a wary look before he complied.
Nessa got to work. She covered the wound in salve before cupping it with her hand; the heat of the soured cut burned against her palm.
Closing her own eyes, she murmured the words Colina had taught her as a bairn, words that were as old as her people.
“Wrap ye in wool,
Bind ye with care,
Protection from pain,
Send harm back to its lair.”
A breeze whispered through the smoky interior of the cottage then, and she heard the hearth gutter. A witch-wind, bringing with it the rich aroma of damp earth and the resinous scent of pine and crushed herbs, wrapped around them.
Hugh’s hand grew rigid under hers, but Nessa squeezed it in silent warning. She then repeated the words once more, and the wind gusted through the cottage, causing her to shiver. She stopped speaking, and the witch-wind died away.
Nessa opened her eyes and glanced down at where her hand still covered Hugh’s. The heat against her palm had lessened just a little. The spell was done.
“That’s it,” she murmured. Tiredness settled over her, as it often did after witching. “Ye can open yer eyes now.”
Hugh did as bid, his hazel gaze fixing her. His expression looked even warier than earlier, and Nessa’s chest constricted, panic darting through her. This wasn’t going as she’d hoped. The man was more guarded than a fortress.
“What was that strange draft?” he asked, his voice rough.
Nessa shrugged, even as the tightness in her chest increased. She hadn’t wanted to work a healing charm, yet the wound on his hand had required it. “Just a gust of wind hitting the cottage,” she replied, hoping to put him at ease. “It happens sometimes … I should really get a stonemason to take a look at the walls. It’s far too drafty in here sometimes.”
His gaze didn’t waver from hers. “That tongue you whispered … what was it?”
“An old language.” She broke eye contact, reaching for a fresh bandage to wrap his hand. “One that healers have used for centuries in this land.”
“So, it wasn’t witchcraft?”
Her mouth quirked at the suspicion in his voice. “And if it were, Sir Hugh? Many things in this world cannot be explained. I use some of the old ways in my healing.” She lowered her voice, hoping to affect a beguiling tone. Time was running out, she had to penetrate this man’s shields. “What harm is there in that?”
She started to wrap his hand. Holding his wrist firm, she deliberately made sure that she touched his skin rather than the sleeve of the quilted, long-sleeved tunic he wore. His skin was warm, and she felt his pulse quicken slightly under her touch.
Noting his reaction, victory flared within Nessa. He was doing a fine job of appearing surly and distrustful, yet her closeness was affecting him.
It hit her then that it wasn’t one-sided. Seated before him, so close that their knees were almost touching, she was keenly aware of the man’s presence. She inhaled the smell of leather and the warm, masculine spice of his skin.
Heat flowered across her breast as she worked, her breathing becoming shallow. She could feel his gaze upon her, burning into her. Perhaps he would reach for her once she finished wrapping the bandage?
Her belly fluttered at the thought.
She tied the bandage firm and raised her gaze once more. However, she didn’t release his hand. Instead, she traced her fingers along the bandage and up to the exposed skin of his wrist. It was a bold move, yet she needed to get him to linger in her cottage. “Ye should be right now, Sir Hugh,” she murmured, her voice lowering. “But ye came to me just in time.”
“Thank you, Nessa.” His voice was low, with a husky edge to it that made her feel a little light-headed. She was supposed to be seducing him, yet there was something about this man’s presence that drew her in, made her want to reach out and trace her fingertips along the strong line of his jaw. Would his features soften if she kissed him? English or not, it had been a long while since she’d found a man this attractive.
The moments drew out, and then Hugh drew back his arm. He abruptly rose to his feet, severing the connection between them. “I should go.”
Fighting disappointment, Nessa stood up and plastered a smile upon her lips.
Curse her, she couldn’t fail—and yet Hugh walked to the door and retrieved his mantle. He appeared to be avoiding her eye now.
Nessa cleared her throat. “I suggest ye come back in a day or two,” she said, careful to keep her tone light. “I’ll check how it’s healing and change yer bandages.”
Hugh de Burgh gave a brusque nod. Then, still not looking her way, he lifted the bar from the door and let himself out. A gust of wind swirled in, bringing with it fat flakes of snow. An instant later, the door thudded shut, leaving Nessa alone.
Hugh strode away from the cottage as if the very hounds of hell were yapping at his heels.
He had to get away from this place and the winsome woman who inhabited it—before he forgot himself.
From the moment he’d stepped inside Nessa the healer’s home, he’d felt something within him shift. The cottage had been warm and welcoming: it smelled of dried herbs and peat smoke. It was far less luxurious than his pavilion back at camp, yet he’d wanted to linger.
It had a woman’s touch—something he’d not even realized he’d been missing over the years.
But even more than the homely surroundings, he’d wanted to linger in the Scotswoman’s presence.
She was strange—the strangest woman he’d ever met. It was as if she existed outside the bounds of society. She appeared to have no family here and hadn’t even given him her clan name. Nessa lived alone, apart from the rest of Dunfermline, a healer who employed strange arts.
Even now, the memory of that unusual draft, one that had smelled like he stood deep in a murky pinewood, made his skin prickle.
She’d assured him it was nothing, yet instinct told him differently.
She was at once nurturing and caring—an experienced healer who knew what she was about—and yet disarmingly sensual. Every time she touched him, he imagined her fingertips lingered upon his skin.
He hadn’t been able to stop staring at that lush mouth of hers.
And that was why he’d had to leave. He wasn’t in the habit of bedding witches.
Clenching the hand she’d tended, he pulled his mantle close. He wasn’t sure what she’d done exactly, but the bone-deep throb across the back of his hand, which had been steadily worsening of late, had eased.
Aye, he should stay away from the woman. On his way back from the Holy Land a few years earlier, as he’d crossed the continent, he’d heard stories of folk hunting and burning witches. Fear of women who were different to others hadn’t yet reached this far north, but all the same, Nessa should be more cautious about whom she revealed her abilities to.
Hugh muttered an oath under his breath and strode on, bending his head against the snow. Fortunately, he knew the paths around Dunfermline well, for it was getting dark and the swirling snow almost entirely obscured his surroundings. He’d visited her later than he’d intended—and almost hadn’t come at all.
Despite that his hand now felt markedly better, he almost wished he hadn’t.
Nessa stared at the closed door for a while after the knight left her cottage.
“Thrice-cursed fool,” she murmured. “Ye’ve scared him off.”
She hadn’t wanted to use witching on his hand, yet the tell-tale signs of festering that was on the verge of taking hold had spurred her into doing so.
Once more, Nessa cursed. She wasn’t supposed to be helping the man; she was supposed to be seducing him. Who cared if his damn hand rotted, poisoned his blood, and sent him to an early grave?
He was the enemy. It shouldn’t bother her if his injured hand ended up being his doom.
Nessa scrubbed a hand over her face and moved to her work table, reaching for a clay bottle of apple wine. If she’d been canny, she’d have offered the knight some warmed wine before she’d taken a look at his hand. It might have made him relax a little, made him respond to her.
She didn’t care what the bastard thought of her—and yet his rejection held a sting. Maybe she’d misread him. Maybe he didn’t find her attractive as she’d thought.
Jaw clenched, Nessa poured herself a cup of wine and returned to the fireside. She took a sip, her mouth puckering as she swallowed it. This bottle tasted a bit sour; she’d have to replenish her stocks the following day, just in case she hadn’t chased Hugh de Burgh off for good.
I wish my sisters were here, she thought then, wistfulness seeping over her. They’d have sage advice. Indeed, Fyfa and Breanna would have taken delight in working a charm to bring Hugh de Burgh to his knees—if only Nessa wasn’t so stubborn about using her own wiles to seduce him.
The three of them—Nessa, Fyfa, and Breanna—had grown up together in the order. Although they weren’t actually related by blood, they were closer than sisters, all foundlings who looked to the High Bandruì as their mother. Colina had repeated often over the years that anything important always came in a trio—three wishes, three coins in a fountain, and three strokes of ill luck—even the goddesses themselves: the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone.
Indeed, Nessa had always thought she, Fyfa, and Breanna were stronger together than apart, yet their missions had sent them in different directions. Fyfa was now wed to Hume Comyn, the steward of Stirling Castle. She’d been sent there a few years earlier, to find herself a position in the castle where she’d be privy to the political decisions of Scotland’s rulers. Breanna, the wildest of the three and a true warrior of the cause, spent most of the year in the Highlands, ensuring the lines of communication between the north and south remained open.
Nessa sighed then, weariness descending upon her. No, her sisters weren’t here; she’d have to regain Hugh de Burgh’s trust herself.