Page 86 of Rebellion's Fire

Cairistiona dismissed them at the door, her gesture inviting them to return to their meal. She closed the door firmly behind her. On them and on him.

No true friends among her women, then. She was alone.

He sat down slowly and poured some more wine into his cup. He wouldn’t drink it. He just needed something to do while he adjusted to his next mask. Sitting back in his chair, he raised his cup to Cailean. “It’s good to have you back. We missed you in the battle. Without his nurse, Findlaech got a sword in his shoulder.”

And so, he played his part until it all went on without him. The wounded lay down to sleep; the women and the children cleared off; the able-bodied men drank and told lies and laughed as they should, changing seats and positions the better to join particular conversations.

Which was, he supposed, how Findlaech came to be sitting beside him as he stared silently into his swirling wine, keeping his back carefully to the bedchamber door.

Findlaech clinked cups with him. “To victory,” he said.

Adam lifted his cup by way of agreement.

“Not drinking,” Findlaech observed. “Saving your strength?”

Adam swore at him and reached for the jug, splashing more wine over what was still there.

“Ah. Waiting for the priests,” Findlaech said wisely. “Might be best.”

Adam looked at him. “There will never be a good time, will there?”

Findlaech took a large draught from his cup and set it down between his hands. “To begin it? You killed her husband, so no. On the other hand, she hated him and she likes you, for some reason, so there is hope. Myself, I’d get the first over with and move on. But if you think the priest’s important to her, wait until tomorrow. What difference will a day make?”

Adam let his lips curve as they wanted to. “What difference did today make?”

Findlaech inclined his head, lifted his cup once more. When Adam rose to his feet, Findlaech said nothing, didn’t even look, but Adam was sure he smiled into Lanson’s wine.

Chapter Twenty-One

She lay inthe big bed, tiny and unmoving. The lamp burned low, so perhaps she’d fallen asleep before she’d meant to. Or perhaps she wanted to know who was in her chamber, considering her hall beyond was full of strangers. And him.

Despite his body’s raging disappointment, there was relief in her slumber. His wounds ached, and he needed privacy as she did. Besides, everyone had seen him come in here, even if they’d kept talking as if they didn’t notice. All he had to do was lie beside her as he’d done before in the open, under the stars. He could pretend it was the same, and perhaps he’d sleep. He needed to sleep. Everything hurt.

By the lamp’s glow, he took off his tunic and his shirt and inspected the deep cut across his elbow. It still bled sluggishly through the rough bandage he’d tied onto it in here earlier while Cairistiona tended the other wounded in the hall. He unwrapped it, walking to the washing bowl, and set about cleansing it once more. That done, he tended his other neglected wounds to the best of his ability. Most of his aches, he suspected, were bruises that just needed time to heal. The worst was the sword cut in his thigh, but the old arrow wound that Cairistiona had tended on his last visit looked angry again, as if annoyed by his exertions in battle.

As he began to rewrap the cloth around his thigh, a movement from across the chamber made him turn.

She sat up in the bed, wearing some pale garment that covered her breasts, shoulders, and arms to the elbow. Her hair was night dark, spilling in sleek, straight lines around her face and shoulders. He’d only seen glimpses of her hair before, except in the dreams, and now it fascinated him. She still wore the damned mask, though, even in bed. She’d known he’d come.

“Even Findlaech let me tend his injuries,” she said. “And it would hardly be the first time for you.”

He forced himself to stillness. “Are you waiting for permission?”

“No.” She didn’t leave the bed. “If I tend your wounds, will you go?”

He shook his head, holding her gaze steadily.

She bit her lip, as though undecided. Then she sighed. “You’d lose respect going back out there after you’d come in.”

“I suppose I would.”

She lifted the blankets and rose from the bed. The pale garment covered her to her ankles, but at least her feet were bare. Small and slender, and her ankles were so tiny, he could circle them with his finger and thumb. He’d done so, once, waking from a dream the first time he’d captured her…

With quiet deliberation, she lifted the medicine box from the table and laid it on the bed.

“You’d better sit.”

His heart was drumming so hard, he couldn’t speak. There was something unutterably intimate about sitting on her bed, almost naked, while she bent over him, her hair brushing against his bare shoulder. It smelled of lavender and fresh heather.

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