Chapter 6 #2
“Aye,” he said. “Ye’re quite convincing.”
The words came sharp enough, but her hands had gone cold. The weakness was too familiar.
It had been years since the sickness had hollowed her body until standing felt like an argument, years since Hannah had watched her with frightened eyes and tried to hide every fear inside bowls of bitter tea.
Shock, Violet told herself. It had to be nothing but shock.
Connor did not argue. He only slid one arm beneath her knees and lifted her.
Her breath caught. “Put me down.”
“In a minute,” he said, his voice clear.
She would have snapped back if the motion of being carried had not scattered her thoughts. His arm supported her knees, and the other braced her back. His chest was close to her shoulder, warm through his shirt, and the scent of steel, leather, sweat, and cold air clung to him.
He did not strain or even act like he was carrying anything at all. He carried her through the archway as if her weight had already become his responsibility and the rest of the castle had been informed.
Through blurred eyes, she could see servants step aside. Guards moved before Connor reached them. No one stared for long once his gaze cut their way.
Violet hated how safe she felt.
Safety made people dangerous. If she wanted it, she could begin to depend on it. If she depended on it, Connor would have power over her that no dungeon key could match. And she would truly never be able to leave.
She pressed her lips together, partly to hold in another retort and partly because the steady beat of his steps was doing something strange to her composure.
In her chamber, he set her down on the edge of the bed with care that made her more unsettled than force would have. He crouched before her without asking, his fingers going to the torn hem near her shoulder.
She caught his wrist. “What are ye doing?”
He looked up at her. “Checking where he shoved ye.”
“I am fine. Ye can believe that.”
Connor did not miss a beat. “Ye also told me ye could walk.”
She released him as gently as she brushed the fabric at her shoulder, practical and light. Still, heat moved under her skin where his knuckles grazed her sleeve.
A knock suddenly sounded at the open door.
The guard returned, slightly breathless. “The bairn is safe, me Lady. Moira has him, and Alex is with them. He’s quieted.”
Violet closed her eyes for one second. “Thank God.”
Connor stood. “Leave us.”
The guard bowed and disappeared.
Violet curled her fingers into her skirt. “Ye ken, if I kent how to use a sword like ye, perhaps I wouldnae need to merely be assertive.”
Connor’s mouth twitched so hard that it was almost a smile. “Is that so?”
“Aye.”
His smile widened as he stepped forward and leaned in so close that she could see the stubble on his chin. “Then I have an idea.”
The mischievous look on his face did nothing to calm her down.
“And what is this idea?” she asked, her eyes narrowed.
“The one where I teach ye how to defend yerself. I expect ye in the training yard tomorrow morning before dawn,” he said.
Violet stared at him. The ache in her shoulder, the fear still sitting behind her ribs, and the memory of Henry’s hands on the baby all struck at once.
“Excuse me?”
“To train ye,” Connor stated, as if the matter had been settled before she even understood she had asked for it.
“I was making a point,” Violet huffed.
“So was I.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again because the answer waiting on her tongue was undignified and mostly noise.
Before dawn. Of course, he would choose before dawn. Men like Connor Reed probably believed sleep was a weakness and sunrise was late.
“Before dawn?” she asked.
“Aye.” He turned toward the door. “Daenae be late.”
He made it three steps before she called his name.
“Connor.”
He stopped, though he did not turn around.
Violet hated how easily it had come out. His name had left her mouth as if it had already found a place there, and that unsettled her more than the command to train.
She forced herself to continue. “I want to see the baby first.”
Connor turned enough for the low light to catch the hard line of his profile. Whatever answer he had prepared changed when he saw her face. Violet knew it, and she hated that too. She must have looked as shaken as she felt.
“Aye,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “Moira will bring him here tomorrow when ye have rested a moment.”
“That wasnae an agreement to rest.”
His gaze lowered briefly to the hand still pressed near her shoulder. “It was close enough.”
“I am nae one of yer soldiers.”
“Nay,” Connor agreed. “If ye were, ye would already be sitting.”
The answer should have irritated her. Instead, it landed with the same severe care that had made his praise difficult to throw back at him.
He was still commanding her. Still impossible. Still far too certain that his will could stand in for sense. But beneath it sat the plain fact that he had noticed the pain she was trying to hide.
Violet looked away first.
Connor did not press. He opened the door and paused at the threshold.
“Ye can see him tomorrow,” he said. “For now, sleep if ye have any wisdom at all.”
“And if I daenae want to?”
“Then tomorrow will punish ye for it.”
He left before she had found a proper answer, the door closing behind him.
Violet remained on the edge of the bed, with her fingers curled into her skirt. Her shoulder throbbed where Henry had shoved her, and her arms still felt empty where the baby had been torn away.
Her body still remembered, with traitorous clarity, how safe she had felt being carried through the castle by the same man who kept rearranging her life without permission.
She had wanted a way to protect herself and Jane’s son. Now, Connor meant to put a sword in her hand before dawn.
Even worse, some reckless part of her wanted to go.