“She needs dry clothes,” the healer said. “I can help—”
“If anyone has to do that, it’ll be me,” Niel said, his voice practically a growl. “Don’t you have medicine?”
“I can give her tea for pain, and fever. But I’m not sure what she needs beyond that.”
“You’re a fucking healer.Heal.” He wanted to shake Larkin by the shoulders until the man worked magic. But Larkin was a soldier-healer, a man like any other. He didn’t have the old blood healing gift.
“I’m trained for battlefield wounds, my lord,” Larkin reminded him softly. “The precious ingredients are limited. We used the last of the quickheal when you were poisoned. And everything else, we must save in case—”
“No. You give her what you have,now.”
“If you’re certain,” Larkin said with a frown, as if surprised that Niel would use the best medicines on a hostage instead of saving them for himself. “I’ll see. I don’t think they had silverroot, or unicorn’s—”
“I have unicorn hair,” Niel interrupted desperately. “She can have it.”
“Your cloak won’t help. It’s the horn that’s healing,” Larkin told him, the man’s mouth flat and his eyes distant, as if Ayla was already gone. “I know you did not want to ransom her, my lord, but the army outside might be better equipped to care—”
A chill passed over Niel at the thought of handing Ayla back to her husband.
“No,” he growled. “Absolutely not. Not until we are out of all other options.”
“I’ll see what I can find. It may be all she needs is warmth and rest, lordship. Get her into dry clothes, keep her warm, and see if she’ll drink more. I’ll be back.”
Larkin left. The room was silent except for the fire. Niel’s lips trembled as he stared down at her. He couldn’t save her from her husband just to lose her to his own carelessness.
She couldn’t succumb to a grippe. That was all. It was simple, really, when put like that. He wasn’t going to let her die, and he wasn't going to give her up. So he had to act, instead of clinging to her like that would stop her from slipping away.
“Are you awake, Ayla?” he asked quietly. She didn’t stir.
He waited a moment longer, reluctant, but not daring to delay.
“Larkin says you need dry clothes to get warm,” he whispered. “Maker forgive me. I know it’s my fault you’re sick at all. But there aren’t any women left here, Ayla, so if you can’t wake I’ll have to be the one. I won’t take any liberties. I only hope you won’t hate me.” He laid her carefully down again, long enough to grab one of his clean shirts and a pair of braies, the knee-length pants most men wore under their trousers. “If you do hate me, that’s alright, too. I don’t know how I’ll bear it, but better that than…” he couldn’t finish the thought, not even to her unconscious body. It was unthinkable. “You need to get better,” he finished instead, firmly. “You will get better.”
She made a soft sound, in the back of her throat. His eyes were instantly on her face, but there was no more reaction. Just silence, and sleep.
Shifting the blanket off her body, he drew a deep breath and started with the braies, to give her at least what little modesty he could. He guided one of her bare, clammy feet through the pant leg of the under garment, then the other. He worked them up her thighs, peeling her dress back and trying desperately not to think about the soft skin of her long thighs as his hand accidentally grazed against her cool flesh.
When he caught a glimpse of a patch of dark hair, he looked away and lifted her with a hand beneath her back, tugging the braies up over her loins. Now he could push her shift higher, baring the smooth skin of her narrow midriff. He tugged the ties of the braies tight enough that the undergarment would stay on her, despite being tailored for his larger frame.
Even with her ill and his mind focused on saving her, it was impossible not to notice the curves of her hips and how low the braies sat over her pelvis. The pale yellow-green marks of old bruises filled him with cold rage.
“I don’t know how to put a shirt on under a dress,” he admitted. “I’m going to have to take yours off. I’ll go as fast as I can.”
He sat again and pulled her limp body up against him. It worried him terribly that he could handle her so much without her eyes opening, but worrying wasn’t going to get her in dry clothes or put the color back in her lips. He pulled the dress off over her head, working it over her arms and trying to keep her cold, clammy back balanced against his chest so he wouldn’t need to catch her around the bare narrowing of her waist.
She’d been dressed for sleep, with no stays or brassier beneath her shift. He didn’t look; in fact, did everything he couldnotto look, but it was impossible to navigate her arms into the sleevesof his shirt without seeing the soft swell of her supple breasts or their surprisingly dark peaks from the corner of his eyes.
And once he’d spotted that, it was nearly impossible to keep his gaze off her, no matter how hard he tried. He did notwantto take liberties. He did not want to be the cause of more pain.
But Mercy, if she had invited him to look, he’d have stared slack-jawed for hours. And he’d have gladly used his hands to make her warm.
“—there,” Niel said, finally, as he pulled her damp black waves out from the neck of the large gray shirt he'd managed to get over her head. “You’re all covered. And you’re dry. Except your hair, but the fire will fix that.” The wide neck gaped over her collar, the sleeves so large they came down to the tips of her fingers, but she was clothed, and more importantly, she was dry. He didn’t want to lay her back down. That would mean letting her go. And Larkin had said she needed to drink. He kept her against him and lifted the cup back to her mouth, his hand steady even though he felt anything but.
Speaking softly, he coaxed water into her mouth, small sips that sometimes ended in light coughing fits but not always. He rubbed one of her arms, hoping to warm her.
Larkin was silent as he entered, his boots padding against the floor. The healer carried a cup in his hands.
“Here. I found Caladrius tears.”
