Page 29 of Never the Roses

Oneira turned away, busying herself with organizing thebandages and not only because he’d started climbing the steps, revealing his glorious nakedness, and she didn’t trust herself not to gawk. She also needed to hide her face in case her irritation at her laxness showed. Oh, how she’d congratulated herself on not using magic and here it was everywhere in the simplest conveniences. “Geothermal,” she said, excitedly hitting upon a plausible answer.

“Here, on a cliff above the ocean?” Tristan asked from much too close. But he also picked up the robe, his hand reaching past in her peripheral vision, so soon he’d be safely covered up.

“The house was built on top of a hot spring,” she answered with a shrug, simply a rich recluse who took things at face value, who didn’t need to know how things worked, just so long as they did. “So I was told when I bought the place,” she added, to forestall further questions.

He sat down on the bench, wiping his face with a towel. “A puzzle, to be sure.” Drawing aside the robe, he bared his lean thigh, lightly furred with silvery-pale hair, the angry furrows marring his otherwise perfect form. “What do you think?”

Oneira swallowed back any number of answers to that question, kneeling down and ignoring that Tristan had opened the robe more than necessary, giving her enticing glimpses between his slightly spread thighs, tempting her to slide a hand into that warm crevice. She made herself focus on the scratches and nothing else. The soaking had taken most of the blood away, leaving the skin pink, the edges of the shallow scratches even and not ragged. Galahad’s had been the same. “How did this happen?” she asked, running a light finger along the edge of one, enjoying the way he twitched under the touch.

“A mountain cat. It leapt out of nowhere, catching my thigh with one paw and Galahad’s flank with the other.”

She frowned, puzzled. “They’re so shallow for an attack like that.”

“We were lucky,” Tristan replied fervently, as if agreeing with something she’d said. “Iam lucky that Galahad is so bold and fast, that he outran the beast. But then, in that headlong flight, we must have taken the wrong fork. I was terrified,” he confided, “and not paying attention as I should have been, imagining those claws sinking into my back at any moment. By the time I realized we were lost, the storm hit and I couldn’t see past Galahad’s ears. I think we walked face-first into your wards.” His voice softened to a purr. “Did I mention lucky?”

She glanced up at the change in tone, finding those dark eyes fastened on her with artless admiration. He picked up a strand of her hair where it streamed over her shoulder, lifting it and running his sensitive fingers down the length of it. “Your hair is such an extraordinary color; I’ve only seen this shade once, back in my home realm. I haven’t been back in years, but I remember it vividly. It turned up regularly in certain families.”

“Where are you from?” she asked, knowing the answer and also knowing that would be the logical question.

“A very small kingdom that no one has ever heard of.” Tugging lightly on the lock of hair, his smile went teasing. “Perhaps one of your ancestors came from there.”

“Perhaps so.” She made sure to sound like she didn’t think it likely. Drawing her hair from his light grasp, Oneira reached for the salve. “I think your wounds are clean enough from the soaking. I’ll just apply this salve and bandage lightly. As you noted, you were lucky.”

“I know,” he said, leaning back a little as if to give her more room, parting his legs farther. “You have a lovely touch.”

She tried to ignore his distracting nearness and her near-constant blushing, brushing the salve lightly over his wounds so as not to hurt him. To keep her thoughts on healing, she attempted to think of it as just like putting the salve on Galahad, but that ledher straight back to the fantasies she’d brewed in the little stable, imagining Tristan’s hands on her, which only worsened her growing desire. It felt so good to touch another person, his skin hot and steaming in the bathing chamber, his breath increasing as he responded to her touch in return.

Done with the salve, she wrapped the bandage around his thigh, mostly to keep the wounds clean. Deftly, she tied the knot, then looked up. He watched her with that same disarmingly rapt expression, a bead of moisture caught on his full upper lip that she badly wanted to kiss away. “There,” she said, trying to sound brisk. “That should hold.”

“You’re good at this,” he replied with a note of surprise. “I thought you said you didn’t know healing.”

No, she’d said she didn’t have a talent for it, meaning her magic didn’t lie in that arena and which had been careless of her. Still, she’d spent most of her life on one battlefield or another. When her magic ran out, she’d still wanted to be useful, and had picked up a few tricks from the always overworked healers. “We are plagued by endless wars. It’s good to know basic field dressing.”

“True.” But he frowned. “Still, a lady such as yourself…”

“Even wealthy ladies like to be useful now and again.”

“I didn’t mean to offend.”

“You didn’t,” she said with perfect honesty and stood. “Shall we eat? I’m sure you’re hungry.”

“Starving,” he replied, also standing and testing his leg. “It feels so much better,” he observed with a note of wonder. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said with equal gravity, aware of how close they stood, that delicious-looking mouth so near her own.

“How can I repay you, lovely Lady Lira?” he asked throatily, raising a hand to touch her cheek. “It’s traditional for a damsel in distress to offer a kiss to her rescuer, but…”

But.Her mouth was dry. Her body throbbing with longing.Did she dare? What harm was there in a kiss? She was playing by old rules that no longer applied, and there was no earthly reason why she shouldn’t have this. “A kiss would be nice,” she answered, her voice hoarse.

He didn’t smile, eyes flaring darkly, face solemn with desire. Raising his other hand, he threaded his fingers into her hair at both temples, combing them through until he lightly cupped her head, bending to lower his lips to hers. He brushed her lips with his, soft as silk, hot as a brand burning through her. Something that was clenched inside her released, loosened, and billowed into being like a rose blooming from a tightly locked bud. She melted, daring to put her hands on his shoulders, then slid them up his neck and into his hair, so thick, slick and textured in her hands.

After a long, lingering kiss, Tristan pulled back and took her hand, smiling with playful delight. “We’re not standing here kissing in this steam room. There’s time for more kisses, if you want them, lovely Lira.”

She did want them. More and more and more. “And you are hungry.”

“Oh yes,” he breathed. “And also I need food. Come on.” He tugged her hand, pulling her to the door.

Laughing, light and delighted and carefree as she’d never been, Oneira went with him.

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