But of course, it is not the gown that worries me. The sense of panic in my chest grows until I can hardly breathe. every taunt thrown at me by the village boys, every slur cast my way, every insult echoes in my head. And those were all from villagers and peasants, people much accustomed to ugliness and deformity. Duval is of noble blood, was raised amid the beauty and finery of court. I cannot bear that I will be the ugliest thing he has ever seen. “No.” I take a step backwards, determined to stay out of his reach. “I do not need your help.”
He frowns at my unreasonableness. “If we do not tend your injury, you could well lose the use of your shoulder and arm, and how would that serve your god or your duchess?”
I hiss in frustration. Trust Duval to find the one argument that will remind me of my true purpose here. My only purpose here. My service to Mortain comes before all else. There is no place for modesty or shame. Perhaps the god is testing me even now to see if my vanity is stronger than my duty to Him. Feeling raw and exposed, I cannot help but grumble. "What would a man know of stitching anyway?”
Duval laughs outright at that, and a small hidden dimple winks briefly at the corner of his mouth. “If a man expects to survive in battle or help his fellow men-at-arms afterward, he will indeed learn to stitch, and to stitch well, if not prettily. Now quit putting this off.”
Slowly, I return to the bed, sit down, and turn my back to him. I feel hollow inside and remind myself that what Duval thinks of me or my scar is of no importance. Indeed, perhaps his disgust and revulsion will help rebuild the barrier that once stood between us. The words he spoke when we left the convent echo through me. Being sired by one of the old saints puts your lineage into a class all its own, a class as untouchable by the nobility as the nobility is by turnip farmers. He may claim such lofty ideals, but it is another thing altogether to see with one’s own eyes what marks such parentage leaves behind.
I hold myself rigid as he unlaces my bodice. It starts to fall forward and I catch it with my hands, hugging it to me like a shield.
There is a rustle of movement as he takes a dagger from his belt. The tearing sound as he cuts away my ruined chemise is loud in the quiet room, and the rush of air against my damp back makes me shiver. I clutch the front of my gown tightly and steel myself against what must surely happen next.
The silence grows impossibly long and I am painfully reminded of the hideous silence when Guillo saw my back. Of his fear and anger and revulsion. I force myself to breathe.
“Ah,” Duval says. “So this is what you didn’t want me to see. Poor Ismae.” His voice is as soft and tender as a caress. I square my shoulders and stare straight ahead. “How did you come by it?” he asks.
“’Tis where the herbwitch’s poison burned me when my mother tried to cast me from her womb.”
when he touches my shoulder again, I bite back a yelp of surprise, and my skin twitches beneath his fingers. Slowly, he traces my scar. It is exquisitely sensitive, and pleasure unfurls across my skin, so intense and unexpected that it feels as if I have been brushed by an angel’s wing.
It is all I can do to keep from leaping from the bed and bolting.
Perhaps sensing this, Duval speaks, his voice low. “There is no shame in scars, Ismae.”
I long to laugh at his gentle words, to throw them back in his face and claim I do not care what he thinks. But I do care. Far more than I have any right to, and his acceptance undermines every last defense I possess.
"We’ll need to wash this,” he murmurs, and even though I welcome this practical task, when he rises from the bed I am torn between relief and disappointment.
He pours water from a ewer into a shallow basin, then carries it back to the bed. After settling the basin in his lap, he dips a piece of linen into the water and uses gentle, efficient strokes to wash the blood from my wound. It is a practical, matter-of-fact touch, much like Sister Serafina would use were she tending to me. even so, my entire back is alive with awareness. every inch of my skin, every knob of my spine, and even my scar seem to gain pleasure from his touch. Indeed, the whole world narrows so it is all I can think of.
I close my eyes and try to break this spell he is weaving. “Do you have scars, milord?”
“Oh yes.” He removes the cloth from my back and wrings it out in the basin. “One received in service to my lord father, and another received in service to my sister.” He touches the re-wetted linen to my back and I shiver. I want to lean into that touch, lean into him, feel his warmth wrap around me. Instead, I force myself to pull away. “I’m sure it is clean by now.”
His hand clamps down on my good shoulder. An unwelcome thrill flutters somewhere deep in my belly. “Aye, it is clean, but deep enough that it will need to be stitched. It did not tear the muscle, though, so it should not take long to heal. You are not afraid of a few stitches, are you?”
“Of course not.” His taunt works and I hold myself still.
I welcome the bite of the needle as it jabs my flesh. Pain, at least, is familiar to me. each little prick and burn helps clear away the heady intoxication of Duval’s more gentle touches.
“This is the last one,” he says. I feel an extra tug as he knots the end. He leans in close, his breath warm upon my skin, then bites the thread with his teeth. “There. Done. Raise your arm, but slowly. I want to see if it pulls.”
Still clutching the front of my dress, I lift my arm. The stitches bite and burn, but not unbearably. Just enough to remind me to use caution until it heals.
“It will do,” he says gruffly. “Although I shall refrain from moving on to fancy stitchery anytime soon.”
“And here I imagined you embroidering altar cloths with the duchess and her ladies in the afternoon.”
Duval snorts. “Hardly. But it would be wise for you to do that for a few days while this heals.”
“Methinks not. In case you hadn’t noticed, the schemes and plots around here are beginning to thicken.”
“It has come to my attention, yes,” Duval says dryly.
“May I stand up now?”
“If you wish.”
I rise to my feet, careful to keep the loose bodice clasped firmly in place, then spin around, anxious to remove my na**d back from his view.
But facing him is worse, I realize, for his expression is soft, unguarded, and there is a tenderness there that I have only seen when he is with the duchess. Our eyes meet, and in that moment everything alters. It is as if he has only just now realized that we are alone in his bedchamber with me barely clothed. The tenderness in his face turns to something else, something that makes me aware of the cold air on my bare back and of my tattered bodice. He takes a step closer, then another, and suddenly we are almost touching. His eyes never leave mine, but his hand comes up and brushes a strand of hair away from my collarbone. without even realizing what I am doing, I lean toward him.