“You’re such a…” Her words faltered, and she seemed to lose the thread of them. “Mother hen. It is only a s… s… scratch.”
I lifted her shoulders slightly and brought the water skin to her mouth. “If this is a scratch, I would hate to see what you consider serious.”
She swallowed several small gulps, then turned her head away, exhausted by even that. Her eyes drifted shut, and her body relaxed against my arm. With the last bit of energy she seemed to have, her fingers found mine. I held her hand tightly, hoping to convey wordlessly that I wasn’t going anywhere.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “About what I said before.”
“You already told me that.”
Her eyes stayed closed. “You were right.”
“We both said things we shouldn’t have. I’m sorry, too.”
Laurel was silent for so long that I thought she had fallen asleep. Then her fingers tightened faintly around mine. “Kissing Peter was a mistake.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want him.”
I closed my eyes. The relief that moved through me was tangled with grief, shame, and love so fierce it hurt. “I know,” I repeated.
“I’m glad you’re here, Baron,” she murmured. “You make me feel safe.”
That was all I needed to hear.
LAUREL
My memories were confused and fuzzy.
I had periodic spells of consciousness, but would always slip back into a haze of pain before I could grasp where I was. At some point, I became aware of lying in the back of a cart with the bright sun blazing down on my face as we traveled along a bumpy road. I could hear the squeak of wooden wheels, the steady clop of hooves, and the low rumble of the cart beneath me. Every time we hit a rut, my entire body seized, but I was too weak to push myself up, look around, or even shift into a more comfortable position.
Occasionally, James’s face floated over the side of the cart. He would lift my head and force small sips of liquid down my throat but it was a struggle to keep anything in my stomach, even water. I often saw his mouth move, but my brain couldn’t make sense of his words. Any time I tried to respond, my tongue felt swollen and heavy, and no sound came out. James always looked more concerned when I tried to speak, but before I could think of a way to reassure him, I faded back into restless darkness.
Was this dying?
I couldn’t tell from hour to hour whether I was getting better or worse. I wanted to sleep, but a distant part of me worried that the next time I drifted off might be the last. But even that fear wasn’t enough to keep me awake. I’d never felt so incredibly helpless and weak. I wanted to hate the feeling, but I couldn’t even summon enough strength to be angry.
Eventually, the heat and sunshine of the open road changed to a breezy green dimness. Trees shielded me from the scorching sun, and the air smelled familiar, like pine needles, campfires, and damp earth. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know where we were.
Sherwood Forest. I was back home.
The familiar sounds of camp drifted toward me, but then James called out, his voice tight with urgency, and most of the noises around us ceased.
I sensed bodies pressing close to the cart, hovering and whispering. Someone lifted me from the cart. The ease with which I was carried and the deep rumble of the man’s voice told me it must be Little John. I was carried across camp and laid down on a bed. Hands moved around me, careful but urgent. My bandages were pulled back, and several sharp gasps sounded nearby. It must look bad.
Finally, I forced my eyes open. The dark interior of the hut made it difficult to see, and it took several moments for my vision to clear. Little John and James stood together, staring down at me. Little John had one hand over his mouth, half-buried in his bushy beard. James shook his head slightly, his face drawn and grim. I had never seen him look so defeated.
I wished Father were here. He would want to be with me. He would know what to do. I slowly turned my head. Sybil, our most skilled healer, stood nearby, thin and middle-aged, with her sleeves rolled up and her expression calm in the way shealways looked when she was trying very hard not to frighten her patients.
Peter stood beside her, pale and stricken. Of course he would be there. He was apprenticed to her. Sybil and Peter exchanged grim looks, then began bustling around the hut, gathering bandages, jars, cloths, and bowls. I did not need to hear their words to know what they were thinking.
I was dying.
Peter lifted my head while Sybil tipped a bitter drink into my mouth. I coughed once in protest, but when I felt the pain of my abdomen clenching, I decided it would be better to let the drink pass. I’d rather suffocate than have to cough again. Once the drink hit my stomach, my tongue seemed to loosen slightly, and my mind cleared. It would have been kinder if it had not. Suddenly, I was much more aware of exactly how much everything hurt.
“Laurel?” Sybil’s voice came from somewhere above me. “Laurel, can you hear me?”
I focused hard on her mouth, trying to force my brain to process the words. At first, her speech sounded garbled, flowing together into meaningless noise. She repeated herself until I understood.
