Page 30 of Water Dragon
She couldn’t imagine what she would have done, how she would have ever expelled her grief. She couldn’t bear to even contemplate it. She had refused to even think it while she wandered the hallways, restless and petrified at her own helplessness. All she had been able to think was if she had been a sworn in councilor, if she had been a courtier, she would not have had to skulk back into the shadows when he fell.
She would have been able to claim the space next to him. The one Lady Shannon had claimed in her stead. The one Iona was now too self-conscious to move into, even though there was no one around the stop her.
He stirred and it stirred her into action.
In a breath she was next to him, her hand at his brow, her other hand grasping his in a tight grip.
“Mal,” she said, her voice hoarse with her contained worry.
His eyes remained closed for so long that she thought he must have gone back to sleep, but then they eased open, and his gaze met hers.
She realized how close he was then, growing aware of how she was practically draped over him. One hand clasping his, the other still at his brow; one knee resting next to him on the bed while the foot of the other remained planted on the floor.
“Mal,” she repeated, clenching her jaws against the rising tears, hating that they were appearing despite her best efforts. This wasn’t about her upset; it was about him and getting him back to full strength. Still, she couldn’t help but tell him the cause of them as she said, “I thought I’d lost you.”
He smiled a small smile, her hearts lighting at the sight of it. Then he scoffed gently, as if to tell her that her fear had been entirely misplaced. Her hearts crashed back down immediately, and her brows furrowed as she slowly pushed herself to sit straight, looking down at him. She could tell that he knew what that frown meant. He was about to say something, but she cut him off with, “Don’t ‘pfft’ me,your highness.”
He pursed his lips together as though he was never going to make another sound again and she rose to her feet, frustration building like a fog in her chest.
“What were you thinking?” she asked, containing her anger, but barely.
“I was thinking I would unseat him,” Malcolm offered. “Clearly that was not in the cards for me.”
“He tipped his lance with a spearhead,” she informed him, Malcolm’s eyes widening. Oh, that got his attention. “And then he put an enchantment on it. They only just broke the spell that could have killed you, you idiot,” she exclaimed.
“How am I an idiot for not thinking he might go that far? Who would have thought he would go that far?”
“You have a conspiracy against the crowns circulating and your father—!”
“Lower your voice, please, I have the most splitting headache,” he interrupted.
“As you should, seeing how your head was very nearly split open.”
“Hardly,” he replied.
She crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at him. She was not going to speak again unless he confessed. Her eyes told him as much. He looked as though he wanted to make an excuse, as though he wanted to tell her that she was overreacting and these things happen and he did punch Sir Patrick in the face, after all. But finally, what he said was, “Fine.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Fine?”
“Yes, perhaps we thought this might happen,” Malcolm said.
She stalked around the bed and punched him in the arm, making him howl in a way that had her instantly regret her abuse. She sank down next to him as he clasped the spot protectively.
“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching for him as though she could somehow make it better. But she was no healer. Clearly. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why do you think they moved so quickly to save me?” he asked. “They were prepared. So was the healer. I didn’t go out there without every level of protection my father could put in place.”
“And was Lady Shannon in on it?”
Iona couldn’t stop the question from spilling out.
Not when she had just forced herself to rest her hands on her lap rather than where she wanted to place them on his chest, just to feel the steadiness of his breathing beneath her palms. Just to make sure he was truly alive.
The fear that had reared up like a wild animal inside of her the moment the lance hit him making her feel soft fury at being so thoroughly excluded, making her add, “Since she was the one in charge of the tent.”
He stared at her for the longest time, then said, “What does it matter who was in charge of the tent?”
“It doesn’t,” she replied, lifting one shoulder in a shrug.
