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obviously alive. His breathing seemed slow
and steady.
    Her still-shaking hand moved to examine his
wounded arm. It felt much less swollen. She couldn’t be certain
without removing the bandage, but it appeared to be mending. Relief
raced through her. It was her first attempt at healing, and so far
she had been successful.
    She sighed softly. Hope remained for her
plan. If only the Viking would rouse a little. Perhaps the drugged
wine had affected him so strongly because he was weakened by the
fever.
    Her eyes perused his still face, and the
strange fascination again crept over her—the irresistible urge to
touch him. Her fingers hovered over his forehead, aching to smooth
his thick hair away from his brow. Then she leaned closer, and her
nose wrinkled with disgust. His smell had not improved after two
days of lying senseless. If she meant to couple with him, she must
do something about his odor. Now appeared to be the ideal time.
    She glanced down at his long body. His
filthy clothes smelled evilly. She would have to cut them off, then
bathe him. But if she allowed him to lie in the soiled straw
afterwards, he would only get dirty again. Fiona removed the old
cloak she wore, swiftly deciding that it would serve as another
blanket.
    She stood, took a deep breath, then leaned
over, grabbed the Viking’s ankles and, grunting, pulled his lower
body away from the wall as far as his shackled ankles would allow.
Straightening, she took several deep breaths. Jesu, but the man was
heavy!
    She did not rest long, but began to kick
aside the fouled straw that had lain beneath him. Once the dirt
floor was exposed, she picked up her cloak and spread it out next
to the wall. Then she grasped his ankles and dragged him back to
his former resting place.
    Fiona wiped the sweat from her brow and
caught her breath. The Viking had not moved a muscle during the
ordeal but lain as limp and inert as a sack of grain. It seemed odd
he didn’t stir. Again, she leaned over and touched his forehead,
searching for fever. His skin seemed only vaguely warm. It must be
the wine that kept him senseless. Even so, she must hurry. If he
roused and discovered her, she wasn’t certain what he would do.
    Her hand trembled as she pulled the small,
sharp knife from the leather thong at her waist and began to cut
off the Viking’s tattered tunic. It was already badly torn at the
neck, exposing much of his chest. She made a cut at the top, ripped
it the rest of the way, then began to ease it off.
    Under his left arm it seemed to stick. She
leaned over and saw that the garment had adhered to a patch of
dried blood. As gently as she could, she loosened the fabric and
pulled it away from the jagged gash. She grimaced. Another wound.
Indeed, now that his chest was bare, she could see a half-dozen
ugly bruises and several deep cuts marring his fair skin.
    Pity filled her. He must have been in awful
pain the first time she’d come to him. It was well the wine had
kept him unconscious and eased his suffering. She felt the familiar
regret that the Viking’s magnificent form should have been so
battered and damaged.
    She turned away and sought out the supplies
she had brought. Unstoppering the jar of water, she poured the
water into the cauldron, reserving a bit for the Viking to drink.
She added a handful of medicinal herbs to the cauldron, then dipped
a cloth into the mixture. With slow, gentle strokes, she began to
wash the Viking’s face.
    Her hands trembled as she felt his smooth
flesh beneath her fingers. She cleaned the cut on his forehead,
then rinsed the cloth and rubbed it over the planes of his chiseled
cheekbones and the stubble-covered squareness of his jaw. The
torchlight made his sun-reddened skin gleam bronze and brought out
the coppery highlights in his wavy hair and thick mustache.
    She reached his neck, and her hands shook
even more as she perceived the raw strength of the corded muscles
in his neck, the breadth of his square shoulders. Steadying