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looked much the worse for wear, his long limbs obviously cramped and the bandages at his shoulder once more stained. But it was not that which made her catch her breath. A thin, oozing cut marred his left cheek from the corner of his eye nearly to the corner of his mouth.
    “Who did this to you?” Linnet felt her anger ignite and with it protectiveness, so strong it frightened her. No wound taken fairly in battle, this had been inflicted on a man already injured and tied and, as such, qualified in her eyes as base torture.
    He did not answer, merely looked at her with those clear, gray eyes now flooded by light.
    “Hold that torch steady, Lark.” Linnet reached for her bundle and unrolled it with suddenly tense hands. She did not lose herself to anger often. When she did, it burned bright.
    Lark swore and thrust the torch through a bracket just inside the door. “If you mean to mother him, I will not stay.”
    “I care not whether you stay or go.”
    Lark leaned against the doorpost. “On the other hand, I should remain on hand to make sure he does not wring your neck.”
    Gareth de Vavasour shot Lark a glare that indicated he would rather throttle her.
    “Stop with your bluster,” Linnet told her sister. “Cut him loose so I can see to that shoulder.”
    Lark did not argue it. She stepped forward and cut the tether with a slash of her knife.
    “Looks like someone has already been at him with a blade.”
    “Hush, and let me think.” Linnet found that curiously hard to do within reach of the Norman. Being near him worked to scatter her thoughts, like a spell of bad magic. Her fingers began to tingle; she found herself focusing not on his shoulder wound but that at his thigh, and the rent in his leggings that offered such an excellent view of what lay beneath.
    She had seen naked men before. To be sure, she had seen Falcon Scarlet naked, which was naught to scoff at. During the heady days of other Midsummers, when the lads went skinny dipping in the village pond, she and the other maids spied, shameless, on all they had to offer. It had been impossible not to admire Fal’s long, lean body with all its fascinating appendages.
    But not so fascinating as the reactions stirred by this man now under her hands, nor the spear of titillation, almost like pain, that stabbed through her at the sight of his male perfection.
    Nay, not so perfect, now—even as she peeled the dressing away from his shoulder, her eyes returned to his face. She supposed many a knight bore such scars—some, like the village men, probably even wore them like badges of courage.
    So why did this anger her so?
    Her hands shook as she poured unguent onto a soft cloth. “This will hurt,” she told him.
    Behind her, Lark snorted. “Better pour salt into it,” she advised. “Pain him all you can.”
    Gareth drew a hard breath when she applied the unguent but made no other sound. Linnet’s heightened senses seemed able to feel him, though—so intensely she fancied she could guess his thoughts. He held on hard to his few remaining shreds of dignity, one of which came of silence. He detested Lark and no doubt Linnet, as well. And he was not about to lower his guard before them.
    She redressed the shoulder as carefully as she could. Despite his ill-treatment, it showed some signs of scabbing.
    “Lie down,” she bade him then.
    He questioned her with those incredible eyes.
    “’Twill be easier for me to see to your leg if you are stretched out.”
    Lark snorted again, in derision. Linnet, who lost her temper but rarely, and with her sister more than anyone else, rounded on her. “If you mean to jeer at me, you can take yourself off.”
    “Need you coddle him like a week-old infant? He is a demon, like all his kind, lest you forget.”
    “I forget nothing, including the fact that I am a healer. How I practice my craft is dictated only by myself and the one who gives the skill to my hands.”
    “No need to make a great mystery of it. Just do the