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“Too large, I’m afraid.” She gathers her long hair into her hand and then sweeps it behind her shoulder. “Though I didn’t notice until we began traipsing through the woods.”

“Was that a complaint, my lady?” I ask, looking up with a raised brow.

She gives me a droll look. “It was a fact.”

“Your stockings are too thin,” I say, looking to where she has lain one upon the rock. “They offer no cushion. I’m sure Pranmore can heal the blistered skin, but it will happen again unless we correct the problem.”

With that, I leave her and join Bartholomew and Pranmore by the water.

“Clover could use your assistance,” I tell Pranmore before I open my pack and draw out a rolled strip of bandage.

Concern immediately shadows Bartholomew’s face. “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine.”

As expected, Pranmore easily heals the wound. Once he’s finished, I kneel in front of Clover again, unwinding a length of the narrow bandage.

“What’s that for?” she asks.

“Put on your stocking, and I’ll tell you.”

Without her usual questions, she does as I ask. I avert my eyes as she pulls up her hose and tugs the stocking up her calf.

“I’m decent again,” she says dryly after she pulls the hose back into place over the stocking, covering her bare leg. “I didn’t mean to scandalize you.”

Her teasing tone begs me to respond, and though I itch to engage, I cannot.

I look up, giving her a dry look of my own. “Wrap the bandage around your ankle.”

Clover looks down at the length of cloth. “How?”

“Hold the tail in place and…wrap it. Start at the arch of your foot and then work your way up.”

How difficult can it be?

Apparently very if you’re a pampered noblewoman. Fumbling, Clover does as I ask, but the fabric is too loose. The moment she slides on the boot, it will pull up, bunching around her leg and becoming useless.

“Tighter,” I instruct, and then I frown. “No, notthattight… No, not that either.”

“Good heavens.” With an exasperated sigh, Clover balls the bandage in her hand and holds it out to me. “You do it then.”

“No, it’s fine. Try again.”

She wiggles her hand, silently proclaiming she’s finished.

“Fine,” I snap. I locate the tail of the fabric and wrap it snuggly, touching Clover as little as possible in the process—which means my fingers hover over her lower leg as I work, brushing but not pressing.

It’s gentle torture—for me, not Clover, though it’s possible from the way she draws her bottom lip between her teeth her thoughts have wandered as well.

Once I’m finished, I tuck the end of the fabric securely into the wrapped portion and sit back on my heels. “That should help. How is it?”

“Fine.”

“Is it too tight?”

“No.”

“Too loose?” I ask, growing exasperated. “How does itfeel?”