Read The Lady in the Mist (The Western Werewolf Legend #1) Page 7

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  Sonja closed the door behind her leaning against the solid wood of the frame. Her senses needed to calm. The man on the other side of the portal waxed handsome. In the light of day, however, and under his own power, he proved magnificent, like some Greek God. Had she ever been so aroused? When she opened the door and found him standing next to the bed buck-naked, she had frozen. Of course, she had tended the lieutenant's wounds. She wouldn't be a red-blooded woman if she didn't admire his male body while she was about the task. Still what a surprise, though a pleasant one to be sure, to find him partially aroused while watching her with the most hypnotic blue eyes she had ever seen.

  A flush crept up her neck. Reaching up, she did her best to cool the burning of her skin. Sonja didn't have to wonder whether the heat of the new day had affected her so, or the sight of the lieutenant in the altogether. She moved away from the portal but gave the door a fleeting glance before heading to the kitchen. One thing she wouldn't do again is barge into the bedroom without knocking first.

  Taking another deep breath, Sonja crossed to the sink to pumped water for tea. Reasoning the tea would calm her nerves, she set the water to boiling. As she started preparing for the noon meal, a pleasant picture of the lieutenant wafted through her mind. What was his name - Ty? Yes, Ty, would be hungry. She remembered the silver medallion that hung from his neck. She had swallowed hard when her errant mind followed the chain's decent to the crisp black hair that surrounded his belly and lower body. Such a powerful man.

  So much had happened within the last several days, the attack and the change. Glancing down at her wrist still bandaged but needlessly, she considered how peculiar the memory of that night proved. She had been returning from the garden when there'd been someone suddenly on the path ahead. Sonja shoved the ugly memory away.

  The old woman's words still spun in her brain even though a week had passed. Sonja sipped her tea. Returning had not been what she had intended but anxiety over sensations and feelings she had had forced her to return in the dead of night for answers. She had known the way, which amazed her. Thinking back, Sonja still cringed when she recalled the hand of the black beast on her shoulder, the one Hortence called the Guardian. Perhaps her fears had something to do with her near encounter with death, but she couldn't get the dark beast out of her mind. She had fled that night as well, running headlong into a battle and the lieutenant.

  She glanced back at the bedroom door. The man in her bed on the other side of the wall wore no identification on him except a silver medallion with the name T. Loflin engraved in the silver. The other side of the medallion bore some family crest, she guessed. He'd been almost dead when she had reached to him. His pulse had been weak. Sonja had been forced to put her cheek close to his mouth to make sure he still lived. She doubted he would live until she got him to her cottage. From the blood surrounding him, she wagered he'd lost most of his life's source. Without consideration, she had nicked her wrist and allowed him to drink her blood.

  Hortence had explained how revitalizing her blood could be as her veins contained a source of great strength. She didn't believe the old woman's ranting, but she had little else she could've done for him. So with a taste of her blood on his lips, Sonja carried him back to her cottage.

  With a good bath, removal of the lice, numerous stitches, and the cauterization of the wound in his leg, Lieutenant Loflin stabilized. Over the past several hours, his wounds had begun to close and were healing at a rapid rate. She had never seen the likes of it. Pink skin with only traces of the damage the shrapnel and bullets had caused remained. Could this accelerated healing be the gift Hortence mentioned? She would have to ask Hortence more about her gift.

  Sonja checked the pot on the cast iron stove. With the meager allotment of chicken in the pot for the noon meal, Sonja took her tea out on the front porch of her small, simple cottage.

  The house she and Robert had built themselves was modest, but she loved the warmth of the wooden structure. She had managed to dress the place up a bit with flowers, most of which were native plants from the swamp nearby. She kept a small garden down the well-worn path to the left of her front door. The water from the small creek that ran through the lowland provided adequate moisture for a variety of vegetables and herbs. Being proud of her garden, Sonja worked the ground by hand, tenderly cultivating the young plants with seeds she had saved from the previous year's patch. The war had almost put a halt to any outside shipping trade in the nearby town of Spotsylvania. She would make do with what she had.

  The sun beamed down. Sonja realized the morning must be getting on. She finished the last of the tea and told herself she wouldn't think about the man lying on her bed anymore. She had chores to do.

  Again, the witch, Hortence's words came back to her. Ideal hands could be risky for one so newly turned. The witch had instructed her to remain busy to keep her mind off the simmering condition breeding inside her. Come the full moon, she would have the release of the urges growing stronger within her each passing day. Time was running out, she mused, before the moon grew to its peak, and Sonja would be at her most vulnerable.