That was what had been missing. She hadn’t been Ian’s everything, and he hadn’t been hers. And this man wasn’t either and could never be.
‘And why you?’ she said, pouring water over the area to see where it was torn. ‘When no other man has ever?’
‘Séverine, do you realise I’m right here?’
Balthus’s voice sounded amused. She wasn’t. She held his limb underhand and carefully made one stitch. ‘Who else would I be talking to?’
‘Only confirming. You seem agitated, and you are poking me with a needle.’
‘I know you can take pain.’ She glanced up. ‘Sorry.’
His eyes were amused. They also looked soft. ‘It’s actually a compliment now. Before you fixed me, if anyone had attempted this, I would have fainted. I can take the pain now. You’ve made me strong again.’
She’d never seen his eyes like that before. She didn’t like the way that affected her, either. She went back to working on his arm.
His breath hitched.
‘Felt that?’
He chuckled. ‘Yes.’
‘Am I offending your dignity now?’
His silence was heavy, so against her better judgement she looked up.
Chin dipped, the length of his lashes casting shadows around his cheekbones that shouldn’t belong to any man. He seduced with his very presence, with the rough edges of his voice. ‘When it comes to you, I have no pride. Whatever you want me to do or be... I would.’
Unexpected, the words pierced until she remembered who had delivered them. A liar, from a deceitful family. A man who had been half-crazed with pain yet had tried to defend her. A man who’d said he’d hold her against him and fight off God. A man she’d already told she trusted. She was another’s wife. But Ian had left her, and long before that he’d scared her. Six years with no husband. A man with every resource hadn’t found her, and yet his brother had? She shouldn’t trust these men!
She narrowed her eyes. All those fancy words when they couldn’t be true. She healed a man to persuade him, but how could she persuade a liar? ‘Your brother is far more charming than you. His smile came easier. That helped when he told the world he’d be marrying me instead of Beatrice.’
Mentioning Ian was a far more effective way of halting his thoughts about holding Séverine than the stabbing of the needle into his flesh, which was still tender. She was killing him with her words, with her proximity. He should keep quiet and let her sew his arm. He should tell her the truth. What he shouldn’t do was sit here with her kneeling next to him and listen to her tell him about his dead brother as if he were alive and, worse, as if she regretted his touch, while he burned for her.
But he didn’t want to let her go. He didn’t deserve her even if she wasn’t married. He was wrong, desperately wrong to do this, but she took away his pain, and he felt...alive. Or at least like someone new. So for now, though he’d burn in hell for yet another transgression, he simply couldn’t give her up.
He was a coward.
‘What I don’t understand, what I can never understand, is why he did it,’ she whispered. Her hands were in her lap, her feisty umbrage from earlier gone. ‘People said it was my red hair, that it shone that day. So for years I berated myself for wearing it down. My sisters have some red in their hair, but they have mainly brown hair like everyone else. Why me? But he never said anything about my hair. Not once. He’d...wrap it around his finger. And maybe to others that looked like he admired it, but his fingers were always clenching it, like it was a possession. I was a possession to him, and yet...’ She shook her head.
‘Tell me,’ he said, though all her words were like points of a sword. There was some haunted bitterness there that he both wanted and didn’t want to hear. She should never be full of anything dark, and if in telling it the knives inside him made holes in his heart...then that simply made more room.
‘You tell me,’ she said. ‘I’m tired of my own thoughts because I never have an answer. He...’ She shook her head, glanced at him, and then arranged the cups and spoons on the table as if to put them away, but there were shelves or cupboards. The hut had only one purpose: to trap, but oddly to heal, and bring him here with her like this.
Balthus waited, but knew Séverine wouldn’t say more, and it wasn’t his place to ask. Standing, he said, ‘Thank you for this. You can’t know what it means to not feel the pain...’
‘I’ve given birth, Balthus,’ she said. ‘Twice.’
Startled, he answered, ‘I guess you do, then.’ Still laughing, he walked out the door and to the hut next to them.
‘Where are you going?’ she said.
‘To see if everything is taken care of.’ He opened the door to the makeshift hut that housed the pit he’d stayed in for weeks. He’d never get used to seeing the room from this angle. Walking around the small single room, he stared down into the pit, noted the distance of the small bed shoved against the other side of the pit and judged there was enough room not to kill himself accidentally.
Séverine stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. ‘How did that bed, those blankets, that torch, any of this, get in here?’
‘Imbert and Henry moved some furniture in here for me. I suppose I took someone’s bed, but this shelter doesn’t seem to have any. I do have to admit having this giant hole in the middle of the floor is inconvenient. I wonder if I’ll fall in and undo all your work.’
‘You can’t simply decide to stay,’ she said.
‘That’s what I’m doing.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if you wanted me to go, you wouldn’t have shoved me in the pit.’
‘I fixed you so you could crawl out of the pit.’
‘I could crawl out any time. You didn’t have to fix my arm; in fact, you took a great risk to do so.’
‘What about Henry?’
‘Apparently, Henry is helping some people with game, and has become acquainted with a widow here.’
She looked at him in surprise.
Balthus laughed low. ‘I thought so, too.’
Séverine looked around. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘I don’t want to keep climbing the ladder to sleep on the blankets down there. It’s inconvenient and a waste of time and strength.’
Her brows drew in, but she kept quiet.
‘We need to talk now. Why did you fix me? I know it wasn’t only because I broke Pepin’s fall.’ Séverine looked behind her, but she did not close the door, and then he knew. ‘You thought to...soften me towards you running with the boys.’
She straightened. ‘I would do anything for them.’
He should be cross, angry. Instead, he was awestruck by this woman, who truly would do anything for her children, even carve up a Warstone. ‘You took a risk, because it could have failed.’
‘If it had failed, you’d be dead, so it wasn’t much of a risk,’ she said.
Balthus chuckled. He wondered again if Ian had bothered to get to know her. ‘So you did it to help you protect yourself against the Warstones.’
‘Your family,’ she corrected. But Balthus had gone quiet. Séverine was done with silence. She’d had a lifetime of words that weren’t said and so many secrets that there wasn’t anything to tell anymore. She was still shaking from her thoughts, from the proximity of tending his arm. All week since she’d felt this awkwardness from the intimate time tending him. Now, even with the door open, she was all too affected by him. Every hair on the back of her neck was sensitive, her body felt too tightly bound in the clothing she wore. And now he said he wouldn’t leave?
‘Aren’t they your family?’ she said.
‘Séverine,’ he said.
‘You say my name as if that’s an answer.’ She crossed her arms.
‘You aren’t at all what my brother thought you were.’ He sat on the bed.
Hi
s words made little sense, but the way he said it did. More secrets that he didn’t want to tell, but she recognised two other emotions. Something like want and regret. She felt them, too. One more than the other, and that provoked a rampage of emotions she had no right to feel. She knew better.
Pointing towards a nearby chair, he said, ‘Come sit, and keep the door open or not.’
‘Won’t someone hear?’
‘What we need to talk about is hardly a secret.’ He adjusted himself, winced. Already she could see the fatigue take him. He needed to rest, but she kept her silence. All the reasons she’d fled from him and his kind needed to be resolved.
‘When Ian left you at Forgotten Keep, he left you with a full retinue, didn’t he?’ When she nodded, he added, ‘I went there first. There were still some servants, but the walls, the floors...the home was bare.’
‘It was under repair with so many people, are they—?’
‘Still there. Still utterly loyal to you, a Warstone, too.’
Another odd phrase from this man who was far more open than his family, but he was still cut from the same cloth. And simply because she’d helped him with his pain it didn’t change that they were essentially enemies. She’d run from his family, shoved him in a dark pit. He’d pursued her for reasons she still didn’t know, but they couldn’t be good because he’d never told her why. He was holding secrets he knew she wouldn’t like. But what? She wouldn’t know until they talked, until she, too, told him some truths. And she would do so without risking her children.
‘It was under construction when we arrived. It wasn’t that full.’
‘But there were possessions, and when you left, people and anything you could travel with went with you?’
That was all true. ‘Warstones have enough wealth. And I’m family, I should be able to travel with what I choose to take.’
‘But you left them along the way. Are there other villages like this one? Servants you’ve left behind with coins, tapestries or paintings?’
‘For their service to me, that is nothing new.’
He raised his brow, that was all. She stared right back at him. Trust him? Maybe only a little, but that look in his eyes when he’d realised he didn’t hurt anymore, she believed in that. She believed in his silences.
‘They needed the coin to buy supplies, to help set other traps, other ways of slowing down anyone pursuing us. Don’t tell Ian. I don’t want him harming those who are loyal to me.’
He frowned. ‘You should have thought of that.’
‘I did, but I...’
‘You outweighed the protection of your children against Sarah’s and Imbert’s lives’.
She paled, stumbled toward the chair he offered and sat. ‘Don’t. I argued with them, and—’
‘I apologise. It’s brutal, but it was the right decision, the only path. Imbert and Sarah can protect themselves better than your children can. Or at least they can hide.’
She felt solace at Balthus’s simple words. So simple and yet his words went far to ease her conscience, her heart.
‘But, Séverine, I don’t think you know what you’ve done.’
‘I’ve built safe havens for my children.’
‘No, you’ve started a war, one that my parents haven’t seen. One that they’ll never guess because it’s not some mass of mercenaries headed their way or great political schemes from people of power.’
‘I’ve done nothing but run from people who threatened my children. Do you know what they wanted to do to Clovis? What your mother said to me?’
‘What did she say that day by the tapestry? When you didn’t turn, when she grabbed your wrist, and made you turn while Ian crossed the hall towards you.’
She gasped.
‘I told you I watched you.’
‘Who are you?’ she whispered.
He huffed out a breath. ‘I’m not certain anymore.’
If his words on her choices gave her solace, these words gave her hope. It didn’t make him safe, and it was a far cry from him helping them, but she felt she could trust him enough for now. ‘It wasn’t your mother’s words that day, for all she told me was to turn around and honour her son as I should. I...hadn’t heard the announcement.’
‘I know,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know it was for me, but I did turn as soon as I could.’ Séverine didn’t know why it was so difficult to tell the rest, it had happened so long ago. ‘It was her grip on my wrist. Her face was so... I’d gone from looking at the tapestry to an expression on her beautiful face that I suppose was meant to be serene, but there was nothing there, and her nails dug and dug until my skin broke and I bled as Ian smiled at me, and people clapped.’
She wanted to say Balthus’s expression had also been inscrutable, but it hadn’t been. It had been full of rage before he’d regained control.
‘Then I have news that may hearten you,’ he said. ‘The reason for my parents coming after you isn’t the children. As long as you kept quiet, hidden, you would simply be another Warstone secret. But by planting servants loyal to you in various villages, you’ve established a mutiny. Do you understand? It’s not only those servants you left, but those they’ve told, those here that are helping Sarah and Imbert. All silently rising up against the Warstones.’
‘You keep... You’re confusing me. You are a Warstone. I feel like I’m not... There are too many secrets.’
‘And yet we’ve built some trust, have we not?’
Despite everything. ‘I still believe your silences more than your words.’
He gave one of those warm soft smiles that were unexpected. The ones that made her heart answer despite her reason knowing better.
‘What of Ian?’ she said. ‘How is he?’
He looked away. ‘You didn’t want to ask me that before.’
‘Is it worse?’
He glanced at her. ‘So you know.’
‘Why do you think I left?’
He shifted. Was he uncomfortable with her questions?
‘What do you care if his anger and his...madness is worse?’ he said. ‘You left him.’
‘I won’t feel shame for what I did.’
‘You took his children.’
‘It was them I was worried about.’
He exhaled roughly. ‘I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.’
‘It’s the truth,’ she said.
He winced and closed his eyes.
‘Your arm. You’re hurting,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘I have to say more to you now. More I should have said instead of what I did. It’s...complicated.’
‘That I can understand.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘This is... Ian tried to kill me a few months ago. Not by his own hand, but using a hired archer. There was never trust between us, but that...that changed the course of my life. You don’t look surprised.’
‘When I left, he wasn’t the man I married, and even that man wasn’t... I’m sorry. He’s your brother, and I shouldn’t disparage him, but—’
‘He tried to kill me, Séverine. It’s a truth that I have a difficult time with. As a result, I approached Reynold.’
‘He left your family long ago.’
‘He did, but I remember him from before. He didn’t trust at first, but eventually we came to an agreement to sever my parents’ influence. To not allow them to gain any more power or wealth or—’
He stopped, she waited, and when he didn’t say anything more, she said, ‘There’s more you’re not telling me.’
He let out a breath. ‘There’s more I’m not telling you, but maybe silence is best right now.’
‘Will it hurt my children?’
‘No. But the building works here would. You need to tell them to tear it down.’
‘I don’t have control over what they do, or how they’
ll feel safe. Do you think they’ll feel better if there is no wall?’
He exhaled slowly. ‘No. And I’m staying. I don’t know if that will help or hurt, but I can’t do nothing. Why do you keep them away from me?’
‘The villagers?’
‘The boys. In the beginning I saw them, and then after that drink, nothing. I can’t recall seeing them afterwards, either.’
He looked hurt, which couldn’t be, but still. ‘You weren’t well, I thought to keep your privacy.’
His expression eased, but his brows still drew in. She wasn’t prepared to tell him all the reasons, the words he’d said, the way she was acting around him. None of that she wanted her sons to witness.
When Balthus nodded, she let out a slow breath. Could it be this easy? She hadn’t even pleaded with him about why she needed his insight on how to permanently turn Ian and his parents away or help them forge a future where they didn’t have to run. She knew better than to not ask more questions, but fatigue was already weighing Balthus’s shoulders down.
She was also scared to ask more now, too. If he offered to help; she’d take it.
‘So you’ll stay.’ She stood and brushed her skirts.
‘I’ll stay.’
There was much to think on, especially as she risked the futures of her children and the people loyal to her. Especially as she was trusting a Warstone...who was against Warstones. Unfathomable.
‘Regarding your arm,’ she said, ‘you’ll need to keep it tightly bound to your chest for several more weeks. It’s still swollen. I’d like to look at it, to see if it worsens.’ When he didn’t answer, she added, ‘Balthus, it needs to—’
‘I understand. I was simply imagining what that would mean.’
It would be more time she spent with him. More tense conversations where she was acutely aware of him.
‘I could take care of it myself,’ he said.
‘I need to see how it’s healing. The fever has only just broken. You need to eat and sleep more. When it’s time, you need to move it more each day, and then bind it again to your chest.’
Harlequin Historical May 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 57
