of war. I do what I must to regain peace for my king. And what of you, Aleysia of Braemere? You fought and killed Norman knights alongside your brother. How are you different than I?"
"How am I different?" she repeated, unable to believe her ears. "You are merciless. You will do whatever you must to get your way— killing, burning villages, starving innocent people. That's the difference between you and I."
He flinched as though she'd struck him. "Am I worse than de Pirou?"
De Pirou had been a terrible man, far worse than any she'd known. A man of no morals. The devil incarnate. A most unpleasant creature—but de Wulf was no better, if his reputation proved true. "Does your silence mean that you have been too harsh in your assessment?"
"I have not changed my mind, nor will I ever. What kind of a man burns the entire north to the ground? You and your men have made the northern country a barren wasteland, my lord."
He ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. "I grow weary of such talk, and I am bleeding from the wound that you have caused. You are skilled with bow and arrow, Aleysia," he said, a smile playing at his lips.
Ignoring the compliment, she glanced at his shoulder. "Does the wound pain you?"
"Aye, it pains me greatly."
She smiled, glad she had caused him pain.
He took a step toward her, his eyes narrowing as he searched her face. "You smile, Aleysia. How beautiful you are when you put down your guard. 'Tis like you glow from within."
Her smile melted under his stare, and she looked away, flustered by her reaction to this man. What was it about him that made her thoughts fly right out of her head?
"Are you not accustomed to men commenting on your beauty?" He sounded surprised.
In truth, she was not accustomed to such praise. But she had never had a suitor before, save for Duncan, and he had never complimented her... ever. "Nay, I am not."
"Then I am glad to be the first." There it was again, that silky soft voice that made the hair on her arms stand on end.
"Come, let us not dally, little one. I am in need of a bath and some rest."
"Aye, you are," she replied, following him into the armory where men sat or lay on benches and cots, some wounded, others caring for the injured. Seeing de Wulf approach, silence filled the building. An old man with long gray hair and full beard approached Renaud. "There you are, my lord. I've been expecting you. Come." He motioned for Renaud to sit on a bench. "Let me have a look at your wound."
"Aleysia, sit here," de Wulf said, patting the bench opposite him. Aleysia took the seat and was instantly sorry when de Wulf spread his legs. To her dismay, she was caught there, her knees fit snugly between his powerful thighs. She could not move without touching either thigh, so she kept her knees firmly together.
He did not smell as bad as one would think from the days of pillaging. Rather he smelled of musk, and something else she could not decipher. A masculine scent that was not at all unpleasant.
"Remove the tunic," the old man ordered. And de Wulf complied, lifting the shirt over his head and handing it to Aleysia.
She placed it on her lap, trying hard not to look at de Wulf's body, a difficult thing when he sat so close.
"I see a Saxon arrow has found its mark," the old man said, probing at the wound.
"Aye, Henry, and you are looking at the Saxon responsible for said injury," Renaud said, nodding at Aleysia.
Henry frowned. "In truth?"
Aleysia nodded. "In truth."
The old man laughed, a cackling sound that made Aleysia smile.
"Well, we shall have to cauterize the wound. Take a deep breath, my lord, and then release it slowly."
Renaud did as the old man said, his chest rising with the effort. A second later Henry yanked. The Norman flinched, his face turning red, but he did not curse as the old man produced the arrow and blood gushed from the cut. "My goodness, 'tis quite a gash."
"Now this shall hurt a little," the old man said, a moment before he poured