“The wooden shovels in the animal pens have splinters, and using my kukri earlier must have torn some of the scabs. When I fell, I caught myself with my hands. It made some of the older wounds reopen.”

“They’re bloody festering, you daft woman. You should have come to me.”

She shot him a sour stare. “To whine?”

“Yes. No! This is not whining, you fool-headed imp.” Rhystan leaned over to blow on the tender, aching skin, and something else crept into the edges of her pain. “Be sure to add bullheaded, stubborn, and contrary to your job-qualifications list.” Propping her against the desk, he released her hands gently to get a clean strip of linen from a nearby chest and poured some of the whisky on it. “We have to clean it properly. I won’t lie… This will hurt like the devil.”

“I’m not afraid.”

One thick eyebrow arched. “You’ve proven that time and time again. Ready?”

Sarani nodded and bit back a scream when he dabbed the alcohol-soaked cloth to her skin. Sending her an apologetic look, he blew a warm stream of air on her hands again and repeated the process. The second time hurt less, but not by much.

The next few times his breath gusted on her skin, however, she felt the tingle of it in her chest. The sight of his head bent over her was doing strange things to her equilibrium. His distinctive masculine scent wafted to her, and all she wanted to do was breathe him in. Lean into him. Obviously, it was a moment of weakness because she was in pain.

Memory leached into the present with scattered images of a different Rhystan, a younger Rhystan, head bent over her hands that had been decorated with mehndi in the Mughal tradition by one of her handmaidens. He’d kissed each of her red-stained fingers and the dotted sphere at the center of each palm when she’d explained that the stain had been made from the ground leaves of a plant.

“What is it for?” he had whispered.

“Blessings for luck, joy, and beauty.”

His easy smile had been full of wicked promise. “I believe a man makes his own luck, and you already have the last one, so it shall be my earnest pledge to bring you as much joy as possible, Princess.”

One of her handmaidens had piped up. “Also for marriage and fertility, sahib.”

Sarani’s blush had nearly matched the color of the dye on her hands, but Rhystan had only smiled a secret smile and continued kissing her fingertips. Until he’d approached her in her chambers that fateful night, she’d been hopeful of his intentions and a future between them. Marriage. Maybe even children someday.