He was gone. Dead.
And it was William’s fault.
“Unless ye can dodge an arrow, ’tis not yer fault,” Kinsey said.
William lifted his head to look at her, which sent the cave around him swaying. Had he spoken aloud?
“Fib,” he replied earnestly. “The failure of attempting to capture the castle. We should have spent more time observing, and I knew better. ’Twas far too soon to go in. I sensed it but ignored my instinct.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes against a rush of nausea. “That damn weapon. If I’d have known…” His throat clenched around the swell of emotion. “Men died because of me. Fib died because of me.”
Her ministrations paused for a brief moment. “Nay,” she whispered. “’Twas not yer fault at all.” She sniffled. “’Twas mine. I knew about the pot-de-fer but didn’t tell ye. I didn’t realize how powerful it was. Or what it could do to a man.”
William’s mind whirled. “Ye knew?” He stared at her, incredulous. “Ye knew, and ye dinna tell me?”
She looked away. “I couldn’t.”
“Who told ye?” William’s usual patience snapped at its weakest point. Aye, he could get more from her by being charming, but he couldn’t help his anger when she could have spared so much death. “How did ye know?”
She silently shook her hand, clearly intent on not replying. That was when it came to him suddenly. The recollection of the man who had been staring intently at Kinsey at the tavern.
“The dark-haired man,” he said. “At the tavern.”
Her head snapped up, and he knew his guess to be correct.
* * *
Kinsey stared at William incredulously. He had seen Drake.
When?
She turned her attention to the wound once more. The arrow had passed through cleanly, and the whisky had appeared to dribble through the wound. Hopefully, it would help stave off any infection.
“Who is he?” William’s breath was coming harder, evidenced by the tight clench of his stomach every time he exhaled.
Even in such a situation, it was difficult to ignore the flex of his body in the firelight.
She threaded a length of catgut through a needle and pretended she didn’t notice his attractive physique. “It’s difficult to explain. Now hold still.”
Healing had always been Clara’s job. Kinsey’s only real assistance was limited to fetching water or bottles of herbs. Never had she needed to tend to someone herself. Her stomach roiled still after having to shove the arrow through William’s side.
The tip of the needle hovered near the edge of his open wound and trembled with the slight shaking of her hand.
It’s like cloth.
She drew in a slow, deep breath.
Just like cloth.
She pushed it to his skin, but it was not at all like cloth. It did not yield easily, requiring more pressure, so she was shoving with the might of her powerful archer’s fingers. The needle popped through, and William’s taut abdomen flinched in a display of lean bands of muscle.
The odor of whisky stung her nose, and the blood trickling from the wound flavored the air with the stink of copper. Her stomach churned anew.
The second stitch to the other side of the open wound was just as bad, as was pulling the catgut taut over the injury so that it closed. The next, however, was easier. Somewhat. And in a matter of time, heavy with careful concentration, she was finally done stitching the front entry and back exit of the wound.
Her jaw ached from gritting her back teeth, and her fingers ached from the effort to push the needle through. She withdrew a roll of linen from her bag, provided to her by Alec. Before she could unravel a strip of the binding, William sat forward, and his blazing brown eyes met hers. “It canna be all that difficult.”
Her mouth fell open with incredulity. “Have ye ever tended to an arrow wound and stitched it up yerself?”
“I mean the man from the tavern.”
And they were back to that. She’d meant to divert William from the topic, but it had been she who had become distracted.
“It canna be all that difficult to describe who he is.” William’s jaw clenched, and she knew he was enraged.
Could she blame him?
His men were dead because of her. So was Fib.
It was the latter that finally made her speak. “He’s my brother.”
“Yer brother.” His expression was unreadable.
“He works for an English earl on the border.” She looked down at the loosely rolled linen in her bloody hands. Guilt burned its way up from her heart. “I knew about the weapon,” she whispered. “He told me. He wasn’t supposed to tell me, but he did it because he wanted to protect me.”
“Why dinna ye tell me?” A muscle worked in Sir William’s sharp jaw.
“He’s an honorable man, the most chivalrous I’ve ever known.” She hated how paltry her excuse sounded. “This slight break in his morality was the only one I’ve ever seen in the entire lifetime that I’ve known him. And he did it for me. If word ever got out that he had told me, it would destroy his hard-won reputation.”
“Then maybe he shouldna have told ye at all,” William said.
“I wished he hadn’t as soon as he did.” The confession was bitter on Kinsey’s tongue. “I didn’t want to lie to ye. And I didn’t want the men getting hurt.”
Tension filled the silence between them, replacing impassioned words with the small pops and crackles of the fire. Kinsey slowly withdrew her hand from his and began to unravel the linen once more.
She’d expected anger, but it was not rage simmering in Sir William’s dark gaze when they locked eyes once more. It was interest. “Would he do it again?”
“Nay,” said with finality.
“Mayhap if ye went to him—”
“Nay.” She refused to discuss the possibility. “Even if it means I’m dismissed from yer army.”
William put a hand up in quiet surrender. “Ye willna be dismissed. Ye’re too valuable as an archer.”
His words eased some of the tension from her shoulders.
“I need to apply yer bandage.” She
