England 1192:
(The same fictional world as Enduringly Yours.)
John reached out slowly as if he thought he might startle her and brushed a curl off her face. It was friendship, she knew, but she liked it anyway. That he could at least be her friend was a comfort to her.
Chester’s head appeared in the doorway. Before she could react, he shoved her and she fell backward into a pile of hay. Alana scrambled to her feet to find John holding his arm exactly like her brother had when Chester had bitten him.
“Chester,” she yelled at the horse. He swung his head in her direction as if dumbfounded over how she could find any fault with him. “How could you?”
John lowered her bags and swords to the ground with a wince. “I’ve had worse,” he assured her, looking at it and then clamping his hand back over as if he didn’t want her to see.
“I’m sure that you have, my lord, but please let me look.” She brushed his hand away. Fresh blood ebbed through his tunic sleeve. “I’m so sorry.” She attempted to examine the wound around his torn sleeve, then gave up and ripped it off altogether. Blood ran freely down his arm. “It’s deep,” she said.
Alana tied the fabric around the bite to staunch the bleeding, then she took his arm and pulled. “Inside with me, right now. I need to take care of it.”
He didn’t move.
“I assure you that I’m fully capable of attending to a man.” She tugged again.
“Yes, I’m sure you are.” He held a hand out to her, palm up. “Best take it,” he said, his voice threaded with that husky quality that made her heart pound. “Wouldn’t want me to get lost.”
She wasn’t sure why he would want her to hold his hand, but she wouldn’t refuse it either.
She placed her fingers in his, more thrilled by the simple contact that she had any right to. His palm was calloused from the sword and horseback riding, meatier than hers; yet she imagined that if she held her hand flat to his, her fingers would be nearly as long. She looked up. They were definitely of a height, leaving her staring straight into his eyes. Alana resisted the urge to hunch a bit.
“Um… I need to stitch this,” she breathed.
“Yes, I think you do.” Neither of them moved.
Darcy Branwyn 
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