“He’s bleeding through the sheet!” Daisy’s voice. Strained and rasping. He didn’t like hearing it like that.

Talent’s dry lilt replied. “Can’t be helped. He’s more slashed than whole.”

Good to know.

“Oh, God. God!” Soft hands fluttered over his hair, the only place that did not scream for relief. “So much blood. Look at him! Just look… His face… God.” She petted him again and he turned his head into the touch, which unfortunately made him whimper like a lad. The stroking stopped. “He’s going to die, isn’t he?” A sob.

He liked the sound of that sob, bastard that he was. It spoke of regret.

“You’re being overly dramatic,” said Talent. “It doesn’t suit you. He’s a lycan. A good thrashing won’t kill him, just hurts like the devil.”

Aye, and didn’t he know it. Simply taking a breath sent fire coursing through him. Ian concentrated on Daisy’s scent to avoid the pain. Her scent was strong now, enveloping him. The scent of Daisy and woman. Despite his pain, his mouth watered. His head was pillowed on her lap, he realized. What he wouldn’t give to be there when he was fully healed. He tried to open his eyes. It didn’t work.

“A thrashing? They tore him apart!” Gentle fingers ran through his hair, and he almost sobbed. It felt too good, that touch.

“That was the idea, wasn’t it? At least they didn’t take any parts,” Talent observed with typical pragmatism. “Stop your worrying. We wrapped him tight enough in that sheet. Won’t lose any bits of loose meat that way.”

The hand in his hair tightened. He grunted, and the grip quickly eased. But not her voice. “You’re sick!” Daisy snapped. “All of you, sick.”

Talent let out a tired sigh. “It is what it is. My lord knew what he was in for and accepted it. Why can’t you?”

“Accept torture without turning a hair?” Her laughter held a touch of hysteria. “How could he let them do this?”

“What a question,” said Talent. “When you were like a grape ripe for the plucking from the moment Lyall put his hands on you? Do you honestly think his lordship would leave you to such a fate? I can only thank the devil that you had the sense to stay quiet.”

“You were there?” Daisy voice grew shrill, the grip in his hair going tight again before easing over him like the flutter of butterfly wings. “And you did nothing to save him?”

“Are you cracked? You think I would have usurped his lordship’s authority to save him? You think he would have accepted such an indignity? Crazy, fool woman…”

“No worse than an impudent, vain… valet! If that’s what you even are. No valet I know talks back in such a manner.”

“And no lady I know goes stumbling into such trouble, yet here you are!”

They’d be tossing him aside to get at each other’s throats in a moment. And Ian rather liked the plump pillow of Daisy’s thighs.

“Shut. Up.” His voice was as coarse as coal, but they heard.

“Oh!” Hands fluttered around his hair. “Northrup? Don’t move! We’ll be home soon and…” She touched his earlobe. Past the burn of his wounds, he concentrated on her soft, warm fingertip as if it were the only thing in the world. “We’ll get you well.” She didn’t sound so sure, but she went back to stroking his hair.

“Be fine,” he mumbled. Speech wasn’t advisable; his face moved too much. White spots exploded behind his lids and nausea pulled at his gut. When the fingers stilled, he made one last effort. “Just don’t stop.”

Her scent touched him as she leaned close. “Stop what?”

Suddenly every gash and gouge screamed, and raw agony had him weeping inside. His throat worked. God, he wanted to scream. Razor-sharp fingers of pain dug into him, scraping his bones. He need to go someplace it couldn’t get him. To darkness.

“Touching me,” he whispered, and then gave up the fight.

Daisy stroked his hair until they reached his home. She held his fingers—the only bit of him that wasn’t injured—after Tuttle and Talent unwrapped him from the bloody sheet shrouding his body. She kept a hold on his fingers, but averted her eyes when Talent lifted him into the deep copper tub in Northrup’s bathing chamber. And clenched them tight when he lunged forward on a scream as the water hit him, his face a horror of gashes that went bone deep. The sight made her want to sob, but she bit it back.

Talent leaped forward, grabbing Northrup’s bloody jaw and forced something down his throat. Whatever he gave Northrup made the man slip back into oblivion. Tuttle cooed under her breath as she handled him with the gentle deftness of a mother.

“A little bit of witches brew will make this easier.” Tuttle held his shoulder as Northrup went limp once more, his broad chest sinking into the water, the wounds turning it crimson. He slid down until he was submerged to his chin. Daisy could only wonder if “witches brew” was just that, or simply an opiate. She couldn’t be sure of anything anymore.

“Fresh, pure water is the best thing for a wounded lycan,” Tuttle said to Daisy. “ ‘Clean them up, let them heal’ is what they say. No one knows exactly why that is, but I’m not one to question a good thing.” Still, the elder woman shook her head at the sight of Northrup. “If he’s been worse, I’ve not seen it.”

Worse didn’t begin to cover the damage. His expressive lips were torn open, exposing his teeth in a gruesome grin. His eyes were swollen shut and blackened. Gore, blood, and dirt matted his hair, covered every inch of him. How? How could he heal from this?

Talent bustled around the chamber, pulling out a pot of the same concoction Tuttle had used on Daisy before and a stack of thick towels. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Her fingers laced with Northrup’s. “He said to keep touching him and so I shall.” She glared at the hostile young man before her. “And if you say one more word about it, I’ll thrash you.”

Talent scowled, and Tuttle chuckled as she poured water over Northrup’s face and hair. “I suspect you would at that, lass.”

Despite Daisy’s doubts, the water was working. Before her eyes, the edges of his gaping flesh slowly began coming together. As the flesh grew, blood ran from the wounds. A gruesome sight, and yet he appeared to ease just a bit more. Daisy caressed the backs of his fingers with her thumb, soothing him in the only way she could. She hated the way his brow pinched in an expression of deep pain, and the way the corners of his mouth twitched as if repressing a scream. Part of her wanted to shake him for accepting such torture. The other wanted to crawl into the tub with him, curl around him, and cry.

She did not let him go when Talent took him from the tub, dried him off, and began rubbing the ointment into his skin. The fresh scent of chamomile and lavender, with an underlying bite of tea tree, filled the air. “Soothes his nerves,” Talent muttered reluctantly to Daisy. “Eases the itching that comes with new skin.” Skin that was covered now not with deep rents but with lumpy pink slashes that wept a clear liquid.

Daisy kept her eyes firmly on Northrup’s face. She would not dishonor his sacrifice by looking upon him in his vulnerability. “Will he heal completely?” It would not matter; her regard for him wouldn’t change if he remained in this scarred state. Only Northrup was a bit vain about his good looks, and it hurt her to think of him suffering for the loss of them.

“Of course he will,” Talent said. “His age and his blood will see to that. He’s a Ranulf. Purest blood a lycan can have.” His hands worked rhythmically against Northrup’s skin. “Makes him strong, where an ordinary lycan would have succumbed.”

“But his father…”

“Was burned,” Talent said emphatically. “Fire destroys flesh. Eats it, if you will. Cuts merely separate the flesh. Much easier to heal from that.”

“This was why you did not worry?” she asked.

Talent set the pot of ointment aside and wiped his hands on a towel before looking at her. His green eyes were hard in the flickering lamplight. “I didn’t worry because worrying doesn’t change a damn thing.” He pulled the sheet over his master. “Fate is fate.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Hours passed and day gave way to night. Daisy watched in fascination as Northrup slowly healed. First, only pink lines marked where he’d been abused, and then the slashes across his face faded. Presently, he was whole and breathtaking once more.

Daisy’s hand slid along the sweeping curve of Northrup’s jaw where the skin was as smooth as a lad’s now. Down, along his strong neck, she went, and then back up, across the high plane of his brow.

The room had grown ghostly quiet while Northrup slept, with only the occasional crack and hiss behind the grate to punctuate the silence.

Before leaving them, Talent had carried his master into the bedchamber and tucked him into the massive tester bed that dominated the room. Though young, and mouthy, and surly, the valet cared for his master with a loyalty that required respect. He’d left her standing by Northrup’s prone form with the brusque instructions to “make herself useful and rub some ointment on his lordship’s face now and then.”

“Blighter,” she muttered as she picked up the jar and dipped her fingers into the slightly greasy ointment again. The substance went on cool, but as she worked it into Northrup’s skin, it began to warm. It was the same ointment that Tuttle had given her days ago, when Daisy had been bitten. Whatever the concoction was, its healing properties were beyond the pale. Tuttle had insisted that Daisy use it again on her stinging, swollen cheek. Within minutes, the pain had gone. She hadn’t looked in a mirror, but suspected the swelling had subsided as well.

Northrup did not move as she worked on him, but the tightness around his mouth eased with each pass of Daisy’s fingers until finally it was gone. The bedside lamp had been turned low, and its light played over the crests and hollows of his countenance. He would never appear soft, not even in sleep. His features were too sharp, the angle of his dark brows etched into a permanent slant of concentration. Knowing he slept soundly at last, she released the tight rein she’d kept on her gaze and let it wander downward.

Daisy’s breath caught as she took an unabashed look at Northrup’s uncovered chest. He was gorgeous. Perfectly balanced between sheer strength and elegant economy. Lean, flat muscles defined the dips and planes of his torso and rose and swelled along his wide shoulders and long arms. Golden ivory in the low lamplight, his skin was a smooth canvas that highlighted all his glorious definition. Were it not for the gentle rise and fall of his chest, she’d think him a sculpture. Endymion lying in wait for Selene.

Indeed, he might have been a sculpture save for the dusting of copper and bronze hair scattered along his upper chest. Hair that lovingly surrounded little flat ni**les of light brown. On his left pectoral muscle was a fist-sized tattoo. Daisy had heard of such things but had never seen one up close before. Northrup’s was of a black wolf’s head with DEI DONO SUM QUOD SUM inscribed around it in bold script. Rusty memories of her Latin primer came to the fore.

“By the grace of God I am what I am,” she whispered. He’d shouted it earlier, and she had to smile at how very fitting the motto was. The tattoo appeared to move as he breathed with the even cadence of sleep.

Her mouth went dry, her fingers curling into a fist. She would not touch it.

Ye gods but the sheet was too low around his waist, stopping at a line of dark auburn hair that peeked out a little bit farther with each exhale of Northrup’s breath. The muscles beneath his belly button lay flat like a plate of armor above the narrow plane of his hips, the skin stretched so tightly over them that the veins stood out, one of them leading a path down below the sheet.

Flush with heat, she bit her lip hard. She wanted to trace that path with her tongue and pull the sheet away to reveal the rather large bulge hiding beneath it. A delicious image, ripped in two as he tensed on a sharp breath, his eyes snapping open and his hand shooting out to grasp her wrist. She yelped as he wrenched her toward him.

Daisy fell upon his chest with an undignified “Oomph!”

Northrup blinked once, then immediately his eyes cleared, and he relaxed his hold. “Are you well?” His voice was a rasp of sandpaper, but strong.

Stiffly she nodded, the shock of his sudden movement still upon her. “You?”

He scowled as if taking stock, his eyes darting over her face. “I feel as though I’ve been used to fill a mincemeat pie.”

“How vivid,” she croaked and, unable to hold up the weight of the night any longer, she let her head fall to his shoulder with a thud. He felt as warm and solid as he looked.

Beneath her, his chest shook with a small laugh. “That bad?”

Her deep, shuddering breath was the only answer she felt capable to give. He smelled too good. Of ointment and Northrup. She burrowed her nose deeper, searching for the pure scent of him alone.

His fingers combed through her hair, parting the tangled curls that tumbled free now. A gentle stroke designed to comfort. “He hurt you. For that, he will pay.”

Her cheek worked against his skin as she swallowed. “It is over now.”

Northrup made a sound of disagreement but did not stop his explorations. “You did well, Daisy-girl. You stayed quiet and demure… mostly.”

Daisy pinched at his side, and he yelped. “Of course I did,” she said.

His body moved as he shook his head. “I should not have fought them when they came for us.” Carefully, he touched her cheek. “It gave Conall the knowledge to use you.”