“What happened?” her father asks, looking at me.
“She needed help,” is all I can say, even as the old man takes in my bloody knuckles.
His lips grow thin as he checks Aren, then nods. “We are fortunate you came to her aid. She needs water and rest. She will be all right by the morning.” He peers into the empty pitcher by her bed and starts to leave the room, shuffling on heavy feet.
“Please, allow me,” I offer, taking the pitcher from his hands.
I move through the dim house and find an ewer of drinking water on the humble kitchen counter.
After I stop pouring, I hear her father say distantly, “There, there. Get it all out,” followed by the sound of retching. I wait a moment before re-entering the room, giving Aren some privacy.
When I reappear in the doorway, Aren is coughing into a bucket. She glares up at me under lowered brows. She obviously still feels the same contempt toward me that she’s shown all day.Does saving her from the marquis’ attempted kidnapping count for nothing?She thrusts the bucket toward her father, and he takes it, dutifully.
“I’ll be back right quick,” he says to me.
I notice an empty washbasin on a small stand in the corner. I grab the washcloth folded over the rim and lean over Aren to wipe a bit of spittle from her mouth. “There you go. Feeling any better?” I ask.
Aren falls back onto her bed, groaning still, and doesn’t answer. She pulls the covers up to her chin. I set aside the washcloth and busy myself by looking around her room. The shadows from the lone lamp are long. Her barmaid’s apron hangs from a small rack on the wall, a woman’s portrait beside it. Her mother, I assume, because she looks remarkably like Aren’s twin sisters. But Aren has her eyes, I notice.
I take a seat on the trunk at the foot of her bed, surprising myself with my unwillingness to leave her just yet and tap my fingers on my knees to prevent myself from fussing over her where it’s clearly unwelcome. The poison seems to be waning; she gathers up her blankets and curls into herself miserably, with her hair mussed and sweaty. I’m relieved that she seems relatively unharmed.
“Why?” Aren finally asks, half groan and half cry.
“I imagine the marquis will be the only one who can explain himself.”
“No—not him. Why you?”
It takes me by surprise. “You mean, why did I help you?”
She stares at me, her eyebrows furrowed, and her lower lip juts out as she frowns, but she doesn’t answer.
“Why in Albion wouldn’t I?” I ask, shocked. I’m a prince, trained by knights. I would help anyone in the position she found herself in—it’s what any gentleman would do.
She doesn’t respond but continues to watch me, perhaps too tired to say much more.
She buries her face into the blanket just as the front door opens again, accompanied by her sisters’ laughter. I stand as their footsteps near. They come into Aren’s bedroom arm in arm, looking happy and gay, but stop short when they see me.
“Oh! Prince Dietan, why are you—” Ophelia starts, but then they see Aren lying in bed, pale and sweating, and rush to her side.
“What happened?” Sonja asks. Aren wants to rest, but her sisters fuss over her like a pair of hens. Ophelia brushes her hair back from her damp forehead while Sonja smooths the quilt anxiously.
I look back down at the dried blood coating my knuckles, and I scrub it away on my trousers. I won’t say anything, not unless Aren says it first.
“Just too much to drink,” she mumbles.
Perhaps she fears retribution from the marquis. I will personally see to it that the marquis is severely dealt with. White-hot anger flares inside of me simply remembering the way the marquis’s face danced with joy as his man’s hands dug into Aren’s throat. The Rings in my back make my fingers twitch, and I’m forced to ball them into fists, lest I summon a gale in Aren’s bedroom.
“The prince escorted me home,” Aren continues.
Her sisters look at me for confirmation.
“Bringing her here was the least I could do,” I say, following Aren’s lead. It is, after all, half true.
Ophelia and Sonja glance at each other, saying more in a single look than any conversation, but they don’t press her further in her current state. Their father returns, carrying a stack of fresh washcloths. I know when my presence might be more distracting than helpful, so I excuse myself.
“Your Highness,” Ophelia says. “We are so, so grateful.”
“If anything terrible happened to Aren, we would never…” Sonja chokes back her words with tears.
