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Page 136
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Mariah sent René back toward the stream for her buckets. She certainly didn't want to go back there alone, not until she knew what had happened to the injured woman.
While he was gone, Mariah unbuttoned the woman's dress and loosened the uncomfortable-looking stays she found beneath. The woman was bruised all over. There were what appeared to be rope bums about her wrists and ankles. Mariah hadn't any idea how to check for internal injuries, but at least the woman had no fever.
When René returned, he brought a pail of water. Using a clean rag, Mariah bathed the blood off the woman's swollen, filthy face.
"Pauvre petite." René touched the woman's limp hand.
Petite? To Mariah the woman looked somewhat buxom. She certainly was pitiable in her current condition, with her wheat-blond hair streaked with mud, one eye blackened and her wrists and ankles raw. She seemed younger than Mariahmid-twenties, perhaps.
Mariah liked the idea that René was concerned about her. Maybe he'd help Mariah stand up to Thorn.
Had she really heard him say something about letting her down?
"Please . . . " came a soft whisper from the bed.
"You're awake!" Mariah exclaimed.
The woman's eyes were open. They blinked in confusion. Her lashes were so light in color they were almost invisible near her unbruised eye but contrasted severely with the blackened one.
"Please," she repeated. "I don't . . . "
Apparently the effort was too much for her. Her eyes closed and her breathing deepened.
"She's unconscious again," Mariah told René.
He nodded. "But not for long, I think. Mademoiselle Mariah, she will need something soon to eat. What?"
"Chicken soup," interrupted Mariah with a laugh. At home, she'd just open a can and throw the filled bowl into the microwave. Or maybe she'd send out to the local deli that delivered.

 
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