Chapter 12
Button-sized yellow tansy flowers snagging on her trousers, Magdala followed Asherton through the garden to the still-open kitchen door. He cradled Anton in the crook of his arm and seemed to have forgotten about the bleeding bite on his hand. Magdala caught up to him, holding out a handkerchief.
“How do I know that’s not poisoned?” he asked without turning.
“I thought you said you trusted me.”
“I said I trusted you more than anyone else on the guard, but zero multiplied by zero is still zero.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. And you’re bleeding all over the grass.”
“I doubt it minds,” Asherton scoffed. He strode into the kitchen, leaving muddy footprints on the white tile. Magdala stopped to wipe her boots on the mat.
Zephyr was not napping—he was waiting for them with bandages, iodine, and disinfectant salve. Magdala wondered if the nap excuse had been a guise to cover his paternal anxiety.
Before Asherton reached Zephyr, she gripped his elbow and yanked him toward the staircase.
“This is the kitchen,” she cried. “You can’t tend bleeding wounds in the kitchen,”
Zephyr crossed his arms over his broad chest, so the duck on his shirt peered over his bulging forearms. “This isn’t your house, Miss Devney.”
Oh, the irony.
“Magdala can tend it in my room,” Asherton said as he continued to the upper floor.
“I’m not your maid!” Magdala shouted up the staircase.
“When you find one, send her up then.” Asherton’s voice faded as his feet pounded down the hallway overhead.
Zephyr stared at her, stony-faced. “Miss Devney, go and patch him up.”
“Me?” Magdala exclaimed. “I’m his bodyguard, not his nurse.”
“Didn’t they teach you wound-tending in training?”
They had, but she wondered if she should pretend they hadn’t. Magdala pursed her lips and stared at Zephyr like a squirrel with its foot in a trap. “I’m not very good at this sort of thing …”
“Get good at it,” Zephyr interrupted. “This won’t be your last time. You’ll find the prince is … accident-prone.”
Zephyr bundled the medical supplies and crammed them into Magdala’s arms. “Go on, before he gets an infection. While you’re at it, take the tea up.” He stacked a set of china on a tray and added a plate of scrambled eggs.
Don’t let your pride get in the way of your duty, she told herself. You have a greater purpose here.
“I’d be happy to,” Magdala said through a tight smile.
She followed the tiny drops of blood trailed along her father’s imported carpet up the stairs to Asherton’s room.
Flustered, Magdala blundered into the chamber before she stopped to note the familiar door, engraved with Magdala flowers.
She froze on the threshold and let out a low “ohhh.”
Asherton wasn’t staying in the master suite, where her father had slept. He had remained in Magdala’s childhood bedroom.
Stunned, Magdala could only blink in the gray light, her blood whistling in her ears, as she took in the sun-faded wallpaper, the four-poster bed she had missed so much, the little fireplace and the two leather chairs facing it, indented as they had been when she sat in them as a little girl.
He’d made the room more masculine—the bed, unmade, was covered in a forest-green muslin comforter, and the chintz draperies had been replaced with dark brocade.
The pink paint had been stripped from the wainscot, and a dark stain applied instead.
The same for her writing desk. She searched the corners for her rocking horse and glimpsed its chipped nose peering out from behind a curtain.
She might have wallowed in reverie all afternoon, but something sailed past her head and she leaped back.
“Excuse me!” she barked.
“Sorry,” Asherton murmured without turning to look at her. He was balancing on a threadbare ottoman before the ceiling-tall oak bookshelf, tossing books across the room to the bed.
Anton the plant gnawed the curtains, slobbering loudly.
“Livers or kidneys?” Asherton asked abruptly as he climbed down.
“I don’t like either, thanks,” Magdala said as she set the tea tray on a table between the two armchairs.
Asherton dropped onto the edge of the bed and opened a book. Kneeling at his feet, Magdala lifted his bleeding hand. It was cold and rough with calluses. Dirt stained every crease.
She slid her finger over the shallow bites and Asherton winced.
“Oh, does that hurt?” Magdala asked irritably.
“Should I feed Anton frog livers or chicken kidneys?” Asherton asked again.
Magdala wiped the blood away with a cotton pad. “How should I know?”
As she reached for the disinfectant salve, a voice in her head whispered, Forgo that. Tie the bandage loose. Let the wound spoil.
Magdala froze, her hand suspended over the glass jar.
You wouldn’t even have to give him the amenite. In a week, your father could be replacing the carpets, fussing over the torn curtains.
Asherton glanced over the top of his book. “Are you done yet?” he asked. “You’re taking eons.” His voice sent the devil fleeing, and she snatched the salve, applied an overgenerous smear to the bandages, and bound the wound. Frightened of herself, she stood and backed away from him.
Asherton inspected his hand. “Adequate.”
“It’s bloody perfect!” she said, too angry and too loud.
He raised his eyebrows. “You overestimate your talents.”
Magdala crossed her arms. “If the plant likes blood, then livers will be better for him.”
Asherton flashed her a wry smile. “I wouldn’t have put you down for much brain, Miss Devney.”
“Likewise, Your Highness.”
Setting the book aside, Asherton got up and crossed to the armoire, where he stripped off his sweater and dropped it onto the floor.
Every nerve in Magdala’s body buzzed to snatch it up and toss it in the designated wicker basket, but she held onto the back of the leather chair and restrained herself.
Asherton was fit, well-built, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His taut abdomen and muscular back sent a sting of irritation through her. Magdala glanced at her feet and studied the carpet’s flattened pile.
“Oh, don’t be bashful.” Asherton grinned.
“This isn’t the last time I’ll undress in front of you.
According to my ancient mother hen downstairs, you’re not to leave my side.
Zeph is jealous that someone else will murder me before he gets his chance.
Poor Zeph.” Asherton ran his thumb over the scab on his throat.
“Sometimes, I marvel that he hasn't smothered me already. I’m a bit like a stray cat that wandered into his house and he took to feeding.”
“He said as much.”
“Did he tell you that I annoy him to distraction?”
“He did not.”
“I’ll tell you then. I annoy him to distraction. Be prepared, I’ll most likely annoy you as well.”
“You already do, Your Highness,” Magdala said.
“Excellent. You’ll never meet anyone so inconvenient as I.”
Magdala couldn’t agree more.