It drew my attention, to where he was lying in bed, his back slightly arched as he struggled to unbutton his waistcoat with one hand. I needed to leave now while he was preoccupied, to harvest an herb from the library and make a potent tonic that would render him unconscious. Then I would tend to his wound and my own, which I had all but forgotten about in the cascade of adrenaline.

I started for the door.

“Where are you going?”

I halted on the rug, just before the mirror, and met his gaze. “To the library, to make you an herbal tonic.”

“I don’t want an herbal tonic. I need you to stitch me up.”

“Then you’re going to want something for the pain. Lie back down. I’ll return in a moment.”

Phelan stared at me. “I don’t trust you.”

“What?” His words caught me by surprise.

“Come here, Anna.”

I had no choice. He was watching me like a hawk, as if he could see through me, and I took a wide berth to his bedside, staying just out of reach of him and his mirror on the opposing wall.

“Why don’t you trust me?” I asked, my voice low and far rougher than I intended.

“Because you want to slip away,” he said. “You want to open the door and face the knight again without me.”

I let out a huff of breath. “Fine. I was tempted to, yes.”

“I forbid it.”

“You forbid it?” I echoed with a hint of laughter. “And how do you propose to do that, lying in bed, wounded like a fair nobleman in war?”

“All right,” he said. “I can’t forbid you, but I ask that you stay here and help me. The knight will no doubt challenge us another new moon, but in this moment . . . I need you.”

I need you.

His candor softened the hard edges that hid within me.

“Lie back down,” I whispered, and he obeyed. I waited until his head rested on his pillow before I moved to stand at his bedside. Gently, I undressed him. I slid his arms from his jacket. I unbuttoned his tattered waistcoat, unknotted his cravat, and eased him out of his shirt. Once his chest was naked, I surveyed the damage.

His wound wasn’t deep, but it was long, cutting across his stomach. I saw another scar, one that ran from his heart down to his hip, as if he had once been sliced open, and I couldn’t help myself. I traced it with my fingertips.

“Did he do this?” I asked. “The knight?”

“Yes,” he whispered, and his blood continued to trickle out. I took his rumpled shirt and pressed against the wound, and Phelan winced.

“How do you want me to stitch this?” I asked.

“In my wardrobe,” he said, his voice hoarse with pain. “In the bottom drawer. You’ll find my medicine box.”