He finally agreed to let her doctor him up, but only after he had taken care of the stallion and fed the stock. Now he sat on a chair in the kitchen, clad once again in his clout and moccasins, while she washed the blood from his face and ribs and back. Her touch was gentle, innocently seductive. The ache of his wounds faded as he watched her. He closed his eyes as she began to smear a cooling ointment over the shallow cuts. She was close, so close. He inhaled the warm womanly scent of her as she bandaged his wounds, loving the touch of her hands on his skin. Slowly, he opened his eyes, his hands reaching out to cup her face. “Mag-gie, what am I to do?” “Whatever you want.” “I feel as if I am being torn in half,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “All my life I have been raised to be a warrior, to hunt, to fight.” “And you fight very well,” Maggie said, smiling faintly.
