Page 28 of Never the Roses

“Of a sort, yes.” She swept past the bier, slightly embarrassed that he’d noticed it and grateful that he’d offered an alternative explanation for it. “You can put your bags in here.” She stepped aside so he could enter the guest room, giving it a last once-over. It seemed like the expected things were there.

“Beyond expectations,” he said, giving her a long look that made her wonder if he meant more than just the room.

“The bathing chamber is this way.” She’d indulged herself mightily with the bathing room, building a deep soaking pool from various happy dreams, along with a heated brazier that could be sprinkled with water to make steam. This was one luxury from her former life she was unwilling to forsake. So many times, after terrible battles and grueling duels, she’d soaked away the blood and horror in baths like this. All the nobles had similar facilities, and she’d ruthlessly used her position to claim first and exclusive access to them.

Tristan whistled in appreciation, taking in the elegant chamber. “I feel as if I’ve stumbled into an old tale—the palace with every comfort, fine food, and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen offering to tend my wounds.” The smile he gave her was almost shy, making her feel both delighted and tender toward him.

“Soak as long as you like,” she said. “I’ll tend to your horse’s injuries in the meanwhile.”

“Thank you.” His voice, that lovely lyrical accent she hadn’t heard in so long, resonant with sincere warmth as he bowed to her. Straightening, he ventured a slight smile, meeting and holding her gaze. “I don’t suppose you’d like to…” He gestured toward the steaming water.

She would like to. Very much. Too much. She’d only just met the man. If she decided she wanted him enough to take him to her bed, there was time to come to that conclusion. She would not be hasty. Backing up a step, she shook her head. “I’ll look after your horse and see to the soup. After a while, I’ll check on you.”

“Of course, my lady.” He blushed with self-effacing charm. “I don’t mean to keep you from your accustomed activities. A ladyof your stature no doubt has far better things to do than waste time keeping company with a scraggly wanderer the likes of me.”

She almost corrected him, nearly said that she couldn’t think of anything else she should be doing, but the horse—yes, the horse needed tending and she needed time to reflect, gather her thoughts, and reason logically. “I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be counting the minutes.” He shrugged out of the robe, letting it fall, and stood before her naked. Tall, lean, with finely formed limbs, he was gloriously handsome, his skin smooth and free of scars, except for the deep scratches on his left thigh. They’d scabbed over, bleeding only lightly now.

Oneira tried to look only at the injury, and not his long cock. It wasn’t erect, but it wasn’t entirely soft either, head nestling out from his foreskin, his scrotum heavy and darker, all of it free of hair. “The injury doesn’t look too bad,” she observed, in part to maintain the fiction that she wasn’t ogling him like a fancy pastry. “Are you in pain?”

She raised her eyes to his and found him watching her with his dark gaze, his sensuous lips serious, as he posed for her. “Barely at all. You could… examine me more closely.”

“Later,” she replied, quickly averting her gaze.

“The offer is open, beautiful Lira,” he murmured.

Abashed, Oneira fled, face hot and blood stirring hotter.

Working with the gelding calmed her agitation. Tristan had set the tack aside and groomed the horse to gleaming, another example of the young man’s thoughtfulness and diligent care. The horse happily munched the fragrant hay Tristan had placed on the floor for him. Oneira would have to obtain some real hay for the creature, lest he starve on the Dream variety. At least it seemed to taste good.

As she ran her fingers over his glossy hide, examining the scratches, which were not so deep as she’d originally supposed, Oneira imagined Tristan grooming the gelding—and how those long, clever fingers would feel on her body.

The offer is open.And he’d called her beautiful, more than once. She knew herself to be comely enough, though even as a young woman, no one would’ve called her pretty. As she’d matured, she’d grown into her rather strong-boned face and vivid coloring. Still, physical beauty had never mattered much to her, especially amid the courts of men, where fawning flattery made every compliment sound insincere and like a path toward losing her better judgment. Besides which, beauty only goes skin-deep, and she was horrifically rotten beneath it all.

But Tristan didn’t know that about her. Innocent to the point of naïveté, he looked at her and saw… if not true beauty, then something that attracted him. The way he looked at her made herfeelbeautiful, believing in the possibility as she never had before. It would be an indulgence to have him, but fate had also dropped him in her lap, perhaps for a reason.Even the sages do not know how the heart heals, Moriah had said. It could be that taking this lovely, charming young man to her bed would be healing. She would maybe feel, if not pure or innocent again, then at least like this woman she might have been. In Tristan’s arms, enjoying his caresses and ardent words, she could pretend to be young and carefree, the sort of easy and open woman who enjoyed her lovers.

Not a murderess and destroyer of realms. If only for a little while.

The horse’s scratches salved, Oneira returned to the house, made sure the soup remained on low simmer, then went to check on Tristan. Outside the bathing chamber door, she hesitated, smoothing her skirts with damp palms. Knocking lightly—why,as Tristan clearly wasn’t modest? Quite the reverse—she opened the door and peeked in, half expecting him to be asleep in the steaming water. Instead he’d turned his head, giving her a wide and happy smile, stretching his finely made arms along the rim of the tub.

“This is glorious, Lady Lira,” he said, gaze caressing her. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“No need for thanks,” she replied, blushing as much as before. Was she seventeen years old again? She certainly felt that way.

“How is Galahad?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My horse,” he explained with a sweetly chagrined wince. “Over the top, I know, but I’m a poet, so I can’t help myself.” He shrugged. “Everyone, even horses, should have important, meaningful names, don’t you think? What does Lira mean?”

“I have no idea,” she answered with perfect honesty. So far as she knew, the hastily concocted name meant nothing. “And Galahad is fine. I believe the scratches will heal cleanly, though I have no talent for healing. I do have the salve, however.” She held up the tub of ointment she’d used on the horse, a salve she’d acquired to treat her own scratches, mostly from the rose thorns. “I can leave it here for you. And these bandages.”

“I’d hoped you’d tend me,” Tristan said with a searching look. “Unless you’d prefer not to? I promise to be a perfect gentleman. Or if you’re too busy…”

“Not at all,” she assured him. “I can come back.”

“No, I’ll get out.” He made a show of moving lethargically, standing in the waist-deep water and stretching with languorous sensuality, drawing and holding her gaze as water sheeted off his long, lovely form. “Such a luxury to soak like this. How do you keep the water hot?”

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