Again she asked herself what difference would it make if he knew, yet something told her it was better that he didn’t know. Or was it because she didn’t want to admit to herself that seeing him again after five years had not just stirred the feelings she once had for him but had woken her love for him that had remained dormant all these years. She loved him with the same depth and strength as she had five years ago. She was a pitiful fool and she was glad Raven was the only one to know of her folly.
He would be gone soon and she’d never have to see him again and the thought was like a sharp stab to her heart, fool that she was. Why did she have to love a man who would never love her?
She needed to busy herself, forget he was even here, not something that would be easy to do. A sting to her arm drew her attention to the wound she had suffered when the arrow grazed it. It needed tending, but she didn’t want to take the chance of him seeing her deformed hand. That limited anything she could do.
“I’ll be on my way.”
Purity jumped, not having heard him approach, or expecting him to finish so soon, and she almost cringed when she offered, “You’re welcome to rest a bit.”
“You shouldn’t invite men to rest even for a bit. They will think you want to couple,” he said.
She didn’t know what to say to that and it took her a moment to find her voice. “I will remember that. Good day to you then.”
“You should find yourself a good man to keep you safe,” Arran said and turned.
The words rose up from the past to spill from her lips in a whisper. “No one wants me.”
Arran whipped around. “What did you say?”
“Nothing,” she said, silently cursing herself.
He walked closer to her. “You said something. What was it?” He scrunched his brow. “It sounded familiar.”
“Mumbles that’s all,” she insisted, annoyed she had once said those very same words to him.
He looked at her strangely then, as if he was actually looking at her and seeing her for the first time and her heart slammed against her chest when his face showed that he recognized her.
Arran reached for her left arm and she pulled away from him.
“Show me your left hand.”
“You should leave,” Purity said.
“Don’t make me grab your hand. Show it to me,” he demanded.
Purity shook her head. “Why? You obviously recognized me.”
“Purity?” he asked in disbelief.
Chapter 3
Purity held up her deformed hand to confirm what he had already surmised.
How could he not have recognized her? Perhaps it was because she was unrecognizable from the lass he recalled, the one with long limp hair and a plain face that never wore a smile. However, her love and partiality for animals had remained.
His next thought spilled from his lips. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you recognize me?” she asked.
He stepped back, turning away from her for a moment. “Five years change people, Purity.”
“That they do,” she said, a touch of guilt and foolishness for not having told him who she was jabbing at her. “I didn’t recognize you right away either.”
“It is good to see a friend,” he said.
Friend? She had never thought Arran considered her a friend, an acquaintance or a neighbor perhaps, but never had he been a friend to her.
“Sit with me and talk,” he said, pointing to the oak tree.
Friend. She needed to accept him as a friend and nothing more. He would return home and she would have her life here in the woods—content with her friends, the animals. She turned to head to the tree when his hand took hold of her arm, stopping her.
“You told me you were unharmed,” he said, seeing the blood that stained the torn sleeve of her shift.
“A minor wound from the arrow that grazed my arm.”
He got annoyed for not having noticed it. It had been years of ignoring minor wounds that had him not paying it heed. Such wounds were unimportant, cleaned and wrapped by the warrior himself when given the chance, while a healer saw to the direr wounds. Not so with Purity. Her wound needed attention.
“I will tend your wound while we talk.”
Purity noticed that Arran rarely asked. He commanded, as if his words were the final say on the matter.
“I can see to it,” she said, not comfortable with him touching her bare skin. Or was it fear at what his touch would reveal?
He cast a glance around and seeing the rain barrel, said to her. “Go sit while I get what’s needed to clean your wound.”
“I’ll do that,” she said, his commanding nature at odds with the freedom she had gained living in the woods.
“You’ll go sit,” he ordered and before she could argue any further, he walked—rather rushed her to the spot under the tree—and sat her on the ground with a forceful hand. He turned and left, though not before issuing another order. “Stay there.”