“How fortunate,” Bram drawled.
“Will you be wanting dinner?”
Leena agreed to this heartily, also requesting that a clean shirt for her husband, hot water, fresh gauze, and a glass of strong drink be broughtup.
Away from the hearing of the innkeeper, Bram asked, “Strong drink? Are we celebrating our happy nuptials?”
“For your wound,” Leena clarified with dignity.
“Ah, well,” he sighed, taking the stairs slowly. “We have time to change your mind yet.”
Bram kept his posture straight as the innkeeper led them both upstairs; his stagger was less pronounced, his laughter strong at the innkeeper’s awful jokes, but the hand gripping the banister was white-knuckled. The moment they were left alone in the room, he slumped onto the bed without removing his shoes.
Like a beast that only licked its wounds in private.
Leena looked around the room. It was decent-sized, with a four-poster bed that had clean linen and a fire already blazing in the hearth. A small table stood at the side by the washstand.
Leena longed to collapse next to Bram. Her bones ached and her shoulder throbbed, but she knew that if she closed her eyes now, she’d sleep till morning and risk being possessed again. Not to mention that she needed to tend to Bram’s wound.
“And how is my wife doing?” Bram propped himself up on his elbows, peering at her from beneath his lashes.
She flushed, telling herself that it was the fire that made her feel so warm.
“I had little choice. Even a fool would not believe that we are siblings traveling together, or even that I am your ward.” She attempted to keep her voice brusque, but evensheknew how her next words would open a floodgate of provocation. “Come, let’s remove your clothes so that I can check your wound again.”
Bram’s laugh saturated the room. “Shall we start with yours?”
Leena stared back, caught half between shock and laughter herself. “You can barely stand on your own two feet. How is it that any chance you get, you arestillspeaking of my clothes?”
“They are a constant hindrance to me.” The way Bram looked at her, so different from the way Lord Kilworth had looked at her only that morning, infused Leena with safety, with warmth, with…something more.
She took off her muddy, wet coat and laid it by the fire. “There—are you happy? Can we now please address your wound?”
“So eager for the wedding night.” His voice was low. “I shall, most willingly, oblige.”
Once more, she tried to hide the smile quivering on her lips as she undid his coat, and it was clear that fatigue had overtaken him again. She was worried by how quickly he became tired.
How quickly he drifted in and out of lucidity also worried Leena. She tried not to think about Mrs. Van’s predictions or how little time they had to administer the cure.
With effort, Bram jerked up to a sitting position, one hand still grasping his left side.
Swiftly, Leena helped him shrug out of his wet coat before hanging it over the fire. As she was doing so, she felt the outlines of the red diary inside his coat pocket, and felt a sudden fierce anger at Theo for leading them to this point. For without him, they would never have sought the red diary to begin with.
Bram’s fingers stumbled over the buttons of his ruined shirt until Leena took over for him. His skin was still burning through the layers of cloth.
She sucked in a gasp.
The bandages were soaked through. Somewhere on their journey, part of the wound must’ve reopened.
A knock sounded on the door. The innkeeper’s wife stood on the threshold with two silver platters of food and a basket filled with the items Leena had requested.
The woman’s eyes flashed to Bram’s bandages before turning toward the stairs. Leena realized that she was listening for her husband’s footsteps. The woman indicated a glass jar filled with a dark substance, dropping her voice to a whisper: “I’ve also packed you a poultice. Sterilize the wound first, then apply it. It will draw out any signs of infection.”
“Thank you,” Leena whispered back. Remembering the bag of coins, she gave generously from the stash.
The woman hid the coins in her sleeve then shut the door firmly, leaving Leena gripping the jar tightly.
She turned to look at Bram. He was bare from the waist up, only the bandages covering him, the firelight flickering across the hard planes and hollows of his chest, his dark head bowed. Leena’s mind could not help contrasting him to the warlords of the past who had roamed these very northern moors—strong and agile, scarred, battle-worn, unconquerable.
