Chapter 27 #2
“Who did this to you?” she wanted to know, staring down at the rough-hewn table. Her words came out flint-hard, promising some kind of retribution. She turned to look at him and regretted it, afraid he could see the sharp glint in her eye and mistakenly conclude that she cared about him.
Did she care about Mordred Pendragon?
“It does not matter, Nyneve,” he sighed after a long moment. “Galen has one of the old Roman copper tubs, does he not?”
She resettled her weight, leaning against the table. “Yes. It’s behind the screen. We normally place it in front of the hearth.” She paused, turning to consider him. “You are rather sweaty.”
He laughed, but the sound of it was more torn parchment than autumnal bell. “I meant for you.”
With a deep breath, Mordred stood up straight and stalked toward the area of the cottage Nyneve had indicated.
Though fully healed, his movements lacked their usual grace.
But as she was about to protest the effort it would take to heat and fill the tub—even with magic—she remembered that he was the last of the Tuatha de Danann.
Mordred simply set the tub in front of the fire and lifted a few fingers.
The hearth blazed to life. Nyneve blinked as steam rose from waters that appeared out of nowhere.
She didn’t catch an invocation or charm, belatedly realizing it was because there hadn’t been one.
“That was kind of you,” she mumbled, trying not to think about what water sluicing down the muscular planes of his stomach might look like in the red-gold glow of the hearth.
He shrugged, clearly still exhausted, and stooped to pick up his ruined tunic.
Nyneve let out a long breath, eyeing the lazy plumes of steam, desperate to feel the hot water close in around her body.
Steadying herself, she pushed off the table and took one step toward the tub.
Her knees buckled and she winced, preparing to hit the ground hard.
But arms closed around her and Nyneve found herself pressed into Mordred’s bare chest.
“Will you allow me to help you?” the faerie knight asked.
“Trying to make sure you don’t owe a debt?” she had just enough energy to shoot back.
“Actually, yes,” Mordred admitted, his hands moving to her waist so he could step back and look at her. His expression was nothing like the softness she’d caught earlier, but there was no guile, no glint of mischief. She wagered he was just as tired as she was.
“Fine,” Nyneve sighed. “I apparently cannot stand.”
“I noticed,” he grunted, bracketing him to her side so he could reach for her stool and drag it to the side of the tub.
Nyneve waited for him to make a comment about how it was surely on his account that she could not stand, or that perhaps he had such an impact on many noblewomen.
But for once, Mordred stayed quiet. She accepted his help to settle onto the stool and then reached around, trying to undo the tight knot of her apron.
Her arms were limp as broken flower stalks.
“Here,” Mordred murmured, going down on one knee at her side. Too tired for words, she just smacked at his hand as it landed on her apron tie. He pulled back and looked at her tiredly. “Nyneve, I had my head between your thighs last night. What modesty are you trying to protect?”
“It’s about the principle,” she protested. “Not modesty.”
“By all means, let the bathwater go cold for your principles, then,” he replied.
She rolled her eyes, but then her gaze strayed to the steaming water that called to her tired, sore body. “Fine.”
His breath ghosted her neck as he reached for her apron again, fingers undoing the double-knot in one deft movement. She shrugged out of the apron and handed it to Mordred, who folded it neatly and set it aside as she reached for her boots and nearly toppled off the stool.
“Would you just let me do it?” the knight demanded, an edge appearing in his voice.
“I can take off my own damn boots,” Nyneve replied without a drop of malice, simply because she could not summon it. Heat, however, seemed to not be in such short supply as Mordred knelt in front of her, his hand reaching for her ankle.
“Can we not do this over every single item of clothing?” he asked, rubbing one eye. “I should like to sleep at some point.”
Her only answer was a huff, which he seemed to understand perfectly fine, seeing as he began to unlace her boots and pull them off her feet. It was terribly intimate, Sir Mordred Pendragon on his knees before her, gently removing her shoes and then her wool stockings.
“Can you manage your kirtle?” Mordred asked. Nyneve met his gaze and watched a muscle in his jaw jump.
“I hope so,” she muttered, trying to undo the laces. Her fingers trembled violently—a common side effect of working more intense healings. The knight waited at her feet, unmoving, until she said, “Fine. Help, if you would.”
He had the kirtle unlaced with one hand in half the time it usually took her.
Unable to contain her curiosity, she glanced up at him, brow furrowed.
She was probably imagining the flush on his sharp cheekbones.
He hadn’t restored his glamour, she realized all at once.
Now that she had seen him without it, his true appearance seemed so much more .
. . natural. Obvious. And impossibly enticing.
“Here,” Mordred said, shifting his weight to rest one forearm on the edge of the tub, which was still steaming merrily. “Lean on me if you need to.” His gaze glided up to hers. “I can certainly avert my eyes if you so desire.”
Nyneve shrugged, putting one open palm on his shoulder and pushing up to stand.
Blackness swarmed her vision, so she held still and allowed it to clear.
With her free hand, she shimmied out of her smallclothes.
“You did have your head between my thighs,” she echoed, grasping the hem of her shift.
“Not much modesty to preserve, as you said.”
She pulled the thin garment up and over her head, letting it fall to the ground.
And then she found she could not resist—she glanced down at Mordred to find him gazing up at her, full mouth parted, a vein in his neck pulsing.
His eyes dipped to her breasts, nipples hardened in the cool air, and then down the slopes of her belly and hips.
“Get in the water,” he said tightly.
For once in her life, Nyneve obeyed, settling into the gloriously hot water, a sigh tumbling from her mouth. Her eyes closed, she told Mordred where to find the lye soap and washing cloths in the cabinet, which he brought to her side without a word.
For a few moments, she just lay in the tub, basking in the relief provided by the steaming waters.
Then she summoned the courage to wash, thankful that the task did not require much dexterity from her weakened muscles and limbs.
Mordred stayed on the stool, his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, until she asked for one of the large cuts of muslin.
Then he rose to his feet, holding the drying cloth out to her unfolded, his arms wide, as if to shield her bare body from his eyes.
“Your turn,” Nyneve said tiredly, gesturing toward the still-steaming water. “Foolish to waste the magic.”
He met her gaze for a moment, his eyes hooded by the half-light, and then nodded.
She stepped into her small quarters, shivering, and dressed in her spare clothing, not bothering to don more than her smallclothes, chemise, and stockings, wrapping a large woolen blanket around her shoulders.
When she emerged into the front room, Mordred had thankfully finished bathing but was dressed in only his trousers as he stared at his cut tunic laid out on the table.
“Garment magic,” Nyneve lamented, shaking her head. Every magic-user had their own natural talents, but she maintained that knitting someone’s skin back together was easier than weaving together torn fibers, and there were few who disagreed.
He turned his head to look at her, amusement moving across his features like a heatwave.
His hair was curlier when it was wet, she noticed, taking in a spiral that hung over his forehead.
She furiously averted her eyes, wrapping her blanket tighter around her shoulders.
Then, ignoring him entirely, she padded over to the cabinet and pulled out a jug of cider, mostly so she could give her hands something to do that was not touching him.
“It was Ragrshydan,” Mordred said out of nowhere in a quiet voice. “He was angry I disobeyed him.”
Nyneve turned from the cabinet, looking over at him. The knight stood with his back against the table, his hands bracketing his hips. It made all the muscles in his lithe body stand out like the veins of a leaf in the sun.
“Because of me?” she asked tentatively, holding her ground and hoping the three paces between them would be enough.
His attention snapped toward her, but instead of the glittering malice she expected, she found more bone-deep exhaustion in his eyes. “It does not matter,” Mordred said wearily. “I am only a weapon. A sword does not refuse the bidding of its master.”
The last few words came out bitter, his lip curling, but Nyneve knew enough about sorrow that she could taste it hiding beneath, sea salt on her tongue.
“That . . . darkness inside you . . .” she began, hugging the earthenware jug against her chest as she thought about the way he brimmed with unfathomable power just beneath his Threads. “Did She put it there? The Morrigan?”
Nyneve wondered when he would just stop answering her questions and leave. She knew it had to be soon. She knew his body and mind were still in shock, even if his wounds were healed, and that she was taking advantage of it.
“The Morrigan and Nyx,” he answered quietly, raking one hand through his hair. “But yes. They did. They were afraid of the Time of Men. They were afraid of the god imprisoned in the heart of this island. So They made me.”