~*~
Amelia woke to a pounding on her chamber door, only to realize the pounding was in fact inside her head. She groaned, and pressed an arm over her eyes after a failed attempt to open them almost blinded her.
“It’s time to get up, my lady,” a brisk, female voice said. Far too loudly.
Amelia rolled over onto her side, facing the wall rather than the windows, and her stomach rolled, too. She swallowed and breathed shallowly through her mouth, willing her gorge to settle. She couldn’t remember how many cups of wine she’d had, but it had been far too many, regardless. The night was a too-warm smear in her memory, the lights swimming, Cassius’s face appearing above hers, again and again, cup refilled, the concern writ clear in his pale eyes.
Soft footfalls approached the bed. “My lady,” the slave repeated.
A much more welcome voice said, “I’ll tend to Lady Amelia.” Cassius.
“She needs a bath,” the female slave said, outright snappish with him. “And to dress. The physician is expecting her in an hour.”
“I’ll see that she arrives at his chambers on schedule.”
Amelia envisioned a stare-down.
Finally, the slave said, “Very well.” More footfalls, these retreating, and then the door opened and closed.
It was quiet, then, save the too-loud crackle of the fire, the excruciating twitter of birds outside, and the roar of her own pulse inside her head. The mattress dipped behind her. In a soft voice, Cassius said her name. “Amelia? Are you well?”
“Urgh. No,” she croaked, but rolled back over and slitted her eyes open a fraction.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, and when she rolled, it put her close to him—very close. Their hips nearly touched.
She wasn’t sure why, but she liked that idea. It must have been the hangover.
He blushed, just as he had last night, the delicate pink of a seashell suffusing his sharp cheekbones. But he remained sitting, and then offered her his hand, palm up and open and clean. And inviting, somehow.
“Can you stand?” he asked.
“Probably not well,” she said. “But if you’ll help me…”
“Of course.”
She placed her trembling hand in his, and his fingers closed around hers, cool and grounding.
She was wobbly, queasy, and the headache would plague her all day, she knew, but Cassius fetched her a cup of wine, and that helped. As did his arm, strong and steadying around her waist as she made her way toward the steaming tub. When they reached it, he withdrew his arm, but touched her elbow. “I can…” His blush deepened.
“I can manage. Turn around, please.”
He did so, quickly, hands linked behind his back like a soldier at rest.
Smiling to herself, she shed her robe and gown and slid down into the hot water.
“Should I, ah.” He cleared his throat. “Fetch someone to help you wash your back?”
“Gods no. I’m more than capable of bathing myself.”
“Very well.” She thought he sounded relieved.
She reached for the soap, and Cassius said, “I did some more reconnaissance this morning while you were still asleep.”
“You sound eager.”
“I am. Or, well. I think what I learned might be beneficial for us.”
Us. She realized, despite the pounding head, the woozy weakness, that she was smiling again. He wasn’t looking at her, so she soaped up her arms and didn’t try to rearrange her expression.
