Ballard gripped the other man’s shoulder. “I’d demand your apology if you hadn’t done what you did. You saved them both. There’s nothing to forgive.” Ambrose shuddered under his hand, and his eyes closed. “Don’t break on me now, friend,” Ballard said. “You’ve a harder task to carry out soon enough. I’m counting on you.”
The sorcerer gave a mournful sigh. “I regret making such a pact with you. You ask too much of me.”
He pulled away and left the room. The door closed behind him with a quiet click.
Ballard stared at the expanse of wood, as if he could see Ambrose through the boards. “I know,” he said.
Ambrose, who had been instrumental in lessening the curse’s effects on Gavin, would have to kill him in the end—and Ballard as well. He had reason to balk at this last, murderous duty, but Ballard refused to rescind his order to his most trusted retainer.
The enormity of what he’d force Ambrose to do—the absolute failure of every desperate endeavor to save Gavin—made him stagger. He sank to the floor and leaned against the wall, defeated.
Louvaen found him that way a few minutes later. The clatter of dishware sounded behind him as she set his dinner down nearby. He refused to look at her and chastised himself for not throwing on his cloak before she returned with the food. Except for the breeches, he sat bare before her, his latest metamorphosis testament to the curse’s triumph.
He stiffened as she drew closer and sat down behind him. Her skirts dragged across the floor as she pressed against the curve of his back, legs spread so that her knees bent on either side of him. Her cheek was cool and soft on his skin, her slender arms gentle against his sides.
“I’m not at all sorry about your door,” she said, her breath tickling his spine. “In fact, I consider its current state your fault.”
Despite the hopelessness that threatened to drown him, he managed a small smile. “I’ll shoulder the blame,” he said. “I should have hidden the weapons.”
“No, you should have opened the door when I asked so nicely the first time.” She nuzzled her face into his back.
He wondered how she overcame the revulsion she must surely suffer at feeling the serpentine vines under his skin writhe against her cheek. The idea sickened him.
“I don’t want you seeing me this way.”
She grumbled under her breath, and her arms tightened on his ribs hard enough to make him wince. “You are either vain, or stubborn or both. Or you think me the worst sort of shallow fizgig.”
Ballard could list a number of terms that applied to Louvaen; shallow and frivolous weren’t on the list. “Vanity has never been one of my shortcomings nor shallowness one of yours, woman.”
“Then give me your faith, my lord. I haven’t turned away yet.”
“I don’t want your pity, Louvaen.”
“And you won’t be getting it, though you’re seriously tempting me to use that axe on your head. You should have hidden it when you had the chance.”
This time Ballard chuckled. “Ambrose said the same thing before he left.”
A puff of warm air gusted across his shoulder as she huffed. “Well he’s right. And if you tell him I said so, I’ll strangle you.”
She let him go and scrambled to her feet. “Up with you. You haven’t eaten in at least three days, and Magda worked hard to make sure the food stayed hot.”
He shook his head. “I’ve no appetite.” As if to make a liar of him, his belly issued a gurgling squeal. He heard the grin in her voice.
“Tell that to your stomach.” She tapped him on the shoulder. “You can’t sit there all day holding up the wall.”
She maneuvered around his legs until she stood between his feet and filled his vision with the hem of her dress and shoes. He kept his head lowered. He couldn’t hide the horns or vines woven through his hair, but he’d shield her from the greater devastation of his face.
“Let me see you,” she said.
“No.”
One foot set to tapping an impatient beat. “Did Ambrose tell you Gavin will marry Cinnia today?” He nodded. “Good. Then I’ll be back with the tub and soap.”
She was starting to fray his temper. “I don’t want a bath,” he half snarled. He glanced up to catch her glare.
“I don’t care,” she said in a flat voice. “My only sister, whom I adore, is marrying a man who turns into a bat-faced cur when she tells him she loves him.” Ballard flinched, but she was relentless. “Afford her the courtesy of appearing at her wedding bathed and dressed in your best finery.”
Why had he ever feared he’d earn her pity?
