Virgin Bride by Tamara Leigh

with not a spot of blood to testify otherwise. Her heart swelling for his need, she took an uncertain step forward.
    Balmaine grasped her arm, stopping her. He'd used the hand that had covered his wound, and a collective gasp went around the room as bright, running blood stained her white habit.
    Where he poised between the two of them, the dog gave a terrifying howl of anger. Teeth bared, he drew himself back in readiness to lunge at the one he perceived dangerous to his mistress.
    "Nay, Groan," Graeye commanded as she dragged her gaze from the pitiful sight of her father and met the animal's stare. "You had best unhand me," she murmured to Balmaine, running her hand over Groan's twitching neck.
    Even with the threat of attack by a ferocious dog, who obviously would have liked nothing better than to tear out his throat, Balmaine did not release her. Instead he tightened his hold.
    Graeye looked pointedly to where that large hand held her. The sight of blood coating his skin from fingertips to wrist brought her head sharply up. At his shoulder she saw the tear where the dagger had landed its mark and the soaking of blood through the fine linen of his tunic.
    Brow knit, she lifted her gaze higher and noted the deepening grooves that belied Balmaine's hard, unmoving facade. Aye, he was in pain, for it was more than a flesh wound he had acquired.
    "Come," she heard herself say, "I will tend your injury."
    A flicker of surprise appeared in the depths of his eyes, but disappeared just as quickly, replaced by indifference.
    "Methinks you should first call off your dog," he said, inclining his head toward the seething beast.
    "Groan will stay with me," she said with firm resolve, having discovered, not for the first time, how valuable his loyalty was.
    Balmaine looked ready to refuse her, then shrugged off the stipulation with a lift of his uninjured shoulder.
    "Very well," he said, releasing her to press his hand to the wound.
    Graeye cast a sidelong glance at her father, then stepped around Balmaine's formidable mass and made for the stairs, Groan close on her heels.
    "Take him to the watchtower and hold him until I deckle what is to become of his miserable person," Balmaine commanded those holding Edward.
    Graeye bit her lip, but did not falter. Stopping in front of Sir Michael, she braved the compassion of his stare and asked that he send one of the servants with a bowl of water, strips of clean cloth, needle and thread, and salve. Then, continuing to the stairs, she mounted them with the baron close behind.
    With the coming of the king's men, she had forgotten how badly the stairs were in need of repair, but was reminded of their poor state as they groaned protestingly beneath Balmaine's weight, and that of the squire who followed his lord.
    Knowing it to be the most adequate room above-stairs, she led the baron to her father's chamber, turning to glance over her shoulder just as the thought struck her that he would not clear the doorway.
    It was on her lips to caution him when he ducked beneath the frame. Clearly, he had grown accustomed to his height.
    She was grateful she had seen to the freshening of the rushes within, the cleaning of the sparse furnishings, and the placement of oiled linen over the narrow window opening. Still, it was a gloomy, dank room, the brazier having long since radiated its last ember of comforting heat.
    Pulling a stool to the center of the chamber, she motioned for Balmaine to seat himself. He complied, completely engulfing the three-legged stool that wobbled beneath his weight.
    Groan's eyes never left the man; he took up a place near the stool, securing for himself a vantage from which to attack, if need be.
    Graeye turned to the squire, who had situated himself in the doorway, his distrustful eyes following her every movement. "I will need light," she said. "Fetch me some torches."
    The young man shifted his weight, propped himself against the jamb, but made no move to follow her