“They call me the wind of death. How could you not know?” His voice was as expressionless as his eyes. A faint, humorless smile drew attention to his mouth, failing to light his eyes. “They didn’t send you here with much information. Not very smart for an assassin. Maybe someone wanted you dead. You should give that some thought.” He dragged a chair to the side of the bed, lit a lamp and dug into his field kit for more supplies.

Something in his voice gave her pause. She studied his profile. There was acceptance in his voice of who and what he was, not bravado or bragging. “Why would I be sent here to kill you?”

“Weren’t you? It’s been tried many times and I’m still alive.” He was telling her the truth. She didn’t understand what he was telling her, but she heard the honesty in his tone. He had a needle in his hand and bent very close to her leg.

Involuntarily she jerked away. “Can’t you just tape it up?”

His hand clamped around her thigh, pinning her to the mattress, holding her still. “Damn cat made a mess of you. It’s all the way to the bone. The lacerations need stitches. There’s nothing I can do about the puncture wounds. I don’t like the look of this. It isn’t helpful with you shaking so much.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Rachael muttered the words resentfully under her breath. She closed her eyes to block out the sight of her own blood. All the while, in spite of everything, she was acutely aware of his hand wrapped around her bare thigh. “You’re obviously one of those hemen seen only on film who can take forty-seven kicks in the ribs and keep on fighting. Don’t mind me for being human.”

“What did you say?” His head swung around, his eyes focusing on her face.