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would never be the same again.

 
    Chapter Five
     
    They rode until dusk, pausing only to rest the horses. She fretted at his unwillingness to let her tend to his wound; the need to heal, to use the gift, burned through her like a flame, but he was adamant, refusing to stop while there was yet daylight.
    Only when the three moons of Hovis had appeared over the horizon did he agree to stop. He was weak from loss of blood by then, barely able to stand. The shaft of the arrow stood out from his thigh, grotesque and covered with blood.
    The Maje unsaddled her mare, then spread the saddle blanket on the ground, insisting that Jarrett lie down.
    “Cold.” He forced the word through clenched teeth, his body wracked by violent shivers. “So cold.”
    Nodding, she quickly gathered an armful of wood, then, squatting on her heels, she took the three largest pieces and formed a triangle. When that was done, she placed smaller bits of wood and leaves within the triangle.
    Closing her eyes, the Maje held her hands over the wood.
    “Dry from wet, heat from cold. Give me fire, bright and bold.”
    Immediately, the bits of wood within the triangle began to glow, brighter and brighter. There was a sharp crackling sound, then flames licked at the wood.
    Jarrett swore under his breath as the fire’s heat reached out to chase away the cold that enveloped him.
    “Are you also a witch?” he asked with a wary gaze.
    “Nay, my Lord. ’Tis but another of my gifts.” She met his gaze, a ghost of a smile hovering around her mouth. “But then, are not all women witches of one kind or another?”
    “True enough,” he agreed. He shifted on the blanket, grimacing as the movement awakened the pain in his thigh.
    Reminded of his wound, she drew the knife she had secreted in the pocket of her skirt and made a neat slit in his breeches. For a time, she studied the wound, wondering how he had ridden so long, how he had managed to stay in the saddle.
    “Thee,” she muttered, shaking her head. “So stubborn.”
    “Get it out.” He forced the words through clenched teeth.
    Yes, she thought, it had to come out, but how? Would it be easier, less painful, to push the arrow through his thigh, or to cut it out instead?
    Sensing her dilemma, Jarrett took a deep breath. “Push it through,” he said, knowing it would be easier and quicker.
    She looked at him for a moment, seeing the taut lines of pain around his mouth. The thought of laying hold of the arrow, of driving it through healthy flesh, chilled her to the marrow of her bones, but there was no help for it. She couldn’t heal his wound and relieve his pain until she had removed the cause.
    Teeth clenched with determination, she took hold of the short, narrow shaft, emptying her mind of everything but the need to get it done.
    A harsh cry of pain rumbled in Jarrett’s throat as the arrow penetrated farther into his flesh before leaving it, and then he let out a long, shuddering sigh.
    He gazed at her through eyes filled with pain and fever. Then, taking her hand in his, he lightly kissed her palm.
    “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice heavy with fatigue, then, his eyes closing, he took her hand and placed it over the wound in his thigh.
    She stared at him, her palm tingling with heat from the touch of his lips, a warmth vastly different from the internal heat that flowed from her body to his.
    No man had ever kissed her. Ever. Her heart was pounding erratically, her cheeks felt flushed, and all from one kiss, and that kiss only on her hand.
    Her gaze wandered over his face. His lashes were thick and very black against his pale skin. As she watched, she saw the tension drain from his expression, saw his muscles relax as she absorbed his pain, a pain she hardly felt. She was only aware of her hand upon a well-muscled masculine thigh, of the heat that burned in the center of her palm, a warmth that had nothing to do with her power to heal and everything to do with the searing memory of his lips