Hunter's Season (Elder Races #4.7)(18)

Xanthe was busy unpacking two more large canvas bags. She looked at each package, container or jar interestedly, muttering to herself as she set the items on the table, which was already piled high with fresh fruits and vegetables.

He opened his mouth to ask for her help but then hesitated. Instead, obeying again some nameless impulse, he tilted his head and watched her work. She had a quiet, peaceful demeanor, and she looked comfortable, at home with her own company. For the first time, he realized that she wasn’t dressed in a palace black uniform, but instead wore a soft looking, somewhat worn tunic and trousers. Her hair was braided, but not as tightly as usual, and the dark length shone with auburn highlights in the slice of sunlight that fell across her back and shoulders.

His gaze lingered on the gentle curve of her cheek then dropped to the swell of her br**sts, where he had rested his head earlier. Her hips were slight and trim but definitely feminine. She was not as tall as he, but her legs were lean and long.

She looked up toward the doorway, saw that he was watching her, and a delicate tinge of color washed over her face. She glanced at his shirt that hung off one shoulder and set aside a wax wheel of cheese to walk over to him quickly.

“You should have said something,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows. “Did you just scold me?”

She jerked to a halt, the color in her cheeks deepening. “I—I’m sorry, my lord.”

She looked so flustered, he found himself smiling. He asked gently, “Xanthe, would you mind helping me slip into this blasted shirt?”

Her gaze flew up to his, to his bare shoulders and chest, and darted away. “Not at all,” she said. She sounded winded.

He could barely stand on his feet, and his body still throbbed with pain. But something else stirred, something that had been buried under grief and anger and had lain dormant for a long while.

She came closer to carefully ease him fully into the shirt, and his back muscles protested only a small bit as she supported the full weight of his arm.

He was taller than she was by half a head. He bent his head close to hers, inhaling her fresh, clean scent. “Thank you.”

She tilted her head slightly, so that they stood almost cheek to cheek. If she raised her head a little more, if he lowered his….

“You’re welcome,” she whispered.

This was too intimate. He straightened. “I see Tiago was not joking when he said they brought half the marketplace.”

She widened her gaze. “There are even biscuits and a pot of clotted cream. I haven’t reached the bottom of the bags yet. If I fish for supper occasionally and forage for sun potatoes and fresh greens, we have enough food for weeks.” She paused then asked hesitantly, “Would you like to sit at the table while I put things away?”

For a moment he was tempted but another wave of dizziness washed over him. He gritted his teeth, hating his own weakness. “Perhaps later,” he said. “Right now, I think I need to lie down again.”

“Of course.” She stepped close, put her arm around his waist and helped him back to the bed.

Darkness danced around the edge of his vision. He muttered, “I’ve taken your only bed and put you on the floor.”

“That does not matter.”

He eased back onto the pillows. “It matters to me.”

The darkness grew closer, hazing his mind. As if from a great distance, he felt her tuck the sheet over him. He thought he heard her say, “That is why people care about you so much.”

Then his unruly emotions and wayward mind grew quiet, as the darkness took him over completely.

Chapter Five

The Dance

Xanthe took the perishables like the eggs and clotted cream, loaded them carefully into the wire well basket, and then lowered them into the cool deep water of the well. She kept a few of the eggs out to boil them. While those cooked, she found storage places for rest of the food.

There were also biscuits, fresh bread, jams and jellies, cheese, both fresh and salted meat, nuts, three kinds of tea, butter, flour, barley, sugar, fruits and vegetables. Sweet potatoes. There were even three bars of soap that smelled like honeyed almonds and were rich enough that fine ladies would not distain using them. This cottage had never seen such rich fare.

Xanthe was no fancy cook, but she could prepare good, plain meals, and all the luxuries from the market would help to dress up anything she might offer. By the time Aubrey awakened again, she had a substantial lunch prepared of the last of the chicken, sautéed turnip greens, boiled eggs, and bread, butter and jam. In small bowls were fresh berries sprinkled with sugar.

She was just about to retrieve the clotted cream from the well when she heard his quiet footsteps. She turned as he entered the room. He ran his hands through loose raven hair. His clothes were rumpled, and his feet were still bare. It was shocking to see him in any way less than meticulously groomed and in formal clothing. As she studied his stance and angular features, she was pleased to see that he was much steadier already.

He said, “I see that you have been busy.”

“Are you hungry?”

His gaze lit upon the contents on the table. “I am.”

She had not been sure how to lay out the meal, if he might need to stay in bed or if he would rather she did not eat with him. But this was, after all, her home. There was only one place to sit and eat, and also, he had not seemed to mind in the slightest when she had joined him and Tiago for breakfast, so she had laid two settings.