He thought she might protest, but Louvaen only burrowed into him. Her eyes were closed, fatigue painting shadows under her lashes. Magda followed him as he climbed the stairs to Louvaen’s room. A fire roared in the hearth, and Clarimond had piled the bed with extra blankets. He stopped Magda at the door. “See we’re not disturbed.”
Her small framed stiffened, and she frowned at him. “Dominus, you can’t be thinking to—”
Ballard scowled. “After these many years, you think so poorly of me?”
She flushed but held her ground. “You’re practically slavering over her, my lord. What am I to think?”
He shook his head. “If I take her, Magda, she’ll be awake and willing. Now go.” He shut the door on her. Let her wring her hands and wonder. His heart still banged against his ribs, and he refused to give Louvaen up to anyone else’s care. He’d let her go when he could finally assure himself they’d both recover from the scare she’d given him.
The fire sent shadows capering across the walls and slowly chased the chill from the air. The gray afternoon light filtering through the shutters sank in the gloom. Ballard lowered Louvaen onto the bed and tucked her, still wrapped in her blanket, under the covers. He tossed his own blanket aside and slid in beside her. Before he could curve around her and share body heat, she’d rolled against him, squirming and pushing until she was practically beneath him. Her calves entwined with his, and if not for the blanket wrapped around her body, they’d be skin to skin from shoulder to ankle.
“So cold,” she murmured before falling asleep in his arms.
Ballard breathed an agonized groan against the top of her head. He’d brought this on himself and would willingly suffer for it. It wasn’t how he’d hoped things might unfurl between them, but she lay with him. Far more literally than figuratively, but for now it would more than suffice. She was alive and well and in his arms. He kissed her damp hair and gathered her close. “Damn shrew, you’ll be the end of me.”
CHAPTER TEN
Louvaen woke with the conviction the dead slept warm in their graves. How else could she explain the darkness and heat surrounding her when her last clear memory had been of water so cold it froze her bones and sucked the breath out of her? She blinked several times, her sleep-muddled mind noting the snap of wood burning in a fire and the fact all the heady warmth keeping her snug in her coffin concentrated against her left side. Someone was either cremating her remains or roasting her for supper. Her eyes rounded at the second possibility, and she jerked stiff. By gods, she’d tear her way out of this damn box and bash the first sick bastard who tried to gnaw on her. Dead she might be, but she refused to suffer the indignity of being someone’s meal after drowning in a frozen pond!
She thrashed against the weight pressing her down, kicking and clawing until a powerful pair of legs clamped hers in a vise, and an equally strong set of hands held her wrists. “Louvaen! Hold still!”
She froze. “Ballard?” Dear gods! He’d died saving her, and they’d buried them together!
“Aye. You were having a nightmare.”
She exhaled hard, wide awake now that the terror of her dream had incinerated the last vestiges of sleep. She fell back against her pillows. “Oh, thank the gods. We’re not dead.”
A muffled snort tickled the side of her face. “No, we’re not, but I’ll wish I were if you’re not careful with your knee.”
They were on their sides, pressed together without a stitch of clothing between them. All the lovely warmth Louvaen had first savored and then feared when she woke came from Ballard. He held her against him with his thighs trapping hers and his hands clasping her wrists. She wriggled her fingers, and he released her. He placed one hand on her hip, the other on her pillow, sheltering her in a loose embrace. He was hard muscle and heat, his scent of smoke and rosemary filling her nose. Her knee rested against his groin, threatening his bollocks. She eased her leg straight, enjoying the flex of his thigh muscles as he loosened his grip just enough to allow her movement. Her freed hands splayed across his shoulders, tracing the cool patches of runes and vines engraved into his skin.
“We’re naked.”
“Very,” he agreed. “You needed more warmth than the blankets could give. You can defend your modesty later.”
Modesty be damned, she thought. It had been a long time since she’d shared a bed with a man, and she’d forgotten how much she liked the sharing. Thomas was very different from Ballard—easily a head taller and likely outweighed him by nearly a quintel. Louvaen had loved to snuggle against her husband at night and savor the touch of his large hands as he caressed her in his sleep and snored in her hair. Ballard, by contrast, fit neatly in this bed with her. Slighter, tougher and far more lethal, he held her as gently as Thomas. His slow breaths heated her neck and shoulder, quickening to harsh pants when she nuzzled his cheek and slid her hands into his hair.
Light from the fire cast faint shadows within the enclosed sanctuary of her bed. Now that her eyes had adjusted, the darkness that first greeted her had paled a little, revealing the sharp angles of Ballard’s jaw and nose along with the muscled slope of a shoulder. “How long have I been sleeping?” she asked.
“A few hours.” His fingertips followed the curve of her hip and settled on her waist. “How do you feel?”
“Tired—as if I’ve run from here to Monteblanco and back again.” She didn’t exaggerate. Fatigue had worked into her bones as deeply as the pond’s chill and stayed far longer. If not for the distraction of Ballard’s naked body fitted against hers so tightly a thread wouldn’t pass between them, she’d fall back asleep.
“You might as well have. Staying afloat in cold water, especially wearing so much garb, takes work. What do you remember?”
Images passed in Louvaen’s mind’s eye—she and Cinnia laughing as they skated clumsily across the pond’s glassy surface hand in hand. Delight had changed to horror the instant she heard the first ominous crack. Cinnia’s eyes had gone wide when Louvaen shoved her hard across the ice toward the shore. She had only glimpsed her sister’s stricken expression before the ice gave beneath her feet, and she plunged into the water, sinking like a stone.
“The cold. I remember the cold; light above me; the heaviness of my skirts.” She’d kicked her way toward the surface and the shimmering halo of sunlight on the water, her dress and cloak an anchor dragging her down to the pond’s dark heart. The jagged edges of ice surrounding the hole she’d fallen through shredded her sleeves, but they had given her something to hold onto as her head broke the surface, and she struggled to stay afloat. She’d breathed so hard and fast from the shock of the cold her lungs threatened to burst. Black spots crowded her vision, and she might have fainted if not for the terrifying sight of a shrieking Cinnia crawling toward her on her hands and knees. The rest was a blur—vague memories of yelling at Cinnia to get away from her, of the creeping numbness swallowing her body and the relief of seeing Ballard’s grim, broken features as he commanded her to look at him.
The sense of well-being surrounding her in her warm bed fled with the realization she’d diced with Death and almost lost. Shivers started at her toes, spreading up her legs and over her torso until she shook so hard in Ballard’s arms, the bed rocked beneath them. “You saved me.” She clutched at him as if he still worked to free her from the pond’s icy embrace. “Thank you, Ballard. Thank you.”
He hugged her hard enough to crack her ribs as she tried to choke back sobs. He held her for long moments until the shudders faded, leaving her with sniffles and him with hair and neck soaked by her tears. He kissed her forehead. “Shhh, Louvaen,” he whispered. “No thanks necessary. I’ve my own hide to protect. There’s a storeroom still half full of unspun flax. Magda would have drawn and quartered me if I’d let you drown before you finished your spinning.”
Louvaen gulped. Her tears turned to laughter, which turned to hiccups. Ballard low chuckle soothed her as much as the gentle pats he tapped down her back. She hiccupped a few more times before attempting to speak. “I’m not usually a weepy woman.” She tried to wipe away the puddle of tears gathered in the hollow between his neck and collarbone.
“I believe you.”
“Nor am I a careless one.” She threaded wavy strands of his hair through her fingers.
