Chapter 11 – Try #4
“That’s not even the problem.” Remin waved this away and leaned back against the tree, gradually catching his breath.
“I think I suspected something like that. Not that she was trying to make up for that bastard, but—she’s nothing like him.
She has nothing to do with him, at all. But all this time, I didn’t want to hear it.
I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her.
Because I knew if I saw her hurt, or scared, or sad, I’d comfort her, and if I comforted her, I’d have to look at her, and the more I look at her… ”
“So look. She’s a pretty girl.”
“I don’t want to.” Remin’s hands clenched into fists.
“I think she’s innocent. I think she’s the most innocent person I’ve ever met.
But what if I look, and I…and then it turns out she’s not?
I can’t know. Even now, if I think about it, I can still say what if it’s a trick.
What if she worked until she fainted to make me doubt myself, to make me drop my guard?
I think I could still be asking that when she gives me my third child. ”
“Rem.” Miche looked appalled. “That’s—”
“I know. The problem isn’t even her anymore.
But even if she hasn’t done anything, even if she never means to do anything, the Emperor could still get to her one day.
I know it. There’s going to be something, some lever, some weakness he finds.
He always does, the bastard. He’ll tie the strings on if he can’t find one to pull. ”
“Not always.” Miche gripped his shoulder, squeezing.
“I’m here, aren’t I? And Tounot, Juste, Huber, Auber, Edemir, Bram, even that troll Jinmin.
You think we all haven’t had talks with strangers in taverns, wondering whether we like being Knights of the Brede?
I think every third woman I bedded in Segoile wanted to know if I was happy, sworn to Remin Grimjaw.
And happy is a strong word,” he said reflectively.
“It’s hard, dangerous work, and my lord has no sense of humor. ”
Remin didn’t laugh.
“I was thinking of sending her to Ereguil,” he said, resting his elbows over his knees.
“The old man warned me. He said the Andelin is no place for a lady. She’d be safe there.
Comfortable. She could sleep at night without wondering if a strangler is going to come through the window.
Duchess Ereguil would be happy, she’s always wanted a daught—”
The waterskin hit him in the face.
“Is that really for her?” Miche demanded. “Or is it just so you don’t have to look at her?”
“He was right,” Remin shot back. “I think we have proven that I am not fit to take care of her.”
“You haven’t tried.” Miche shoved himself upright.
“Nothing in this life would make the Emperor happier than knowing he’s got you seeing wolves in every lamb.
And you know what, you do owe me. I saved her life.
That means I get a say in what happens to it.
And I say you’re going to ask her what she wants. ”
“You know what she’s going to say!” Remin snapped. On his feet, he towered over his friend, but Miche glared right back, his hazel eyes shooting gold sparks. “She thinks she has to make up for every rotten thing her father’s ever done, she—”
“Then you respect that,” Miche said sharply. “Give her a chance. Just try. Or you’re letting that bastard in Starfall win without even drawing your sword.”
* * *
Ophele had never been so tired.
Maybe she just hadn’t realized how tired she really was until she was permitted to do nothing but rest and eat and sleep.
Everything was wrapped in a haze of exhaustion and often she felt like she was still dreaming even when she was eating, bowls of sweet porridge or savory stew supplied by a kindly giant who bore a striking resemblance to her husband.
“A little more,” he kept saying, until she pushed the bowl away and fell asleep again, and the murmur of his deep voice was so pleasant that she wondered wistfully if it all might really be a dream after all, and soon she would wake to an impatient hand on her elbow, and a cold voice telling her to get out of bed.
It might be a dream. The cottage got so hot in the afternoons she pushed her blankets away and tugged restlessly at her chemise, wondering if it was the early signs of that terrible fever.
She had never imagined it was possible to feel so hot.
She remembered walking with Eugene by the wall, feeling dizzy, and trying to take off her hat.
She seemed to remember Sir Miche shouting, then looking up to see the duke above her, telling her to breathe.
And then she woke up in the cottage to find him sitting on the floor next to the bed, his dark head resting on his crossed elbows. For once, he hadn’t been cold or brusque. He had even apologized. It was hazy, but she was almost positive that had really happened.
“Are you awake?”
More often than not, when she opened her eyes, he was there. Sleeping on the floor by the door, sitting at the table over stacks of parchment, or there would be the sound of his voice just outside the window. When he wasn’t angry or annoyed, it wasn’t a bad voice.
“Mmm…” She squinted and burrowed under the covers. “Time izzit?”
“Almost noon.” The duke knelt beside the bed and felt her forehead, as he always did. “Feel all right?”
She nodded, sitting up to accept the cup in his hand. For once, it was just water, not a bittersweet concoction of medicine and honey. He was watching her as if he thought she might flop back onto the bed at any moment, and she sipped slowly with her eyes down, uncomfortable with his scrutiny.
Was he really sorry? No one had ever apologized to her before, and Ophele didn’t quite know what to make of it. She accepted his kindness as meekly as she accepted his coldness. She had no choice either way.
“Genon said you’re to rest for a while,” the duke was saying, taking the cup from her and setting it on the trunk beside the bed. “Ready to get up?”
This was a polite way of asking if she wanted to go to the privy, and Ophele was grateful he just made sure she was steady on her feet and then ducked out of the cottage, returning a few minutes later with a bowl of porridge with honey and juneberries, which tasted so good she almost hummed.
“Do you want more?” he asked, eying the empty bowl.
Reflexively, she shook her head, and his black eyebrows drew together.
“I will go get more if you do,” he said, looking stern. “Do you remember what Genon said yesterday?”
Every excruciating word. Ophele wished the conversation with the surgeon had been a dream, and even more the discussion that followed with the duke.
The idea of having children at all was overwhelming, but the thought that she might not be able to have children had made her feel as if the cottage was collapsing on her.
That was her purpose. That was why the duke had married her.
If she failed at that, he would hate her even more.
Maybe that was the reason he was being so gentle now, like he was coddling a particularly high-strung broodmare.
“You’re supposed to eat,” he was saying firmly. “As much as you can. Are you full?”
Now she just wanted him to stop staring at her.
“I could eat more,” she said, looking away.
“That isn’t what I asked. Don’t placate me, wife. Tell me what you want.”
“More. Please.” Anything, if it would make him stop asking and go away. The duke eyed her narrowly but decided to accept it, vanishing back out the door.
Ophele leaned back against her pillows and kicked off the covers.
Even in her chemise, it was warm, and she could feel the days abed clinging to her skin, making her long for a bath.
It was amazing that a place at this latitude could get so hot.
Was it because of the humidity? Not for the first time, she wished she had at least some of the books from Aldeburke’s library.
She was accustomed to being able to look up the answer when she had a question, and in the absence of books, her mind circled, picking at the subject endlessly.
“Here.” The duke appeared with another bowl and dragged a chair over to the bed to sit down beside her as she ate. “Do you feel better? Properly awake?”
She nodded, watching him warily.
“I want to have serious conversation with you. And I want you to tell me what you want. Not what you think I want to hear. I swear to the stars that I won’t be angry, no matter what you say.” His black eyes met hers squarely. “Promise? The truth?”
She nodded again.
“I know you haven’t been…comfortable here.
” He had an aristocrat’s habit of sitting up very straight, his hands flat, with no gestures to punctuate his words.
“I have done nothing to make you comfortable. I am sorry for that.” He said it straight out, and looked at her when he said it.
“The Duke of Ereguil—do you know who he is?”
She nodded, listening.
“He advised against bringing you here from the first. I ignored him. I thought I had good reasons. And it has been worse than I expected, with the devils,” he admitted.
“Anyway, if you want, I’ll send you to his estate.
It’s a country estate in the south, probably the safest place in the Empire.
He and the Duchess are good people, they would treat you well.
Or if you don’t like that, I could send you back to Aldeburke—”
“No,” she said immediately, and looked down into her bowl. “No. Not there.”
“All right.” His big fingers touched her hand, making her look up at him. “Wherever you like, as long as it’s safe. I said I was sorry, and I meant it. I want to do better by you. So tell me what you want.”