Page 44 of Traitor Son

Tears spilled from her eyes and she covered her mouth with her hand, shocking him out of his temper. What was hedoing?He had backed her up into the wall, and she was gripping the windowsill like she was about to go over it. Automatically, he reached for her, but she ducked back, cringing into the corner.

His hand dropped.

“No,” he said into a heavy silence. “No, I’m sorry. Go sit down. You can draw your own bath next time.”

“I can do it,” she wept, scrubbing at her face with her sleeve.

“I know you can.” Carefully, he nudged her toward the closer of the two chairs, keeping his hands low and unthreatening. “I’m sorry. I went too far. Don’t cry, Princess. Stay here, I’ll be back.”

Ducking through the door, he closed it behind him, trying not to hear the soft sounds from inside the cottage. He felt like a brute, and a bully, and he deserved to. Even if she were feigning her tears, she had done nothing wrong. He had just been soangry.

“Leave her things here,” he said to the approaching squires, laden with the oilskins containing the princess’s books and clothing. There wasno place to put them but on the ground, in the mud. “I’ll deal with them. Go and see if we have a large tub in the storehouse. Or a cauldron, from the kitchen.”

The boys exchanged glances.

“How big, Your Grace?” Ferme wanted to know.

“Big enough for a lady’s bath.”

* * *

The cauldron His Grace had acquired from the kitchen was just large enough that they could have cooked her in a stew.

Ordinarily, Ophele would have found this very funny.

Heating bathwater was a tedious process, especially given the size of the hearth. She knew how to manage fire and boil water, and she figured out the hearth mechanisms easily enough—there was a cast iron bracket that swiveled to hold the pot over the fire—but she was literally watching water boil, and by the time she got one potful steaming, the previous one was already beginning to cool. A series of buckets marched from the hearth to the door of the cottage, waiting their turn over the fire.

That was fine. All she wanted was to beclean,as if she could wash not just the road and aches of riding but the whole day from her body.

She didn’t understand what she had done wrong. Her head throbbed dully as she gazed at the fire, trying to reason her way through the puzzle. She had tried so hard to fix things, on the way to the valley. She had kept quiet and stayed out of His Grace’s way, sick at the thought that she had delayed them so much. The duke might have come home to find everything in ashes, of course he would be furious.

But then, why was he angry now? Hadn’t he said he wanted her to look nice, like a princess instead of a beggar’s brat? She hadn’t meant to complain, she wasn’tgoingto complain, it didn’t matter to her whether she lived in a cottage or a palace. Either was better than Aldeburke.

But maybe it wouldn’t be. Her stomach knotted as she glanced toward the window, wonderingwhathungry things would be coming out of the mountains.

Slipping out of her sweaty gown and chemise, Ophele climbed into her stew pot, ducking her head to soak her hair. She still had all the soapsand lotions and sundries from Celderline, and she reserved a few buckets of cold water to rinse herself off, shivering. There were no towels. Wrapping her arms around herself, she went to stand by the fire, hoping no one would come to the door and nothing hungry would come through the windows.

Spread on the bed was the gown she would wear tonight, as beautiful as anything Lisabe owned. It was an unlikely combination of bronze and dark blue, studded with pearls on the bodice and skirt. She could dress herself as far as her chemise and the bronze silk kirtle, but there was just no way to put on the overdress herself. The duke might say that there was no one here to wait on her, but ladies’ gowns were complex constructions with many layers, fastenings, and laces, and often there were pieces that had to be sewed on after the lady was dressed.

Imagining the duke clutching a needle and thread in his huge hands made her mind boggle.

At least he had brought her books to the cottage. Ophele sat down at the table and hung her hair over the back of the chair to dry, then promptly fell asleep.

“Princess?”

She woke up to find the duke frowning down at her, as shaggy and black and bearlike as ever. He had taken time to wash and shave, and it was strange to see him without a beard, his bare cheekbones high and arrogant.

“Sorry,” she said at once, skittering nervously away. “Sorry. I fell asleep.”

“It’s all right. You need help with your dress?” he asked, taking in the many pieces laid neatly on the bed. Ophele had already donned the kirtle, a simple underdress studded with topaz along the neck.

“Yes.” Silently, she showed him how the overgown went over her head and how the slashed sleeves fit over her arms, puffing out to reveal her white chemise and held in place with bronze ribbons. She couldn’t tie bows on her own arms.

Neither could the duke, apparently. He scowled at the ribbons as if they had mortally offended him, and the final bows were decidedly lopsided.

“I don’t see why it’s so complicated,” he grumbled, kneeling behind her to thread the laces through their eyelets. “Princess,” he added, more gently. “I am sorry for what I did, earlier today. You did nothing wrong.”

“I didn’t mean to complain,” she said, not daring to look back at him.

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