The Wolfe Read Free

well.
    Some women preferred to wash the whisky
away with water before closing the wound, but not Jordan. The liquor itself did
incredibly well in helping heal wounds and preventing infection, so she left it
on and took her threaded needle and began to sew up the laceration. She worked
quickly, knowing the pain was unbearable and was continually amazed that the
soldier had yet to utter one word. She had seen men scream and faint in similar
situations.
    When she was finally finished, she laid
a strip of clean linen the length of the wound and bound him twice about the
thigh to hold it in place, once at the top of his leg and once near the knee. She
worked so fast that she knew she was not doing a very good job, just wanting to
be done with her charitable act hurriedly lest she be discovered.  She was
increasingly concerned that her aunts and cousins would come looking for her.
She knew that jostling him about must be excruciating, yet he had not so much
as flinched.
    Only when she had stopped completely
did he turn his head back to look at her, and she swallowed at the agony she
read in his eyes. She found new respect for this Englishman who bore his pain
with stoic silence. She began to hope that he would live, although she did not
know why. She furthermore wished she had done a better mending job on his leg,
taking the time she took with her own wounded.
    “I dunna know what good I have done
for ye,” she said quietly.
    He grasped her soft hand tightly in
his clammy one. Jordan stiffened, startled by the action and fighting the urge
to yank her hand away.
    “You are an angel of mercy,” he
whispered. “I thank you for your efforts, my lady. I shall do my best not to
betray them.”
    His sincerity was gripping. Gently,
she removed her hand and put her things away. The half-moon was high above and
the scattered clouds had disappeared, bathing the land in a silver glow. Jordan
felt as if she had done something good this night, albeit to the enemy and she
felt better now than she had earlier when she first descended to the stream.
Mayhap fate had led her to the stream purposely to find the soldier and tend
him. She suddenly felt like returning to the battlefield to continue with her
expected duties.
    “I must return, English.” She rose
and gave him a long look. “I will forget that I saw ye here.”
    She turned to leave but he stopped
her.
    “My name is Sir William de Wolfe,”
he said with quiet authority. “Remember it, for I shall return one day to thank
you properly and I do not wish to be cut down while bearing a gift.”
    It took a moment, but even in the
moonlight he saw her face go white and her jaw slacken.
    “ Sweet Jesu’,” she gasped.
“Surely ye’re not the English captain they call The Wolf?”
    He looked at her, sensing her surge
of fear. He sighed; he did not want her to fear him. This was the one time when
he wished his reputation had not preceded him.
     “I simply said my name was de
Wolfe, not The Wolf ,” he murmured.
    She looked extremely dubious. “But
ye were in his command?”
    He shrugged vaguely. “Now, back to
what I said,” he said, shifting the subject. “I will return with a proper
reward for you. Will you accept it?”
    She could not be sure that the
knight wasn’t, in fact, the hated Wolf, but it was truly of no matter now.  It
was done. Perhaps she did not want to believe he was the hated and feared
devil, so she chose to believe as such. How could she live with herself if it
was discovered that she had tended to the man that had killed more kinsmen that
she could count? She knew she could not, so she forced herself to believe his
words. Furthermore, her aunt had said The Wolf was dark and devilish. This man
was uncannily beautiful in a masculine sense.
    After a moment’s pause, she finally
spoke. “English, if ye survive this wound then I will gladly accept yer gift.”
    He smiled weakly, deep dimples in
both cheeks and her heart fluttered strangely in her chest. He