“I must attend my duties, but part of my duty is to remind you to conduct yourself with honor,” Rikard said stiffly, sounding more like a disapproving father than a friend.
“He always does!” Carlijn chimed in defensively, eyes round at the possibility that her fun might be ruined.
Lucan grinned broadly, looping his arm around her so the mead pressed against the side of her bosom. “I always do.”
Rikard’s skeptical gaze narrowed at the two of them, and Hannalinde hurriedly jumped in before he said something he might regret. “He has been nothing but a gentleman. And I do feel safer with him here, when you cannot be.” She could not say the reason why aloud, but he had to understand. She did not know when her tormenter would come for her. It could be any time the sun was down.
“Very well,” he said gruffly. Turning to Lucan, he added, “If my mate tires of having you in our eyrie, then so will I.”
“Understood,” Lucan said quickly, squeezing Carlijn closer. He seemed to have genuine affection for her. Carlijn’s regard for him was obviously growing, too. Perhaps Rikard was right to separate them before it went too far.
“Can I speak to you privately?” she asked him. His brows lifted before he jerked his head in a nod and led her to their nesting chamber, closing the door behind him.
“What is it, wife?”
Warmth spilled through her at the word. She did not expect to be so affected, as she was always conscious that their arrangement was one of practicality, not feeling. He was being factual, she reminded herself, so she tried not to read too much into it.
She sighed. “Our friends have grown very close. I worry their attachment may interfere with her eventual marriage.”
“You seemed eager enough to defend his presence when I wished to separate them,” Rikard said dryly.
She nodded, her breath coming faster as the dark pressure in her skull increased. “It was a selfish impulse. I was clinging to the sense of safety Lucan’s presence provides. I can still feel, sometimes, in my mind that I’m being…” She ran out of air and struggled to draw another panicked breath. “Sought.”
He reached for her and his clawed fingers slipped to the back of her skull, his thumb stroking the spot behind her ear. “Here?”
She jerked a nod, unable to speak. He had never touched her so intimately, nor stood so close. Not since their wedding day when he’d carried her from the courtyard to the Tower and reached beneath her skirts to tie them up. Why was she thinking about that now? Perhaps because she was feeling things beneath her skirts. Warm and wonderful things that almost canceled out the darkness inside her head.
“There are ways to block it out,” he murmured, still stroking the spot gingerly, like he would the head of a dove.
“How?” she gasped, dizzy with hope and his proximity. “How can I make it go away?”
“You can’t, but you can build a kind of mental fortification around it. At first, it won’t last long. But if you consistently rebuild it, it can become something close to permanent. We gargoyles call them mind walls. They are quite useful when you don’t wish to feel or remember something.” His voice had turned bitter, his gaze distant and unfocused.
“As in war,” she guessed.
“Yes. I have many. The masons offered to demolish them and restore my memories after they rebuilt my body, but I declined. Whatever happened in the past can stay there. I do not wish to recall the source of every scar, even if there is some lesson in it.”
Tentatively, she reached out to trace the deep one that pulled his mouth to the side. “I understand. Some things we don’t need to relive.”
He gave a curt nod, his focus returning to her face as he dropped his hand. She echoed his movement, missing the contact instantly. He cleared his throat. “I will teach you what I can about how to defend your mind from him.”
“Thank you,” she said, eyes welling with gratitude. He didn’t like it when she thanked him, but she had to for something like this.
The lamplight carved his scarred features into sharp relief, and his eyes, dark and deep-set beneath his heavy brow, held something warm.
“You should sleep,” he said. “Let the two of them live with their own choices.”
She nodded, smiling to herself. “Then I will surely wake early enough to breakfast with you when you get home.”
“Until then.” He turned to leave, his shadow falling across her, bridging the ever-narrowing space between them. “Good night, wife.”
Chapter 16
Rikard
Hannalinde was an exceptional student. She took to her mind-wall training with dedicated enthusiasm, and he found himself delaying his departure for the office and returning early so he might coach and encourage her. However, his growing desire for private audience with his wife led to the eyrie feeling overrun. Not only were his parents often hovering about, he had to contend with her gregarious human friend interrupting and now Lucan’s perpetual presence.
On this particular evening, his friend arrived at the eyrie just after sundown with a clay jug of mead under each arm. “From the Head Keeper’s private stores,” he announced to Roul, setting the jugs on the dining table with a theatrical clunk. “I might have implied the Nadir requested it.”
