Read Online No Price Too High by Jo Ann Ferguson - Free Book Online Page B

though fleeing would be fatal now when she was so far from her allies, he suspected she would try.
    She came to her feet, her chin high, although he saw fear in her eyes. She was right to be frightened among those who had no love for her Crusaders. He had thought she would see that his battle was not with the Franj . ’Twas with himself when he looked at her glorious hair falling about her like a silken sunset.
    He smiled as he saw the determination in her eyes. How swiftly she bristled at every word he spoke! He had been warned how the Franj allowed their women to speak their minds, and she had proven that rumor right.
    His greeting went unspoken as he realized all the red along her arm was not from her hair sweeping across her. Why had she kept silent about being wounded? He cursed under his breath as he took her arm gently.
    â€œOh …” she breathed, and he knew even that slight touch hurt her.
    â€œYou should sit, milady, while this is tended to.”
    â€œI have tended to it. I’m a Hospitaller. It is my obligation and honor to treat the wounds of the Crusaders.” Her voice grew weaker on each word, but rallied as she added, “And I am a Crusader.”
    â€œYou will do yourself or others little good if this is the extent of your medical skills.”
    â€œI learned in the stillroom at Heathwyre how to help wounds heal.”
    He knelt, drawing her down into the pillows. When she offered little resistance, he guessed she must be in more pain than she wished him to guess. He understood her reticence. To let an enemy see any weakness was unwise. As he untied the cloth wrapped crudely around her upper arm, he scowled. The wound had not been cleaned and soon would fester.
    Standing, he threw open the tent flap. “Shakir, you are needed here.”
    â€œDo you have to call him ?” she asked, drawing his gaze back to her face, which had lost every bit of color.
    â€œShakir is my most trusted ally.” He smiled coolly. “He will see that your arm is treated, although he would prefer to see you dead.”
    Melisande flinched at Gabriel’s words. He spoke them in such a commonplace tone he could have been speaking as well of the weather or the evening meal. She bit her lip to silence her answer as the short man came into the tent.
    â€œShakir,” Gabriel said, still in Frankish, “Melisande has injured her arm.” He looked past Shakir to her. Again she could not read the emotions searing her from his eyes, but she understood the command he did not speak.
    â€œA sword glanced off it in Abd al Qadir’s village,” she said in a tight whisper. “I have bound it. It should heal.”
    Shakir muttered something as he crossed the tent. She was amazed that his hands were gentle when he took her arm and examined it. His voice was far from gentle when he growled, “This will never heal like this. You Franj are fools.” He smiled at Gabriel. “You can see that for yourself.”
    â€œShakir, tend to this while I tend to”—he glanced at Melisande with the same hooded expression—“while I tend to other matters.”
    She started to stand, then shrank back as her aching arm brushed one of the pillows. Gabriel did not look at her again as he walked through the low door. Shakir followed, then returned with a gray bag. He opened it and drew out a pair of jars. From one he poured water. He dabbed at the cut in her arm. When she took a deep breath to swallow her moan, he frowned. Did he want her to shriek with agony? She held her breath again when he dipped his fingers into a salve in the other jar. He lathered it generously over the cleansed skin.
    A coolness flowed out from it, diminishing the fire that had burned there since the sword had sliced through her sleeve. As he wrapped it in clean cloths, she asked, “Are you a healer?”
    He gave a derisive laugh. “No.”
    â€œBut this salve is—”
    â€œA