Hunter's Season (Elder Races #4.7)(20)

She laughed. “Sleep is your body’s way of recovering, but if you would rather, we can spread a blanket for you under a tree while you explore the pile of books Niniane and Tiago left.”

“That sounds perfect.” He watched while she cleared the table and stacked the dishes in the basin. Then he held his side with a wince as he yawned widely.

She suspected his fight against sleep would not last long. Not only had his injuries taxed his resources, so had the healing. The physician had ordered at least two sevendays of convalescence for a reason.

She took a blanket outside for him and shook it out in the shade of a large elm tree that was located near the front door. He appeared a few moments later, carrying three books, and struggled to kneel on the blanket. She hovered beside him, anxious to help, but his savage expression held her back.

When he was seated on the ground, he eased himself back until he was prone. She went into the cottage and returned with a pillow.

“Thank you,” he said. The skin around his mouth was white.

“You’re welcome.” She watched for a moment as he selected one of the books and began to read. Then she went to draw water to clean the dishes.

When she was finished, she looked outside. His eyes were closed, his book resting on his chest. She grinned. Each time he fell asleep he woke up stronger. This time, he might even wake up grumpier.

After she had washed and put away the dishes, she puttered around for a bit. She made the bed and boiled the bandages that he had worn. When they were thoroughly cleansed, she hung them in the sun. After they dried, she would roll and store them.

The rest of the cottage was already tidy. There was more than enough food. In a few days, she would have to do laundry, but for now there wasn’t anything that required attention until it was time to cook supper.

An invisible leash pulled her to the sleeping man underneath the shade tree. Silently she eased herself down to sit on one corner of the blanket. She felt as guilty as if she were stealing, but she couldn’t help herself. Studying him at leisure without fear of discovery was an almost unimaginable luxury.

He did not look quite so desperately ill, but he still looked worn. Shadows under his eyes lingered, as did the brackets of pain around his mouth. Tenderness pulled at her.

It was one thing to admire him from a distance for all the fine things he embodied. It was totally different to grow to know him a little, and to see the real man behind the reputation. He struggled with his temper, chafed at illness and injury, carried shadows of loneliness in those kind eyes.

Instead of showing her that her idol had feet of clay, all these things served to highlight just how outstanding his long service to his country had been. How many times had he felt endangered by Urien? Probably too often to count. When he had lain awake at night, did he, too, wonder if he might die friendless and alone?

If he had cared at all about his wife—and she believed that he had for he was a caring man—he had no doubt relied upon her companionship and drew comfort from her support, which would have made the crimes that she had committed doubly terrible for him.

She watched him quietly as the sun traveled through the sky and the dappled shade moved across his long, relaxed body. When he began to stir, she shot to her feet and fled into the house. She had her weapons laid out on the table and her sword drawn and was busy polishing and sharpening blades when Aubrey’s shadow fell into the room. She kept her head tucked down, gaze focused on her task.

He said nothing as he stood and watched her. The moment spun on an enchanted spindle until it drew out, long and golden like a thread of dyed flax pulling taut between them. She would not look up. She could not. She did not feel in control of herself, and she was terrified at what might show in her eyes.

Finally he moved quietly into the bedroom.

Her fingers shook. She nicked one on the blade she had just sharpened. She sucked the injured finger and thought, I am a fool.

When she finished with her task, she sheathed all her weapons and hung them in their customary spot beside the cottage door. Somehow the day had fled so that it was time to cook supper. She had set sweet potatoes to bake in the coals of the lunch cook fire, so all that she needed to do was grill the steaks and prepare a fresh salad of mixed greens and vegetables.

She stepped outside to collect an armful of wood. When she came back into the cottage, Aubrey appeared. He was still barefoot, and he had unbuttoned his shirt. It hung open on his wide shoulders. The wounds on his long, lean torso were already fading. This time when Aubrey raised his hands to his loose hair, he worked with a wince to tie the length back with a leather strip. It caused his chest muscles to bunch and flow under his skin.

She looked at the rippling hollows of his flat abdomen where his muscles were tightened, and her breath grew restricted. She had to force enough air into lungs to tell him, “Once the fire is ready, supper won’t be long.”

He wore a tense, sour expression. “I dislike watching you fix meals and fuss.”

She stared down at the wood she carried, blinking. “Have I fussed? I am sorry. But we must eat.”

He moved abruptly. “That is not what I meant. I’m the one who is sorry. You have not fussed. You’ve done nothing but show me patience and kindness, even when I’m sure I’ve been tactless and did not deserve it. I am frustrated that you are doing all the work. I dislike watching you labor while I do nothing.” He gave a sharp sigh. “I am unused to doing nothing.”