Storm Maiden Read Online Free Page B

hang
slack, Fiona grasped the elbow of his injured arm and braced it
against the man’s body. The Viking groaned. Fiona took a deep,
steadying breath and reached up to undo the other wrist
shackle.
    The old metal gave way against the pressure
of her knife, and the shackle fell loose. Fiona shrieked as the
Viking sagged forward, his dead weight threatening to smash her
into the dirt floor. She grunted and pushed against him. Slowly,
the unconscious man’s body moved backwards. His back struck the
dirt wall behind him, and he slid down.
    Fiona took a deep breath, her whole body
trembling with strain. She raised a hand to her sweaty forehead.
Blessed Saint Bridget! It had been like trying to hold up a pile of
rocks! She had yet to begin her real healing work, and already she
was exhausted.
    She leaned over to inspect her patient. He
sprawled against the stone wall of the souterrain as if he had been
thrown there. His legs lay at an angle to his body, his injured arm
half buried in the filthy straw that covered the dirt floor. Fiona
sighed. She needed space to work; she must move him so she would
have a clean area in which to tend the wound.
    Kneeling, she lifted the man’s head. With
her other hand, she thrust the dirty straw aside. She continued
cleaning, exposing the floor beneath the man’s upper body. Then she
took the blanket, spread it out and tugged it beneath his head and
shoulders. Still crouching down, she pulled the cauldron of boiled
water near and began to clean the wound in the man’s arm,
attempting to keep the water from spilling on the blanket. The
wound wasn’t deep, but Fiona knew she must get every trace of
poison out if it were to heal properly. She dug and probed, making
the Viking groan even in his stupor.
    Finally satisfied the wound was clean, she
obtained the pack of healing herbs from her bag and sprinkled them
over the gash. Then, patiently, tediously, she took a clean needle
and some fine silk thread and stitched up the wound.
    Afterwards, she leaned back on her heels to
inspect her work. Siobhan would have made a better job of it, she
knew; but for a first effort, she believed she had done well. If
the healing herbs kept the wound from swelling with poison and his
fever abated, the man would recover. Whether his sword arm would
ever be the same was difficult to say. Ideally, the wound should be
cleaned and the dressing changed every few hours; but if the man
were strong and healthy enough, his body might fight the poison and
heal on its own.
    Besides, Fiona thought with a twinge of
grief as she bandaged his arm, the Viking could never be allowed to
leave his prison.
    She glanced down at the rusted shackles
still binding his ankles; she dared not remove those and risk his
escaping, especially since she had yet to secure what she wanted of
him.
    She struggled against her feelings of pity
and reminded herself that this man was her enemy. If he encountered
her when he was healthy and free, he would no doubt fling her on
the ground and rape her, then slit her throat and kick her aside as
if disposing of the leavings of a meal. She dared not grow too
enamored of this dangerous if tantalizing man. She must obtain what
she wished of him, then forget his barbarically handsome
countenance.
    Fiona began gathering up the supplies she’d
brought. The blanket and cauldron she would leave behind; if he
roused, he might wish to use the cauldron as a chamber pot and the
blanket to cover himself. She dumped the bloody water in a corner
of the chamber and left the soiled rags there as well. The two
empty skins, the healing herbs, and the knife she replaced in the
bag on top of the cloth-wrapped meat and cheese. There had been no
opportunity to offer the prisoner food, and it seemed likely that
when next she saw him, he would still be too weak to do more than
sip broth.
    The torch sputtered as she went to retrieve
it from the wall. But despite her fear of the flame going out and
leaving her in darkness, Fiona