The Queen's Rising (Untitled Trilogy #1)(82)

The winged weasel flickered with blessing in my candlelight as I opened the inner door, as I pushed against the tapestry.

He was sitting at his desk, writing. My unexpected entrance startled him; he jerked, his quill streaking across the parchment as I came to stand in the heart of his room.

“Brienna?”

The sound of my name, the sound of his voice, was my undoing. I took my hand from my wound, my blood dripping from my fingers onto the rug.

“Cartier,” I whispered just before I collapsed.





TWENTY-SIX


WOUNDS AND STITCHES



He moved faster than I had ever seen, nearly overturning his desk as he caught me just before I hit the ground. The candelabra spilled from my grip, clanging against the floor, the flames going out one by one, but Cartier held me to him, his eyes riveted to mine. I watched that Valenian elegance and poise dissipate from his demeanor as he took in my blood, as he took in my wound. Fury darkened his gaze, a fury found in battles and steel and moonless nights.

Gently weaving his fingers into my hair, he asked, “Who did this?”

I saw the Maevan in him rise, saw it overtake him at the sight of me bleeding in his arms. He was ready to crush whoever had hurt me. I had seen it before, in Jourdain and in Luc. But then I remembered that I was half Maevan. And I let that part of me answer.

“It’s not deep,” I murmured, taking hold of the front of his shirt, taking the helm of this problem. “I need you to undress me. I did not want to call the servant girl.”

We stared at each other. I watched my words expand in his mind—he was about to take off my clothes—and his fingers loosened in my hair.

“Tell me what to do,” he finally said, his gaze straying to the complicated mystery that man calls a woman’s dress.

“There are laces . . . at the back of my gown,” I panted, my breath coming short and shallow. “Loosen them. The gown comes off first. . . .”

He turned me in his arms, his fingers finding the knotted laces, unraveling them quickly. I felt the gown begin to loosen, felt him pull it off of me.

“What next?” he asked, his arm wrapped around my waist to support me.

“The kirtle,” I murmured.

He slid it off, my body beginning to feel light. Then he unlaced my petticoats; they fell to my ankles in a wide hoop.

“My corset,” I breathed.

His fingers fought with the stays, until my corset at last relinquished me and I could sag and breathe. I forgot all about the Stone of Eventide until I heard the wooden locket clink among the layers of fabric at my feet.

“The stone, Cartier . . .”

His arm tightened about me; he spoke into the tangles of my hair, “You found it?”

I heard the desire and the fear in his voice . . . like the thought of the stone being so close was as terrifying as it was marvelous. I leaned back against him, drawing on his strength, and smiled when I realized that he was feeling two conflicting things at once.

And then reality seemed to weave between us; he was holding me, and I was wearing nothing more than my undergarments, and the magical stone was somewhere at our feet, hidden in my clothes. I didn’t know which one was more astonishing. By the pressure of his hands on my waist . . . neither did Cartier.

“Yes. I’ve been hiding it in my corset.”

At once he knelt and took the locket, setting it on his writing desk. I was amazed at his disinterest in it, that he treated it like any other piece of jewelry. Until his gaze returned to mine, to my wound, and I saw how pale he was, how stressed.

All I wore was my sleeveless chemise, which reached my knees, and my woolen stockings, which had itched their way down my calves. And my blood bloomed bright and angry over the white linen, which I couldn’t lift to examine unless I wanted to utterly bare myself to Cartier.

He must have read my mind. He moved to his wardrobe and brought me a pair of his breeches.

“I know, these are far too big for you,” he said, holding them up to me. “But slip them on. I need to examine your wound.”

I didn’t protest. He guided me to his bedside and turned his back to me, leaving his pants in my hands. I sat on the mattress, unbuckled the dirk from my thigh, and began to pull my legs through his breeches, wincing when the pain echoed through my abdomen.

“All right,” I said. “You can look.”

He was at my side in an instant, guiding me to lie down over his blankets, resting my head on his pillow. Then, gently, he rolled up my chemise to expose my stomach, his fingers carefully probing my wound.

“It’s not deep,” he said, and I watched the tension ease from his face. “But I need to stitch this.”

“I think my corset saved my life,” I breathed, and then laid my head back and laughed.

He did not think that was amusing. Not until I had him fetch my corset, and he held it up. We both saw that the thick material, torn and bloodied, had taken the brunt of the blade, had protected me from a deeper piercing.

He cast my corset back to the floor and said, “I was about to empathize, for society dictating that you wear a cage like that. Not anymore.”

I smiled as he walked to the desk, rummaging through his leather satchel. My eyes half-closed, I watched as he brought forth a pouch of herbs, as he sprinkled them into a goblet of water.

“Drink this. It’ll help with the pain,” he said, easing me up so I could drink.