The Truest Heart Read Online Free PDF Page A

so still. So silent. Fear surged within her like the roiling of the sea. Dear God, was he dead then after all?
    Swiftly she laid her ear on the breadth of his chest. Ah, he still lived! She could feel the beat of his heart; it lumbered slow and steady beneath her ear.
    Slowly she drew back to look at him. A trickle of water dripped from his temple to the pillow beneath his head. What remained of his clothing was sopping as well. That would not do, she realized. Why, if he remained in these rags, he would surely sicken further.
    Without thought, her hands moved to his body. She worked almost frantically at the laces of his tunic, parting it and shoving it aside to reveal his chest, tugging it from first one shoulder, then the other, and finally over his head.
    His boots came next, followed by the tattered strips of his chausses. Fumbling a little, her fingers came to his drawers. At least they weren’t completely ruined.
    At last he was naked. Perchance a part of her was aghast at her daring, but this was no time for modesty, neither hers nor his.
    And so she found out, as her gaze traversed the length of him. Her mind fleetingly registered a wide chest shadowed with curling black hair, limbs that were long and brawny … the unmistakable evidence that he was profoundly—starkly—a man…
    Due to the nature of the task at hand, her inspection of that part of him was mayhap a trifle hasty. She guessed that all was well there and he’d suffered no injury nearby, though, in truth, Gillian could hardly be certain …
    Now on to the other side.
    She pushed and grunted and sought desperately to heave him to his stomach—and failed. Shoving aside the unruly tendril of hair that persisted in falling over one eye, she rocked back on her heels in frustration. Sweet mercy, but he was heavy! ‘Twas not that she was so weak, she told herself. Though her stature was not large, neither was she frail. She’d grown used to hard work while living here. She fetched water from the well and carried wood for the fire, far more than she’d been able to when she’d first arrived. Nay, the man was simply too big! Indeed, his feet dangled over the end of the pallet.
    Gillian’s eyes narrowed. Her head tipped to the side in fervid consideration. Finally, she braced herself and pushed beneath his shoulder, peering at the top half of him as best as she was able. Now for the lower half. Biting her lip, she placed a hand on the bony ridge of his hip. Taking a deep breath, she felt her cheeks heat as she deliberately avoided focusing on his nether regions. Gingerly she cupped her fingers under one naked thigh and lifted his leg. In this way she was able to discern those injuries that were visible.
    Indeed, it seemed they were countless. She sucked in a harsh breath. There was a massive lump on his temple; the skin was puffy and swollen, split by a jagged cut. Clearly he’d suffered a terrible blow to the head. His face was scratched and bruised. Various cuts and bruises marked his body all over. The worst was a ragged strip of flesh that had been ripped the length of his side. It began just under his left arm and ripped nearly to his waist, raw and oozing blood. As the ship had been flung and shattered against the rocks, it would seem that he had been cast as well. Had he been awake? Ah, but the brine of the sea upon his wounds must have been sheer agony!
    To Gillian’s eyes, it appeared as if the whole of his body had been beaten with a club. There was scarcely an inch of him that was not bruised and swollen. His right knee was mashed and bloodied. Her heart twisted. If he lived, would he ever walk again?
    There was no hiding from the truth … she was not a healer; she knew naught of balms and potions. True, she’d often assisted the women of Westerbrook with various abrasions her father’s men had suffered; she knew wounds must be kept clean and free of dirt. But in truth she’d never seen anything the likes of which this man suffered, and