The Kindling by Tamara Leigh Page A

to stay,” the baron said, “I shall ask Lord D’Arci to make arrangements with Baron Lavonne to deliver your son to Soaring.”
    John here, in the same place as Sir Abel who had already made too great an impression on him. John who would surely seek to draw near him again. John who stood to become more fond of the knight. John whose hopes would come to naught. John who would be hurt.
    Suddenly so fatigued she felt the sway in her soul, Helene said, “I fear my John is overly fond of your brother. For his sake, I think it best that, as long as Lady Gaenor is able to keep watch over him, he remain at Broehne Castle.”
    “If that is as you wish.”
    “’Tis.”
    “And you will stay at Soaring until I return?”
    “I will,” she said, just as Sister Clare would have her do.
    “What of Sir Durand?”
    She frowned. “Are you asking if I will go to the wood with him again?” She gave a short laugh. “I have no reason not to ask him to accompany me should the need arise.”
    He hesitated. “Though Lady Beatrix believes you are safe with him, and I would like to believe it myself, ‘tis true he has done things that gave Abel cause to speak as he did.”
    Helene pushed her resentment down, but still her voice bore traces of it when she said, “Noted, Baron Wulfrith.”
    He gave a curt nod. “I thank you. And now I must needs relieve my sister’s anxiety over the matter.”
    “What of your brother?”
    “He may not acknowledge it, but methinks he will also be relieved that you have agreed to stay.”
    She hoped it was so, but doubted it would change how Sir Abel and she interacted. “I thank you for seeking me out, Baron Wulfrith.”
    Without further word, he turned and strode the walkway toward the kitchen.
    Hearing the door close behind him, Helene lifted the pouch hung from her girdle and smoothed her fingers over the bulge that evidenced the leaves she had plucked in the wood. It would require a good deal of preparation to render the herb usable for Sir Abel’s scarred face, but she would be grateful for every minute that excused her from attending him until she again had herself fully in hand.
    She stilled, considered all the days ahead, and concluded that being the primary provider of Sir Abel’s care was not as wise as first thought. She would need help.
    “Go forth, healer,” she murmured, and her feet followed her words to the kitchen where she set to work among those who were heat-deep in preparations for the next meal.

    “I had begun to think you did not intend to make good your threat to see to my exercise.”
    They should not have been the first words out of Abel’s mouth when she appeared in the doorway that he himself had left open, but there they were—easier spoken than the apology Beatrix and his brother had said he ought to extend. His mother had not agreed, but neither had she disagreed. Not that he would have heeded her any better than his siblings. After all, an apology forced before the speaker was ready to speak it was surely more insulting than no apology.
    With a solemn face that bore no evidence of the ire his sister said was her due, Helene crossed to where he sat on the mattress edge gripping the muscle of his outer thigh that he had been kneading when he had heard her approach.
    She halted before him. “As you saw to undertake the task on your own, ’tis not necessary for me to make good my threat.” She reached forward and opened her fingers. “I came to deliver this ointment. Applied often, it should reduce your facial scarring.”
    He glanced at the pot. “Will you not apply it?”
    “I will not.” She leaned forward and caught up his right hand. As he resisted the urge to snatch it back, she set the pot in it, slid her palm over his uncooperative fingers, and closed them around it. “Though I am staying at Castle Soaring, if that is the answer you seek in not so many words.” She released him.
    Abel lowered his gaze to the fingers that had involuntarily drawn back