Mystique turned her attention to the man in rough clothing sitting at a table set out of the way. She felt the boy instantly, or perhaps she’d never stopped feeling him and only became more aware when she laid eyes on him. He was as roughly dressed as his father, and though he seemed lean and small, she suspected he was much older than he looked. His clothes hung on his frame too loosely and it was clear that though they weren’t of fine material, they were clean and well-kept enough. The garments had no doubt once fit him quite well, probably too well, with a mother racing to keep her growing boy properly clothed.
He was dying. Mystique blinked as she realized she could see a shade of gray all around him that had nothing to do with what anyone else would see if they were to look at him. Just like no one else would have felt the boy’s illness with such clarity without even seeing him or knowing he was there. Pain, yes. The father and son’s obvious sadness, of course. The keep was full of strong empaths who would sense all of that. But all she could feel was sickness. A pestilent virus that seemed to be everywhere within him.
Less intensely, she also felt the sick spirit of the father. But this was purely a mental instability. This man, she realized, might never recover from the loss of his son if something wasn’t done to help him. She didn’t know what she could do for him, other than try to save his child. They looked up at her with a combination of suspicion and hope. She would have laughed at the contradiction if she hadn’t known how serious the situation was.
Outlander or not, she was dressed like a lady and she was the guest of their Prime, and it showed in the way they clutched their hats as they rose to greet her.
“Please, stay seated,” she said gently, raising her hands palms down. They seemed unsure for a moment, but she took a seat herself and they followed her example. She didn’t think they were used to sitting at a table with a lady of station, and they seemed uncomfortable and awkward. It was a different experience for her. Reule seemed to value every Sánge under his rule, right down to this type of farmer, making no real distinction of class when it came to personal interaction. The reverse, it seemed, wasn’t as easy for the commoners.
“Please tell me why you have come,” she encouraged them gently.
Both males were staring at her with wide, shocked expressions.
Staring at her eyes.
“I cannot be of any assistance unless I know what’s wrong,” she prompted again, refusing to lower her gaze in any way that would allow them to think there was a good reason for them to be wary of her strange eye color.
“It be a blood fever,” the farmer said shortly. “Starving my boy from the inside out. I figured, you being an outlander physic and all, maybe you know more than what a Sánge physic knows.”
Mystique didn’t correct him about being a physic. She supposed that was exactly what she was, considering the knowledge she had swimming in her head at the mention of a blood fever. She didn’t think it was a big jump to assume that was what she’d been in her former life. She turned to the young man and gave him a gentle smile, this time lowering her lashes so her eyes weren’t so intimidating.
“What’s your name?”
“Stebban, my lady,” he said with a sniff, raising a pointed chin to prove to anyone who cared that he wasn’t afraid of a woman, even if she was an outlander. It made the woman in question grin. She took in his lank brown hair and the dullness of eyes that ought have sparkled with blue the color of the sky. He was squeaky clean, well cared for in spite of his illness. His skin had grown sallow under his natural russet coloring.
“My name is Mystique,” she said warmly, holding her hand out palm up. “May I see your fingernails, Stebban?”
The boy hesitated only long enough to glance at his father. The elder man nodded grimly, as though giving him permission to take poison. Mystique merely concentrated on the hand that, deprived of health, was almost as small as her own. Stebban laid his palm on hers and she could feel the cold in him. She could see the yellowish tinge to his nails indicating the duration of his illness, and the bluish hints beneath that meant something more dangerous. She closed his hand in her warm one, making him shiver at what was no doubt a welcome warmth. Sánge disliked the cold. She had learned that from…
She didn’t recall, so she firmly kept herself on task. “You lose your breath easily, Stebban? Do you have an appetite? When you move, is it like walking uphill even when the ground is even?”
He answered all of the questions she came up with, even though she amazed herself with her own efficiency and how naturally it all came. She drew him closer, inch by inch, question by question, until he stood between her toes and she could reach to touch him. She asked more questions to keep him distracted as she ran her fingers over his throat, under his arms, and down to his wrists. She’d remained seated so she’d be less threatening. It kept him from hesitating in any way when she asked him to shed his shirt. She worked hard not to react when she saw the protrusions of his ribs and the hips that were barely keeping his pants on. Every bone in his body stood out in stark relief.
“Thank you, Stebban. Please put on your shirt and go sit closer to the ovens for a little while. There’s a chair close by right over there that will be out of the way.” Once he’d gratefully gone to the warmest part of the kitchen, she turned to the father. “Your name, sir?”
“Uh, Kell, your ladyship. But I’m no sir.”
“You are to me,” she said dismissively. “Now about Stebban. How long has he been this way?”
“The apothecary said he had the fever four months past. He got sick just before planting. He was able to help us plant some, but come harvest he could only sleep and eat. He’s a good boy and a hard worker. Not like him to be so lack like. My wife, she be feeding him constant. Good food too, like the physic said to. No expense too much for my son, and that’s the truth.”
“Of course it is. What good foods did the physic recommend, sir?”
Kell twitched a smile when she called him sir again.
“You know. Thick foods, to make him fat like. Though they didn’t work at all. Meats in stew. Lard and good fats. Fresh breads. Cakes and mash. Gave us this tonic, too. Seems to make him terrible sick though when he takes it.”
He handed her the bottle with its cork stopper and she smiled through clenched teeth. Medicines ought to be sealed tighter than that to preserve potency. She pulled the cork and sniffed delicately. She coughed when the unexpected odor of greenroot struck her. Greenroot was an emetic! Of course the boy was sick when he took it! Her gaze swung to the boy in horror as an unthinkable possibility ran through her. Had the physic made a boy purposely ill? The emetic would cause weight loss if taken over enough time, no matter what he was fed. Not to mention the foods suggested were poor recommendations to start with. What would he have done next? Withdrawn the medication and presented another, pretending to cure a boy on the brink of death?
Mystique forced herself to take a deep breath. No. The emetic and bad advice were only part of the problem. The boy was genuinely ill, even if the physic hadn’t recognized the actual problem. His cures had only made Stebban weaker more quickly and with a more dramatic effect.
“Can you help my boy, my lady?” the farmer asked, looking so terribly hopeful in spite of tired, disillusioned eyes.
“I might just at that, sir,” she said, the response so thoughtful that the farmer felt a real surge of hope this time. She had strange eyes and peculiar hair, but he sensed the truth in her even though he couldn’t read her thoughts or emotions. He wasn’t at all a strong ’pathic, but instinct served him well. “Can you leave him here at the keep, Kell? Would you trust me to care for him? You can visit anytime, his mother as well. We’ll make a place for him and take good care of him. I’ll need three or four days before I’ll know for certain what path he’s on.”
Reule leaned back against a corridor wall as, just across from him, he watched a storeroom with three long windows and an unused larder being transformed into an infirmary. They were
summarily stripped of their contents, cleaned within an inch of needing to replace the mortar, and restocked according to the wishes of the little whirlwind of feminine energy at the center of the ruckus.
He wouldn’t care if she took over the keep in its entirety, if it would make her happy. It’d be worth handing it over just to be able to watch her flush with color and laughter, as she was now. The Pack, a flock of attendants, and the lower servants fell all over themselves to amuse her, responding to her every wish and basically keeping just shy of falling at her feet in devotion. Rumors of what she’d done for Chayne had spread like springtime throughout the keep’s residents, winning their affection overnight.
On the downside, she now had four other eligible, potent males in her path at every turn. Rye oozed his courtly charm. Darcio was constantly teasing her. Even dark, broody Delano was making a spectacle of himself trying to see to her needs and win her smiles. Saber was a flat-out dead man, Reule thought darkly. The Defender had put his hands on her twice already. Once to swing her out of the way by lifting her by her little waist, and again by catching her when she’d toppled off a ladder. If his hand had come any closer to her bottom, Reule thought with heat, he’d have pulled back a bloody stump.
Every last member of the Pack, exempting the traveling Amando, knew he wasn’t pleased with their antics, so of course they pushed him. They wanted to see just how far they could go before provoking him into making an ass of himself. Something he refused to do. So Reule stood against the wall, clenched his teeth, and held his arms folded tightly against his chest. He focused on Mystique, poured all of his concentration into her, drinking in her effervescent spirit and energy.
She fascinated him as she used incredible logic and a streaming fount of knowledge to set up her infirmary. There were cots, separated by brocaded curtains in dark colors, lined up head first around the walls nearest the windows. Sunlight spilled on each bed, a direct contradiction to the way they’d found Chayne and to the way Reule had always known sickrooms to be. The curtains provided privacy when needed, but could be drawn back completely.
Across the room she’d placed a steel table in a large, low copper tub, curtaining it off in a corner. When Rye had asked her about it, she’d explained that steel was easiest to clean, and that the tub would save the floor from blood and other soiling. That was when Reule realized how seriously she’d considered this responsibility. She knew what to expect. Jeth was a large city with a strong and hearty people, but they could experience very serious injuries while managing life alongside the wilderness.
The darker, cooler larder was shelved and filled with all manner of herbs and disinfectants, jars and bottles, and a variety of supplies and equipment that they had to send servants to the shops of the city for. It didn’t surprise him when two more people arrived at the keep searching for satisfaction not found at the hands of the former apothecary.
Not one to tolerate slights, Reule had already seen to it the physic wouldn’t get far. Maybe, if he’d left quietly, the Prime would have overlooked the disrespect to Jeth caused by his desertion, since Mystique was able to fill the need left by his departure. However, he hadn’t left quietly. He’d dared to call a woman in Reule’s favor a whore. There was no forgiving that or the lies spread against her. It wasn’t all a matter of insult, either. The apothecary’s intent was to turn opinion against an innocent stranger. She was also the only medical aid left to Jeth now, and those words would make people leery of coming to her even when in dire need.
Such a dangerous affront was unforgivable. Because of this insolence, the apothecary would lose his life.
Reule hadn’t sent Delano, although as Prime Assassin this was very much in the realm of his office. He’d resisted sending Delano away while Chayne was still ill. His Assassin would be peeved when he found out, but it was Reule’s choice to make and that would be the end of it.
For now, he contented himself by watching as Mystique turned her full attention on the newest of her patients. She spoke in an easy tone, her movements slow and careful as she asked questions. Her eyes moved in steady sweeps to observe what wasn’t being said. She was, he thought, brilliant and beautiful, and she set his whole world off its axis.
It was instinct that sent his gaze to the left, finding Darcio’s inquisitive gray eyes watching him. His Shadow kept himself a blank in thought and emotion, depriving Reule of any insight into why he was being observed so closely. So he turned back to the more satisfying task of watching Mystique tend his people. She was able to send her two new patients away with herbs, instructions, and a request that they return in a few days. They both left and she brushed back damp, straggling hair from her forehead. While his Pack was in ideal health and had the vigor to drive themselves accordingly, Reule could see that this wasn’t the case for his little kébé. She was tired, and it was getting hard for her to hide it.
“Kébé,” he said as he pushed away from his spot against the wall to approach her. She looked up and her smile became tentative. Damn, he hated that. He supposed he deserved it, though, after acting the overbearing ass that morning. To be fair, though, he’d been motivated by a need to protect her. He wanted her well. He wanted her healthy.
In all selfish, male honesty, he wanted her. Period. So badly that he felt as though he were pacing in the trap of a too-small cage. He’d set the limitation on himself to wait until she was well, and it had been the right thing to do, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t screaming inside for her. By the Lord, when she’d come striding into the common room bustling with healthy energy and purpose, it had been the equivalent of what a striptease would do for other men. And because he’d been thinking with other things besides his brain, he’d acted like an ass and upset her. Then that upset had triggered a memory from who knew what type of horror, and now she didn’t want to trust him with it for fear he’d see her as delicate and weak. Which, in all fairness, she was. At the moment.
But he’d never meant to imply that he thought her frail. She didn’t know he and Darcio had traveled through her body memory. They knew what she’d endured in the wilderness. It was enough to prove she was a survivor. She was also quite powerful, ’pathically speaking. It’d be ridiculous to accuse her of frailty.
Reule had kept the information gleaned via Darcio to himself, unsure what to do with it. He couldn’t escape the notion that the longer he held on to it, the less honorable an act it became. He should tell her what he knew. It would mean explaining Darcio’s gifts, something no one outside of the Pack really knew of, but he could sense Darcio trusted her well enough. The downside was what her reaction might be. Mystique might resent him for keeping the information secret. Or, if he told her all he knew, it could trigger a chain of memories like this morning’s, and he dreaded being the source of more pain and fear.
With all this weighing on his mind, he stepped up to her and held out a palm.
“Kébé, the evening meal is in thirty minutes, and you’ll want to clean up and change. As will your companions,” he added as the Pack stood watching him with poorly repressed amusement. All he cared about was that she didn’t hesitate to put her hand in his, and he closed his fingers around hers gratefully.
“Rye, please see that Stebban is made comfortable in here for the night, with a servant to tend the fire so he catches no chill.”
“Don’t worry, Mystique. If there’s one thing no Sánge will ever allow in this keep, it’s the catching of a chill. Tomorrow we’ll see about putting electric heat in your infirmary.”
“Truly?” She looked delighted and breathlessly appreciative. “That would be wonderful.”
“It’s an easily accomplished task,” Reule said shortly. “Come, kébé, before Para pitches an apoplexy. She’s pacing your rooms as we speak.”
She laughed and Reule drew her tight to his side as they moved into the hall. He felt the warm length of her body moving sinuously against his, and it just about drove him mad. He made it as far as the stairs, then seized her and dragged her in
to the dark alcove beneath them. She squeaked out a sound of shock when she abruptly found herself up against the wall, his body trapping hers against the stone and mortar.
“Reule!” she gasped, her chest heaving against the crush of his as he swooped in to seize her mouth. She opened instantly to him, sighing as he tasted her as deeply as he could manage and still give pleasure. She was sweet as ever, the slight tang of a wine she’d enjoyed adding a pleasant surprise to her flavor.
Reule was lost in the wet enthusiasm of her hot mouth in a flash. She never hesitated, never pulled away, never demurred. She took what he gave and gave the whole of her response in return. It was so honest it had the power to bring him to his knees.
Her hands were curling into his hair, holding him tight to her lips. Her feet didn’t even touch the floor any longer because he had dragged her up to meet him. Did she even notice, or was she too consumed by the fire they made together?
His hands, framing her head and face, slid down the slim column of her throat until her breasts and the velvet of her bodice filled his palms. Reule groaned when her nipples responded instantly, hard points seeking the play of his fingers and the feel of his mouth. He buried his hips against her, making very certain she knew that all it took was her kiss and the feel of her to make him thick and ready.
“I want to touch you everywhere,” he growled against her open lips. “I want every inch of your skin to know me. Would you like that, kébé?” He took the shudder rippling through her body as an answer. “I want you on my tongue,” he groaned into her mouth, making her moan so sensuously he lost all sense of where he was. He scooped up her skirts in a single sweep of his hand, baring her leg to the upward stroke of his palm. Her skin was smooth and hot, growing hotter with every inch upward he traveled. Behind her knee, the back of her slim thigh, up to the curve of her pretty little bottom.
“Reule,” she moaned.
“Ah, the sound of my name on your lips has the most incredible effect on me,” he said with pleasure as he kissed her down her throat. He felt her wriggle with surprise when his hand cupped one bare cheek of her lush little backside, his fingertips skimming the sensitive crease. He hummed against her pulse in speculation. “You aren’t wearing underclothes?” And just as quickly the wolfish grin faded from his tone. “All this time? Around my men?”
Drink of Me Page 16
