“Please. Don’t,” he said, his voice bordering as close to begging as she’d ever heard. “Do not let them near me. Not like this.”
He was being foolish. But there was something in his voice, a deep fear that she understood in her heart. She wavered, then at last sighed heavily and turned back towards him.
“Can you get that armor off yourself?”
“‘Course,” he said, and reached up to fumble with the straps on his shoulder. He wobbled, looking like even sitting down he was about to lose balance and topple over, and she wondered at the fact that he’d managed to walk himself into the room minutes ago. Much less run the wall that morning.
“Oh, enough,” Ayla said sternly. She forced her stomach to quell and approached the bed. He’d taken off his cloak, at least, though his hair tangled in with the clasps of his armor. Barely breathing, she reached forward to gather his long hair back. The knight flinched when her fingers brushed against his muscled neck, pulling the smooth strands of his hair back over his shoulders so she could get at the clasps. She did the one nearest to her first, then hesitated. She wasn’t going to crawl onto Ditmar’s bed; that was a line she would not cross. But it was too wide for her to approach from the other side.
Nothing to do but to reach around him for his other shoulder. She bent behind the knight, clenching her stomach to stay upright without having to touch the bed she was leaning over, and manipulated the leather strap through the buckle that clasped it.
“Are you aware there’s a knight from Ashbrin, blindfolded in your infirmary?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a little much, don’t you think? The blindfold?” She pulled the clasp free and straightened.
“Well. Unless you know where the dungeon key is…”
“Do you think a man who just lost his leg is at great threat of running away?” she asked, ignoring the suggestion. But while she preferred in most circumstances for the dungeons to go unused, it occurred to her it might be less cruel than leaving the man blindfolded and bound.
“Don’t care.”
“Can you take it off now?” she asked of his armor.
Perhaps it was good she had merely left the keys in the chapel, and not tossed them down the privy. Perhaps she ought to have the knight moved to the dungeon, so he could at least see his surroundings and use his hands. A dungeon cell might even be made comfortable, with enough blankets and pillows and a good lantern. And perhaps some books.
“Need the side unbuckled, too,” Niel said, and weakly moved his arms forward. She clucked her tongue. But at least he was no longer pretending he could do it himself.
“You wouldn’t have this problem if you didn’t wear your armor all day, every day.”
“Have to.”
“Doyou, though?” she asked, and bent over to tug at the strap on the side of his chest. She was inches from his bicep, which was practically as wide as her face, and every inch of herbody was aware of it. She could not think the last time she had willingly put herself so close to a man. And yet, something about the intimacy here made her heart feel fire-warm. The knight was being a stubborn ass, but for once, she wasn't afraid of him.
She had to remind herself not to trust him. Remind herself he was a killer, and temperamental. But just now it was hard to remember that. He wasn’t a danger to anyone but himself.
“They broke in just yesterday.”
“Well, that’s true,” she admitted as she dug a finger into the side of the armor’s casing. Attached only on the other side of his chest, the cuirass opened like a clam shell when she pried at it. He shrugged it off. “But did any of them even land a blow?”
“As if. Don’t insult me,” he said.
She peered at his shirt, and was certain she could see the outline of two knives strapped to his side, odd as it seemed to wear them beneath his armor. Was Niel that unwilling to be caught defenseless?
“You sweated through your shirt. Do you have a clean one?”
He didn’t answer, except to weakly shove the armor away from himself and collapse back onto the pillows, eyes shut and damp, dark hair fanning out around him on the pale linen. Ayla frowned and tentatively pressed a hand to his slick forehead. The knight was burning up. He shivered at her touch, and she drew a deep breath before pulling her hand away.
A quick look around the room revealed a set of laundered rough clothes folded on top of Ditmar’s clothing chest. She unfolded the shirt, shook it out, and knew instantly it was not her husband’s. Apart from the simple, worn, dark choice of fabric, Ditmar would have drowned in the shirt.
“Here. Sit up,” she commanded. The knight made a noise in the back of his throat, but didn’t move. Ayla tugged at his wrist; his eyes flew open, and he struggled back upright.
She reached towards his hips and grabbed the fabric of his shirt in one hand.
With a sharp hiss of breath, Niel blocked her arm and pushed her hard off him, twisting away from her. She stumbled back. Her heart surged up into her throat.
“Don’t,” he rasped.
