Defiant by Jessica Trapp

and they would put this horrible night behind them.
    She poured water from a clay pitcher into a basin, removed the wig, and washed the white powder and kohl from her face. She would face him as plainly and straightforward as she could manage.
    Feeling more levelheaded after thinking the matter through, she pressed a cloth to the gash and held it there for a few moments. When it did not stop oozing, she wiped the area around it clean as best she could, threaded a needle, and made quick tiny stitches down the length of the wound.
    He moaned a few times but did not awaken.
    She surveyed her work carefully, very gently pulling his skin this way and that to verify that it would hold. There would be a scar, but not much of one—her stitches were tiny and even. Her prized embroidery work had allowed her to earn gold to bribe the jailors. Brother Giffard used his position as a traveling monk to help her secretly sell sleeves to ladies of the king’s court.
    Her mother would be proud. Satisfied, she dipped her cloth into a bowl of water to wash off the rest of him.
    The water turned from clear to red as she wrung out the rag over and over again. Slowly, Jared’s features were revealed.
    A small white scar beneath his left eye felt lumpy beneath her fingers and his raven hair was silky and thick. He had a slight widow’s peak and a well-trimmed mustache and goatee.
    She stopped her ministrations to stare at him.
    Mercy, he was beautiful—especially for a peasant. Glossy black hair, high cheekbones, generous lips, and an almost aristocratic nose. Enthralled, she ran her fingers across his features. His chin was too pointed and his brows too winged. The two slight feminine features in an otherwise uncompromisingly masculine face fascinated her.
    She’d never seen a man quite like him before. His breathing was deep and long and she wondered if she should wake him. With her finger, she drew a line across his cheek, brushed strands of his hair aside, and turned his face up so she could study it.
    A shot of heat curled in her belly and for a fleeting moment she wished she could keep him here, like this, tied for her own pleasure. A man of her own. A husband she could totally control.
    Guilt curled through her at the sinful idea. What a wicked thought!
    Carefully, she turned his face from side to side, inspecting him.
    At once, she blinked.
    The monk?
    The young monk?
    Disbelief shot through her; she took a firmer hold on his chin and peered closer.
    ‘Twas definitely him. The man who had given her the book with the dragon cover. The book she carried even now tucked in her bosom. He was older, harder—a crease had formed between his brows. She smoothed it down with her fingers and wondered what had happened to him.
    “Of all things,” she whispered, completely mystified and not knowing what to make of it.
    How could he be here? Evidently he had not entered the monastery after all. Why?
    Curious and intrigued, she slowly trailed her fingers down the column of his neck and loosened the ties of his tunic. She told herself that she needed to bathe him, that she needed to get all the blood off of him, but in her heart, she knew she lied to herself. He had been the one man she had felt a connection to all those years ago. The small book he had given her was pressed against her bosom, carried as it had been for three years. The dragon’s tail had lost flecks of its gilding because she’d thumbed through the pages so often.
    She pushed Jared’s tunic upward, and sucked in a breath at the thick muscular ridges of his stomach. Heavens! It was so very different than her own soft, rounded white belly. He was tan, hard, chiseled.
    Without thinking, she laid her palm fully across his midriff. Heat seeped from his body to her fingers. A wave of dizziness passed over her, and she snatched her hand quickly back.
    Fanning herself with one hand, she reached for the cloth. She would attend her Christian duty of cleansing his wounds. He was not hers