His smile vanished altogether as he looked her up and down. “There is a deal of blood on your skirts.” She followed his glance. The folds of her split skirt were mottled with patches of blood, dried and fresh, at the knees. That last gallop had flayed her raw skin to shreds. “Saddle sores. Trivial hurts, for all that they are mine.” His brows rose. “What do you call severe, then?” She staggered away past the beheaded commander. “That.” His head tilted, conceding the point.
