A True and Perfect Knight Read Online Free PDF Page B

She tried to snatch her legs from his grip.
    “Aye.” He clamped her ankle beneath his arm and split the cloth with a deft stroke. Fury welled inside him at the sight of her bare feet. “How long have you been without shoes?”
    “It is not important.”
    “Pride is a sin. You are hurt. You will tell me the whole of it.”
    She looked at him. Her face reddened. “And then what, oh great and wonderful knight? You’ll use your renowned strength and your reputation to fix the problem? Will you order my feet not to freeze or cause me pain and you undue inconvenience?” Anger roared out at him from those green eyes. Her words hissed at him with the speed of a drawn blade.
    Impatient with her stubbornness, Haven bent to examine her injuries.
    His gasp of shock echoed her gasp of pain at his gentle touch.
    On top, where not covered by dirt or bruises, long, slim bones arched beneath translucent skin that was nearly blue with cold. On the bottoms, hard calluses decorated the pads of her toes, and blisters seeped and boiled over heel and ball. Elsewhere, skin that should have been baby soft was toughened through misuse. Scratches ringed her delicate ankles. One of them oozed bright red droplets onto his broad fingers.
    “Why did you not tell me?” Anger and sympathy shook his voice.
    “When had I the chance?” she challenged.
    Haven felt his mouth thin. The woman was correct. He had not given her any chance for discussion. He had erred because he preferred to ignore her. She reminded him too much of his own part in Roger Dreyford’s death. Unfortunately ignoring her was less than easy.
    He shook his head. Right now, her health must concern him more than his error in judgment. Injury was serious business, even when one had a roof and walls for shelter. He gathered her in his arms and felt her shudder. “You are cold and wet too.”
    She opened her mouth. In the time it took for her to protest against his touch, Watley appeared. Haven took a large, fur-trimmed cloak from the squire and wrapped it round her twice.
    “Soames has returned and asks to speak with you,” Watley announced.
    “Stop pushing me about. I must…”
    Haven placed a finger against her surprisingly soft lips. ‘No. You must sit and get warm.”
    She glared at him.
    He glared back. “Watley,” he bellowed.
    The squire, who stood right next to him, jumped.
    “Fetch the salve I keep in my saddlebags. Then tell that cook to prepare a healing posset.”
    “Aye, Sir Haven.” The squire took two steps.
    “Tell Bergen to gather more wood for this fire.”
    “Yes.” Watley started to depart.
    “And bring bandages from the pack mules.”
    “Yes, Sir Haven.” Watley took another step.
    “Tell Soames, I will be with him shortly.”
    The young man halted once more. “Aye, sir.” Again, the squire made as if to leave.
    “When you return, bring your spare boots for madame. See that she stays warm and drinks the brew.”
    “Aye,” the squire waited.
    “What are you waiting for?’ Haven shouted. “Cannot you see that madame shivers with cold and ague?”
    “Yes, sir.” Watley ran off.
    Haven focused on the widow. “When that posset is ready, you shall drink every drop.”
    Genvieve emitted a raspy chuckle. “Oh, certainment , Sir Haven.”
    Haven eyed her askance. What ailed everyone? The woman was too stubborn and prideful to inform him that she was in pain. She turned a warrior from a guard into a nursemaid. His squire suddenly had to have orders explained in detail, then be told to go about those orders. Did the widow have some form of contagion that caused thick-headedness?
    The woman huddled into his cloak and leaned closer to the fire. She shuddered less. Her face appeared less pinched. He could not press her for answers now. His questions would have to wait.
    When Watley returned, Haven surveyed the camp. Soames and the rest of the men not on guard sat as near the fire as they could get without disturbing their leader. Haven rose,