Hunter's Season (Elder Races #4.7)(24)

She also looked exceedingly spooked.

This would have to be a gentle hunt, or his prey might skedaddle.

As he took his seat at the table, he said gravely, “Thank you for another wonderful meal.”

Unaccountably, she flushed as she sat as well. “I do not know how to cook the complex delicacies you are no doubt used to eating.”

He kept his gaze on the contents of his plate. “Do not confuse what you imagine my lifestyle must be with what you witness at the palace. I much prefer meals like this on a daily basis.” He sensed rather than saw her relax a little. They ate in silence. Now that he had turned the corner, he could almost feel the return of health and vigor with every bite of the healthy fare. As he finished, he said, “I would like to take advantage of that bathing alcove this evening, if I might.”

She said quickly, “Of course. I’ll draw water and put it on to heat while I do the dishes.” She glanced up at him and then away, her gaze skittering off like a frightened mouse. “You will carry some scarring from those wounds. It will be good for you to soak in a hot tub with a little oil poured in the water.”

He nodded. He would fetch his own bath water if he could, but he had already reached his limit. “If you would be kind enough to draw the water, I will wash the dishes—no, I do not want to hear it, Xanthe.” He added that last in a stern, no nonsense voice as she began to speak. “We have already agreed upon this.”

She closed her mouth with an audible click of her teeth. After a moment, she muttered, “Agreeing in theory and watching it in practice are two different things.”

He said in a very gentle voice, “But you would not deny me anything that is good for me, would you?”

“Of course not,” she replied in a strangled whisper, while she looked at him exasperation. He bit back a smile.

By the time he had washed the dishes and put them away, his bath water had heated to a comfortable temperature, and he soaked in the silken, lightly oiled bath until the water had cooled. Then he washed all over, luxuriating in the sensation of cleanliness.

In the pile of clothing Niniane and Tiago had brought for him was a long, warm robe, which he donned afterward. Mercifully his aches were retreating as he healed, but after supper and the light exercise, the bath had done him in.

As he pushed aside the curtain, he saw that Xanthe must have used the basin to wash as well, for her hair was wet and slicked back, and she had donned a soft dark purple shirt and trousers. Full evening had set, and the warmth from the fire mingled pleasantly with the coolness of the air that wafted in from the still open door.

She sat in one of the armchairs, looking at the fire contemplatively, which lit her profile with golden light. Desire glowed deep within him, banked in its own hearth and waiting for the right opportunity to spark into a blaze.

Something had been tickling at his awareness for some time, but he only now paid attention to it. He frowned. “There is something of Power in this room.”

“Yes,” she said. Her gaze flicked to the mantle. “I will show it to you, if you like.”

Did she look guilty? He wondered why.

He walked over to look curiously at the items on the mantel. There was a pipe lying in a clean flat pottery dish, a beautiful piece of crystal, a small polished copper bowl and a wooden box.

“Do you smoke?” he asked, surprised. He had never smelled tobacco on her.

“No. That was my father’s pipe.”

Power emanated from the box. He glanced at Xanthe who hovered nearby, watching him closely. “May I?”

She took a deep breath, her fingers twisted together, and nodded.

He lifted the box up, handling it with care, and examined it from all sides before he opened it to look at the deck of cards inside. “There’s a tale to tell here.”

“I got it from Duncan and Seremela,” she told him. “Seremela’s niece had stolen it, and they didn’t want to be responsible for it. I said—I said I would take care of it.”

“Did you?” He turned over the first exquisitely crafted card and looked upon the fierce, golden face of Love. Then he turned over the second card to look at the sharp, ruthless visage of Law. “These cards are really quite extraordinary. You don’t have any clue as to their origins?”

She shook her head. “I think—I think the right thing to do is to take them to one of the gods’ shrines,” she said softly.

He raised his eyebrows. Her voice was filled with something complex, but he could not decipher what it was. He set the cards carefully back in the box, closed the lid and set the box respectfully back onto the mantel.

“I am no expert in items of Power, but if you are unsure about these, then offering them to the gods at one of the shrines would be appropriate.” He turned to put his hand on her shoulder, spreading his fingers over the finely sculpted shape of it, gently rubbing her through the soft cloth of her tunic. Giving in to temptation, he said quietly, “I have a very selfish desire to fall asleep listening to your voice. Can I coax you into reading to me for a little while?”

She swallowed and told him huskily, “I would be glad to.”

His conscience stirred and grumbled. She had done so much for him already. He squashed it, choosing the selfish act, choosing to explore everything he could with her. He wanted to hear her voice. She had agreed. Experience told him that she certainly knew how to say no. He could not both hunt her and simultaneously protect her from himself.