Page 27 of Traitor Son

He was not easily embarrassed, but she was humiliated enough for both of them as he helped her into the bushes. He learned a great deal about women’s clothing, anatomy, and the purpose of the bundles of cotton in her valise over the course of the next few minutes, as well as his deficiencies as a caretaker. He knew less about women than he knew about his horse.

He should have gotten her a maid.

Settling her by the fire to wait for water to boil for the tea, he sought out Miche to demand to know if all women endured this after their first night.

“I guess some of them must,” the blond knight said, looking startled, as if the idea had never occurred to him. “I imagine being on horseback all day doesn’t help. Sorry, Rem. My expertise is in deflowering, not the bit that comes after.”

“Shut up.” Miche’s face had never looked more punchable. “Will she be all right?”

“I’ve never heard of a woman dying of it. Just what did you do last ni—”

“Shut up,” Remin said again, and stalked off to find Tounot, who often served as medic when their camp surgeon wasn’t available. If the princess had been one of his soldiers, Remin would have had no qualms about pushing on, unless it looked likely to kill her, and she didn’t seem like she was going to die. But for some reason the sight of her sniffing back tears was intolerable.

“Willow bark tea is probably best,” Tounot replied, when Remin pulled him aside to discuss the trouble. “Anything alchemical would be overkill. Or there’s wine, if you just want to make her sleep. Does she have a head for it?”

“No.” Remin brightened. Letting her sleep through the pain seemed ideal. Retrieving a skin of wine from the supply wagon, he went to dose her.

“Wine?” she said dubiously, when he presented the remedy.

“I know you don’t like it, but just drink it.” Guilt made him sharper than he meant to be. He probably could have foregone the fourth or fifth round with her last night, but at the time she had seemed to be enjoying it.

She nursed the wineskin with a sour face as they finished their meal of bread and cheese, and by the time he lifted her back onto his horse, she was already a little giddy, nestling into him like a kitten in a basket.

“S’warm,” she said, slurring the tiniest bit. It had been less than an hour and she had consumed about one and a half cups of wine.

“Drink a little more,” he told her, lifting the skin to her lips. He didn’t want to make her wine-sick, but as the horse swayed into motion, a crease appeared between her eyebrows, and she shifted uncomfortably against him. “Does it still hurt?”

“Yes,” she said. Her head was resting on his chest, her hair tickling his chin. “Sorry…”

“Don’t apologize. You have to tell me right away next time,” he said, more gently. “It’s never my intention to hurt you.”

“Really?” There was a plaintive note in her voice that made him look down at her, surprised and a little insulted.

“Yes, really. I took an oath to protect you, remember?”

“Those aren’t real,” she said with unexpected cynicism, and sipped from the skin again without being told. “The lord and lady took n’oath, too.”

“Lord and Lady Hurrell?”

“Mmm.” She sighed, rubbing her cheek against the fur trim of his cloak. Her eyelashes were very long and thick, curling over her flushed cheeks, and Remin shifted in the saddle, trying not to picture certain memorable interludes from the previous night.

“Why did they lie and say you were sick?” he asked, partly to satisfy his curiosity and partly to take his mind off the feel of her body against him.

“Lisabe,” she said, as if it were obvious. “House Hurrell fell with House…Your Grace’s house. They always said you owed. Because they were loyal.”

“Why did you go along with it?” His mouth tightened. He had suspected something of the sort, but it was something else to hear it stated so baldly.

She was silent for so long, he thought she was going to refuse to answer. Or maybe she had already fallen asleep. Lifting her chin with his fingers, he found himself looking into troubled eyes, a warm and tawny shade like sunlight on the velvety hide of a doe.

“Tell me the truth. I won’t be angry.”

“Remin Grimjaw.” Her eyes closed as his finger stroked the dainty length of her jaw. “You…you were so mad, ’member? And Lady Hurrell said she would tell…tell…she said, if you were my husband, and I made you mad, then you could do…anything…”

Her voice fell to a whisper and she burrowed against him as if she were trying to hide from that terribleanything.And he had lied. Hewasangry that anyone would insinuate he would abuse his wife, especially in front of that wife, for the despicable purpose of making her afraid of him.

“I have never harmed a woman in my life,” he told her, stiff with offense. Assassins did not count. But this was the wrong thing to say, or at least the wrong tone in which to say it, because she lowered her eyes and nodded, clearly placating. “I haven’t,” he repeated with less heat. “I won’t. I promise, Princess.”

With his men nearby, he couldn’t bring himself to reassure her more thoroughly. He had to satisfy himself with squeezing her briefly against him, her face pressed into his chest.

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