Hunter's Season (Elder Races #4.7)(15)

She seemed to hesitate. Then out of the corner of his eye, he saw her bow her head and leave the room.

Why had she started to smile? That look in her eyes. She looked like he had kicked her in the teeth before that perfect, polite wall of hers had come down.

Come to think of it, why was he bandaged?

His assailants had not fought to overcome him. They had fought to kill him.

Realization stung him. He said, “Xanthe.”

He could not put much strength into his voice, but she heard him anyway and appeared again in the doorway of the bedroom. This time she remained in shadow, and he could not see her face, although he knew what she would look like. Perfect, expressionless.

“I am an old fool who has let himself become ruled by bitterness and disappointment,” he said tiredly. His meager strength was waning fast again. “I apologize for the conclusion I leapt to so erroneously. You did not deserve that.”

She moved forward quickly, coming into the light, and there was expression back in her face, shimmering in her eyes. “Please do not distress yourself, my lord. You have been badly injured, and you awakened to find yourself in a strange place with no explanation.”

He closed his eyes. “Yes.”

Gentle fingers touched his forehead then his cheek. Checking for fever, he supposed. Her hand felt warm, so he doubted he had one.

“Where am I?” he whispered. Speaking out loud was too hard to continue.

“You are at my cottage,” Xanthe said softly. Her quiet, calm demeanor was soothing. “Her grace and Tiago decided you should be brought completely outside of Adriyel, while they searched for who did this to you. Tiago brought you here in secret. Except for the Queen, Tiago and I, no one knows where you are. You are safe.”

He should never have doubted this straight, shining woman’s dedication. The damn covers still felt as heavy as a ton of bricks, prohibiting gesture. He felt the urge to turn his face to her warm, gentle hand, and a scant moment later, he was shocked to realize he had. “Thank you.”

She cupped his cheek. “I am so—glad that I could somehow be of service to you.”

“What do we know?” Inevitably his thoughts turned to the Ealduns. Had they discovered that Sebrin was digging into the case they had built against him? They wouldn’t have been goaded to violence by the threat of any of that becoming known, would they? After all, it would have come to light anyway had the lawsuit been allowed to continue.

He hadn’t heard from the junior secretary since the other man had left Adriyel for the Ealduns’ family holdings, but then he hadn’t expected to, as it was a journey of some days away. Was Sebrin all right?

Xanthe did not bother to ask him what he meant. She said, “Nothing yet. We transported you as soon as the physicians had finished working on you. Tiago will return in a few days with more supplies. We can hope to learn something then. I’ll fetch the broth and bread.”

“Do not trouble yourself,” he mumbled around the cotton that seemed to have filled his mouth. “I’m afraid it will have to wait until morning.”

“Then rest well, my lord.”

She sounded far away. Any further thought or speculation disappeared into cool evening shadow.

Over the next three days, he slept, and woke, and slept again, until he could not tell if his body ached from the healing wounds or from being confined so long to bed. When he was awake, he lay watching the line of sunlight from the nearby window move along the corner of the quilt, his mind a tired blank. If he made any noise at all, and quite often even when he didn’t, Xanthe was there, patiently spooning broth or water between his lips. She changed his bandages a few times, and it was such an utter misery he had to bite his lip to keep from moaning.

On the morning of the fourth day, birdsong woke him early. He moved unguardedly and swore. Suddenly Xanthe was leaning over him, her dark gaze concerned. “It’s all right,” he said. “I just forgot.” His mouth and throat were a burning desert. “I need a drink, please.”

“Of course. I have some water here.” She turned away and back to him, holding a cup. “I’m going to lift up your head up.”

They had established a routine. He nodded. She slid an arm under his shoulders, bracing him as she lifted gently and held the cup to his mouth. He drank slowly, savoring the cool liquid sliding down his throat. She cradled him against her breast. When he had finished drinking all that he wanted, he leaned his head against her, savoring the warm contact with her body even more than he had the liquid.

If artifice had a scent, to him it smelled like Naida’s perfumes. He had thrown out everything in her bedroom and had it scrubbed from ceiling to floor, yet now and then he still swore that he caught a whiff of her musky perfume. It made him nauseous.

Xanthe smelled nothing of artifice. She had a clean, simple scent, like sunshine and soap.

She asked, “Any more?”

He felt the small vibration of her voice against his temple and cheek. Reluctantly, he said, “No, thank you.”

She eased him back onto his pillows. She looked serious, intent. “I should check your bandages again.”

“Certainly,” he said, bracing himself.

He had to give her credit. She made the unpleasant task as painless as possible. Her perfect expressionless face was back, insisting there was an invisible wall between them as her gentle hands unwound bandages and she checked the wounds.