Ever the Brave (A Clash of Kingdoms Novel)(80)

“No, Britta. Not simply because of our connection.”

Again, his truth burns through me, confusing everything I believed about the man. Not sure what to say in response, I return to asking him a dozen times over the next couple of hours if he’s all right, if we should stop, if we should set up camp and start a fire. His response is “Keep going.”

Gale maintains a quick pace until the light starts to fade. The temperature dips. Dark clouds move across the sky. The first few snowflakes start to fall.

It’s then that Aodren wobbles in the saddle. His head falls back, resting in the crook of my neck. His skin is ice.

“Aodren? You doing all right? We should stop and set up camp now that it’s starting to snow.”

“Sotiredandcold”—his words slur together.

Seeds. I go on instant alert, knowing—even before Aodren’s teeth stop chattering and his body slumps farther back so I’m balancing his weight—that we need to move rapidly. I made a terrible judgment in allowing us to continue this far. This is my fault.

“Aodren, hold on to my waist,” I command, cinching tighter around him and talking into his chilled ear. “We’re going to find somewhere to camp right now. Can you do that?”

I shouldn’t have listened to his protests when I suggested we stop. I push Gale to pick up the pace as I scan the rocky face of the mountains for shelter. An empty shallow cave would do. Even if the idea of spending a night in one brings back dark memories, I bite back my fear. The man in front of me desperately needs warmth.

Gale comes up on a cave. Aodren rouses enough to hold himself up, so I dismount and lead the horse inside with the king still in the saddle. Aodren’s head bobs side to side as I peruse the shelter. The cave goes back only a hundred paces, and there appear to be no animals using it as a residence. The ceiling is tall enough that we can safely build a fire.

Once I help Aodren dismount, he hobbles to the side of the cave and sits down, curling his limbs into himself. Worry is my constant companion as I leave him alone to gather wood and make a fire ring on the sandy floor of the cave. In our rush to leave Hagan’s home, we didn’t grab flint and steel.

I swallow back a cry of frustration. How foolish of me.

The branches have been exposed to frost for a month now. Most are too green to burn. It doesn’t help that I’m limited to my non-dominant left hand and minimal use of my right hand. My head is hazy from exhaustion, but I cannot sit down, not until we have fire.

I find a few sticks that’ll work and awkwardly grind them together, twisting and twisting as snow flurries start to float through the cave opening. My arm burns. My fingers go numb. I want to scream. The wind sings, promising a rough night if I cannot make any embers. My right arm throbs, pleading to stop, but I keep going.

A small spark and smoke plumes from the pile of woodcarvings I’ve circled around the spinning stick. Relieved, I push the carvings closer and blow into the pile, encouraging the flame to take. Once it sparks big enough to set in the dry kindling, I add bigger pieces of wood chips and shavings until the flame can support a log. For the first time since we left Hagan’s home, I feel like I can take a steady breath.

It’s not a big fire yet, but if Aodren slides close enough, he could start to warm at least his toes.

I glance up to tell him to come sit beside the fire ring.

He’s slumped on his side.

“Aodren,” I call out. He doesn’t stir.

“Aodren?” I rush to him. He is colorless. No, no, no. “Please wake up. Aodren, please.”

Nothing. Panic flares through me. I try to feel for his energy, but my hands are too stiff and numb. I cannot focus my hazy brain enough to try any sort of healing. Nor do I know if I have enough energy to spare.

I go into the survival mode I know best. I use my good hand to rip off his boots. Why didn’t I have him take those off when we first got into the cave? I run my hand over his feet and realize how wet and frozen his toes still are. A sob breaks out of me.

“Wake up.” I try again, squeezing his glacial flesh. Seeds, what a foolish mistake.

I lay the bedroll near the fire. Tear at my clothes. Bite my lip against the pain of each movement. Right now, pain is my punishment. I’ve been trained to keep dry and warm while traveling in the winter. I know the dangers involved. I should’ve demanded we stop earlier. I shrug out of the beast of a dress, crying out as the sleeve peels down my injured arm. The material can be another layer of added insulation. I toss it on the bedding and crouch over Aodren in only my chemise.

Using my teeth, I re-tie the bandage around my arm and set to work on his clothes. I push him on his side to yank off his tunic.

The man needs body warmth. He’s slipped into dangerous sleep. The only way to get his body back to a safe temperature is skin-to-skin contact.

I reach for his trousers. But shock at the sight of his well-muscled chest stills my hands. The modest fire’s flicker gives shape to his flat, toned stomach and strong arms. I push my new awareness of Aodren to the back of my mind and remember that this means his survival.

I don’t look. I don’t look anywhere lower than his chest as I tug his trousers down his legs. My arm smarts from the awkward chaotic maneuvering required to push his chilled body into the bedroll. Once he’s under the layers, I climb inside and lie on top of the man, drawing the bedroll snug over us.

I don’t think about what he’s not wearing. All my focus is on warming his skin. Creating friction. I run my hands up and down his arms and over his chest. I wrap my body around his, hoping my warmth will seep through my thin chemise.