Chapter 11
Rowan for Protection
Flora
T
he fire crackles around the last remnants of the Ever’s bloody bandages and clothing, acrid smoke curling into the shadows.
I blink away exhaustion as dawn approaches.
Chyr teeters beside the bed, one hand white-knuckled on the chair for balance while I lace him into the bodice of Catriona’s dress.
The wool stretches over bandaging and bare skin, his fevered heat seeping into my fingers.
Given that I’ve practically carved him apart like a joint of beef and stitched him back together, only his willpower and stubborn strength keep him upright. If I can get him back to the keep alive, let alone pass him off as a believable companion for my mother, it will be a miracle.
On the bright side, being half-dead has made him accept the indignity of the disguise with less argument than I’d expected.
I step back to assess my work. The sheep’s fleece rolled over the bandaging gives him a bosom nearly as large as Catriona’s, and elsewhere, he fills the dress out by being wide and hard where she is softly padded.
Overall, the fit isn’t as bad as I feared, apart from being a foot too short.
As a final touch, I arrange the shawl low over his forehead in the way pious old women wear to church.
“There.” I tuck the ends of the shawl under the bodice. “Now stay seated, hunched over, and quiet, and you’ll be drab enough to pass as a giant’s spinster aunt.”
He shoots me a look that promises retribution. “If this is subtle revenge for all that Siorai have done to you, your mind is devious.”
“My idea of revenge would be more painful, trust me. This is self-preservation. Dunhaelic has no men left of fighting age. You’d stand out a mile if anyone saw you.”
“Then I’ll hide so no one sees me.”
“There’s nowhere to hide in your condition. Dressed as a lady’s companion, you’ll be invisible in plain sight. No one would imagine a Rider stooping to disguise himself in a dress.”
“Why would they?” the Ever asks. “Wearing a skirt would make it damned difficult to intimidate, much less kill, someone. And that’s literally half my job.”
“You’re welcome to change back into trousers as soon as you’re strong enough to kill again. Or whenever your magic is back and you can do better.”
“A dress won’t fool anyone. Look at me.”
I let myself study him. His stained-glass eyes shift from honey to gold to brown and green as I look deeper. They glitter with fever, and the soft drape of the shawl only highlights the strength of the jaw and the straight, sure nose, the harsh perfection of his features.
Even half-dead and wearing a dress, Chyr is more treacherously male than any warrior I’ve ever met. Every movement hums with coiled, deadly strength, tempered by intelligence and command. He’s a predator, a hunter. Every sensible part of me wants to run.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing. You’ll be fine. Your face is pretty enough.”
“Pretty?” he repeats. Then he smiles—a slow, wide grin made slightly crooked by a thin silver scar at the corner of his mouth.
The imperfection only makes the rest of his face more dangerously beautiful.
His eyes light with amusement, and a wicked spark hooks low and deep inside me.
I turn away with an unfamiliar ache drying out my throat.
Bloody stupid Evers.
“Try not to look so pleased with yourself,” I say. “Keep the shawl low and your head bent so no one can see you clearly. With luck, the queen won’t send anyone here until you’ve gone.”
The remnants of his smile fade, and he shakes his head.
“Don’t give in to wishful thinking. Vheara and her Butcher will send someone soon—soldiers, at least, and probably Greys.
It really isn’t fair of me to put you or your family in danger.
My friends and I hid in a cave not far from here.
I can rest there for a day. With the poison gone, the magic from the Veilstones should let me heal well enough to leave by then. ”
This is the part of the conversation I’d hoped to put off until he was stronger. But hiding the truth won’t make it easier for either of us.
“I wasn’t able to get all the celestial iron out,” I admit. “Some of it was sunk too deep. You asked for time, though, and you should have that—as long as you let me help you through the initial fever, shock, and blood loss.”
“How long?” he asks.
The question cuts through me, and I swallow hard. “I can’t be sure, Chyr. I’m sorry.”
A battle wages across his face. His jaw clenches and unclenches before he sinks onto the edge of the bed, finally acknowledging that he doesn’t have the strength to hold himself upright.
“I still think it’s too dangerous for you to have me at the keep.”
“Probably,” I nod. “But I can’t risk having you collapse where Vheara’s soldiers might find you.
There aren’t many healers nearby who could stitch you like I have—you’d risk a hangman’s noose for me and everyone in my Clan.
And in case that isn’t clear enough, let me make it clearer.
You’re welcome to leave as soon as you’re able to dig up your sword, saddle your horse, mount without help, and ride away without falling off.
Until then, you stay where I can watch you without shirking my other responsibilities.
Now, stop wasting my time with arguments. ”
Thankfully, he seems to accept that.
I’m tired to my bones and don’t have the strength to keep explaining. Too much is flying at me at once: the Ever and the queen and even bloody Dughall and the Council, all of them pulling me in directions beyond my control.
I cross to the fire and add more wood, then toss the remnants of the Ever’s boots into the flames to ensure they burn. Leaving the wrung-out cloths on the hearth to dry, I carry the last of the dirty water outside and dump it on the midden heap.
Rab doesn’t bother to get up. He gives me a resentful look, yawns, and lays his chin back on his paws, growling now and then at the shifting shadows. Having promised to wake Catriona so she can finish the cleaning, I leave the fire burning.
Getting Chyr onto the horse is almost too much for him.
Bramble, the most sensible of our mares, stands patiently until I manage to get him into the saddle.
He shivers, sagging heavily against me. By the time we’re halfway back to the keep, I’m supporting so much of his weight it’s a struggle to keep both of us upright.
The stars are fading as we approach the military road. I listen for voices or hooves other than our own, but there’s nothing—only our breathing and the soft creak of saddle leather. Clouds drift across the descending moon, swift and pale in the pre-dawn sky.
“Your mother will want a name to call me,” he says as we approach the keep. “What should I answer to?”
“How about Rowan? For luck and protection. We’ll say you’re our housekeeper’s niece.
Her family is from the far north, which will explain your fair hair and some of your height.
But you’ll give yourself away if you speak, so you’ll have to pretend you’re mute.
My mother will be delighted to have the company regardless. ”
The Ever’s breath fans across my scalp, warm against the cool night air and far too intimate.
“Anything else I should remember?” he asks.
I should try to explain my mother, but her condition is too tangled with blame and guilt.
For all our sakes, the fact that the Ever will be too weak to move around for a while might be a blessing.
On the other hand, having him bedridden could make him seem more suspicious if anyone comes to the keep searching for injured men.
“Just concentrate on healing,” I say.
He shivers against my back, and my heart twists at the thought of his death. Maybe it’s that image of a wounded animal being put down that Catriona planted in my head, but something about the Ever feels broken in the same way wild things do when you try to help them.