by Boone Brux
Her hands fluttered about like a crazed moth trying to find a resting place that wasn’t against his body. The urge to push him away butted against the enjoyment of his touch. Something truly wicked must nest inside her. “Uh, thank you.”
“I’ll help you as much as I can,” he continued, “but this won’t be comfortable for you.”
Irritation renewed itself. She craned her neck to glare at him. “Are you trying to comfort or torment me?”
“Sweet-talk’s always eluded me.”
“Obviously,” she grumbled. Exhaustion made her cranky but she shouldn’t take it out on him. “I prefer straight talk over sweet words. Usually.”
He arched a black eyebrow. “A rare trait in a woman.”
The seconds it took to hobble the few yards to the horse were agonizing, but not due to her aching body. He practically carried her to Sampson. Her toes barely touched the ground and she couldn’t think with his arm twined around her. Without thought, she blurted the first question that came to mind. “You don’t like women much, do you?”
“I like women very much.”
“But?”
“Most are tedious and not much use beyond certain situations.” He paused. “You have more backbone than most.”
“Yes, well, we’ll see how impressed you are once I start complaining. And I’m utterly offended, but I’m too tired to argue.”
“Another rare trait in a woman.”
She glowered at him.
He appeared unaffected except for the hint of a smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “We’ll travel slowly. Once we reach the inn you’ll be able to rest, eat, and have a hot bath. By tomorrow, you should feel much better. But you won’t fully heal for quite some time.”
They stopped at Sampson’s side and Rhys eased away from her. “Lean against him while I gather our things.”
The horse’s warmth penetrated the chill and sank into her bones, easing some of the achiness. She pressed her chest into Sampson’s shoulder and laid her head against his silky black neck. His hide quivered where her fingers grazed him, but he didn’t shy away. Her eyelids slid shut. She felt eighty years old instead of twenty-three.
“I can help you with some of the soreness.”
She opened her eyes. Rhys stood a few inches away, watching her. Butterflies tumbled in her stomach as his gaze caressed her face. She stared back, unable to look away.
He rubbed his thumb across her forehead. “I can lessen your pain if you allow me inside your mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve tried to block your discomfort, but your mind is a fortress. If you allow me in, I can dampen the majority of your pain.”
“I don’t understand.” She straightened and winced. “Wait.” Her gaze raked him. “Did you attempt to push into my mind before the demon attack?”
“Yes.”
“I felt you.” She glared at him. “That was rather rude.”
He smirked, not looking the least bit remorseful. “Forgive me. I thought you were a human in distress. My mistake.”
“What do you mean, ‘mistake’?” She controlled some of her powers instinctively, but that was the extent of her command over them. “And why is my mind is like a fortress?”
“I’ll answer your questions when we’re safe. We need to be on our way.”
“Fortunately for you.” The effort of standing robbed what little strength the few hours of sleep had gained. “This conversation isn’t finished.” He gave her a quick nod and a brilliant smile. Charming devil. She sighed and leaned her head against Sampson. “And I need my bag.”
He glanced around their camp. “Where is it?”
“I lost it when the demon hit me. Maybe in the bushes.”
Without a word, he dissolved into the woods.
What had he meant she was no human in distress? Those words dredged up childhood horrors. The Sister Superior had muttered a similar sentiment with each lash of the switch she’d lain across Ravyn’s hands. Punishment for setting the altar cloths on fire or for speaking to those haunted souls only she could see. The memory bit like the chill air. No—she wouldn’t let past experiences control her. Things were different now. She’d do what had to be done and not lament the loss of her miserable life in the abbey.
A twig snapped. She pressed closer to Sampson, praying it was Rhys. He emerged from the darkness carrying her bag. She couldn’t help but stare as he picked his way across the ground. He was tall and muscular, not bulky like the farrier. His dark elegance reminded her of a mythical warrior. She pondered the thought, if the Bane were real, why not a knight in shining armor?
“What do you have in here?” He tossed the bag up and down, weighing the contents.
“A few personal items and a book I stole from the abbey.”
“What kind of book?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t understand most of the writing, but the artwork is beautiful.” Heat fused her cheeks. “I couldn’t stop myself.”
“You’re lucky to have it. Books are a rare gift and should be owned by those who can appreciate their value.” He secured her bag to the saddle.
“I don’t think the Sisters would agree.”
He smiled conspiratorially. “Then we’d better not tell them. Ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“You’ll ride in front of me in case you need to sleep. Don’t try to brace yourself. This will be uncomfortable enough without straining your muscles. I suspect you have a cracked rib or two.”
His words skidded over her and her breath quickened at the thought of draping herself against Rhys.
Misunderstanding her hesitation, he said, “I’ll be as gentle as possible.”
She bit her lip and stared at her feet, unable to look him in the eye. “It’s not that. I’m just a bit nervous. I’ve never been completely alone with a man who wasn’t trying to kill me.”
“Shall I hold a knife to your throat? Would that make you more comfortable?”
“That won’t be necessary.” She frowned at him. “Perhaps I’m more naïve than I like to imagine.”
His smile hinted at sadness. “Innocence and naïveté are characteristics we don’t appreciate until they’re gone.”
Her nervousness abated. He was simply a good man performing a valiant deed. Right?
“You can trust me not to kill or molest you in your weakened state.”
She raised her eyebrows in question. He said nothing, but his sly smile spoke volumes. Her nervousness returned. Would it be her life or her virtue in danger?
“Can you get your foot into the stirrup?”
“Yes,” she said a bit too quickly.
“I’ll lift you into the saddle.”
His hands held her waist, warming her skin beneath her layers of dress. She placed her foot in the stirrup and grabbed onto the pommel.
“Ready?”
She nodded and gritted her teeth.
“One, two, three.” His words whispered against her ear and she suddenly found her body lifted off the ground and settled sidesaddle.
The position felt awkward, but took the pressure off her spine. As Rhys mounted behind her, she slouched forward to avoid contact, but with steady and insistent hands, he eased her against his hard chest. She stiffened, but the warmth of his body melted the last of her tension and she relaxed into the cradle of his arms.
A multitude of smells enfolded her—leather and rain, trees, wind, and fire. She closed her eyes and exhaled, as if her breath could carry away all trace of her shameful stirrings.
Sampson picked his way through the thick growth of the trees, staying clear of the road. An unnatural silence permeated the air around them. The wet leaves muffled the sound of Sampson’s hooves. It felt like they’d become part of the forest, indistinguishable from the trees and the wind. As with the abbey, the forest hummed with a life force she understood.
Rhys’s strength cloaked her. When was the last time she had felt safe? Or the last time
somebody had been concerned about her? The girls had cared, but she had always been the protector, the lone tree that weathered every storm. Her soul yearned for one person she could depend on, one person she could be herself with, maybe even one person to love.
Exhaustion crept unbidden, and she didn’t fight her fatigue. It seemed like only minutes had passed when Rhys’s gentle shake pulled her from a dreamless nap. She yawned and stretched the aching muscles of her back to sit forward.
Grit scraped her eyelids as she blinked away the fog of sleep. A tug of vanity sent her hand inconspicuously across her mouth to check for drool. She might have no control over her unkempt state, but crust in her eyes and sleep-induced slobber was repairable.
Her right foot rested beneath her dress and blanket, but her left wasn’t so fortunate. Unprotected from the morning cold, it ached and tingled. She wiggled her toes in an attempt to coax feeling back into her foot.
“We’re here,” he said.
His arm draped around her waist. The weight of his touch and the frosty air tempted her to sink against him. Before she could give in to the urge, he leaned forward and pointed to an opening in the trees. Distracted by the black strands of silk brushing her cheek, it took several seconds before she noticed the distant voices. She looked around but saw nobody.
“We’ll enter the main road from there and appear as casual travelers.” He paused and lowered his arm. “I think we should pose as husband and wife.”
She spun to face him, the ache in her ribs erupting. “What? Why?” The incoherent argument tumbled from her mouth. “I don’t think—me, a wife? I can’t cook and do laundry, plus…I’ve never even been with a man.”
“I don’t believe any of those things are a prerequisite.” Was he laughing at her? “Our relationship will be only for show. Icarus and the Bane are devious. I can’t risk them slipping in during the night to steal you.”
She stared straight ahead. Of course he was right. She couldn’t fight the demons in her weakened state.
“Trust me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
But could she promise him the same? “I’ll try. What do I do…to be a wife, I mean?”
“Nag. Whine about the accommodations. Talk about having children.”
She craned her neck to see him. “Do wives talk like that?”
He smiled.
“You’re teasing me?”
“A bit. If it puts your mind at ease, it’s been a long time since I’ve shared quarters with anybody. Especially a woman.”
She harrumphed. “No, that doesn’t ease my mind at all. At least one of us should know what we’re doing.”
“Rest assured, Lady Ravyn, I know what I’m doing.”
A spike of pleasure raced through her body. “Yes, I just bet you do.”
“You will have to pretend to like me.”
She could do this. “A heavy burden, indeed.”
He gave her a brilliant smile and she groaned inside.
He clicked softly and moved Sampson onto the path.
Chapter Six
They emerged from the woods and onto the muddy road. Sampson skirted the edge of the track to avoid the water-filled ruts carved through the center of the dirt pathway. Ravyn tried to lift her foot above the splattering muck, but her efforts failed. She hoped Rhys hadn’t lied about the hot bath.
A bellow of distant voices rolled down the road toward them. She stretched to see around the bend. “Is there a town nearby?”
“No, but this road leads to Itta. The Dirty Habit is a frequent rest stop for travelers. It’s like a small town. I’ve know the owners for years.” He chuckled. “They’re a very prosperous lot.”
“The Dirty Habit? What kind of name is that?”
“For a century, members of The Order of the Saints have stopped at the inn to rest and change out of their dirty habits. I believe the inn’s original name was The Dragon’s Head.”
“I like that much better than The Dirty Habit.” She sighed. “Then again, I might be prejudiced against anything named after The Order.”
“With good reason.”
They continued toward the noise. She scanned the area visually and mentally for signs of danger. Nothing seemed out of place—no needling bites or oppressive darkness.
A polished wooden box hanging between four white horses crowded the road. A skinny boy holding a tether leaned on, more than led, the animals picking their way through the mud. Ravyn’s gaze narrowed, bringing the oncoming conveyance into focus. Smoke furled from a small chimney on the roof. Only the wealthiest or most holy traveled by horse litter.
Sampson veered into the trees and stopped. Sympathy bloomed as Ravyn watched the boy slog through the ankle-deep mire. How many miles did he still have to travel? Dark blue tapestry curtains ensconced whoever rode inside. She squinted. Silver symbols embossed the curtain, a flame inside a crown. She sank back, pulling the blanket up to cover her mouth and nose.
Rhys’s arm tightened around her waist. “What is it?”
“That symbol represents The Order of the Saints.” She muffled her reply behind the blanket. “What if I’m recognized?”
“I doubt it. The Sisters might not even know you’re missing.”
She nodded and watched the litter’s slow progress. Though she was nobody in the eyes of The Order, gossip traveled fast. Fueled by Powell, the news of her escape would quickly spill to every abbey and monastery in Inness. With a few discreet questions and several well-placed coins, Brother Powell could uncover her trail within a day.
The litter pitched from side to side as the horses moved toward her and Rhys. A thin crack widened between two curtains. Ravyn pressed against him, willing herself to vanish. Pale eyes peered out from the litter. Had she seen them before, perhaps in her nightmares?
The haunted stare pinned her in place. She bit the blanket, trying to stifle her panic and silence her fear of being seen. A whimper slipped from her lips.
Seconds passed before the curtain snapped closed. The hold over Ravyn vanished. Her breath stuttered from her lungs in tiny huffs, but her gaze remained riveted on the litter. The horses lumbered past and carried their mysterious rider around the bend and out of sight.
Her voice wavered. “Let’s go.”
She straightened away from Rhys, hoping he hadn’t noticed her reaction. The Order of the Saints unnerved her, but those eyes—they were too familiar. But the occupant of the litter must possess a fair amount of power among The Order, why would she recognize the eyes?
Rhys moved Sampson to the edge of the road. A hive of activity greeted them as they rounded the turn. The odor of manure and hay mingled in the air and rough wood-hewn buildings with woven thatch roofs clustered together in what looked like a small market. This was a happy place—and a far too busy place. Her anxiety at being discovered in this teeming area heightened.
“Try to act natural,” he said in a low voice.
She gave a weak nod and sat a little taller in the saddle. Natural. I can do this.
Rhys pointed to a massive dwelling that soared three stories high. Cedar shakes covered the roof, and dozens of multi-paned windows gleamed in the morning sun. “That’s the inn.”
“It’s wonderful.” Her glance darted around the courtyard, trying to see everything at once. “There are an awful lot of people here.”
He said nothing but gave her arm a reassuring squeeze.
Men congregated on the front porch and lounged against a railing that stretched the length of the inn. Who were these people? Patrons of the inn? Sympathizers to The Order? Ravyn resisted the urge to shy away from the crowd. With concerted effort, she relaxed her shoulders, letting them sag.
A young girl cranked a large handle attached to a pole, reeling in dry laundry, as another girl plucked the items off the line and tossed them into a small wagon hitched to a goat. An elegantly dressed woman smiled into the dirty face of a giggling baby held by his gypsy mother. A twinge of jealousy nipped at Ravyn. Perhaps one day she’d hav
e a life that would allow her such untroubled days.
Several young people with various shades of orange hair bustled about the inn.
Ravyn blinked. “How curious.”
Rhys’s quiet laughter rumbled against her back.
A round-faced man waved to them from across the yard. The same bright orange hair wreathed his balding head. “Ahoy, my lord.”
“Good morning, Orvis. I see business is good,” Rhys called back.
The man wiped his dirty hands down the front of his apron and waddled toward them. “Thanks be to The Sainted Ones. I’ve many mouths to feed.”
“Darling, may I present Orvis Giles, the owner of this fine establishment.”
Ravyn stared at the innkeeper, listening to the men talk. A not-so-gentle squeeze pinched her arm and Ravyn realized Rhys’s comment had been directed at her. She forced a smile, certain her expression looked anything but natural.
Orvis gave her a toothy grin and a proper bow. “A pleasure, my lady.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. Your inn’s quite impressive.”
“Thank you, thank you. We do what we can for our customers.” He folded his hands across his ample belly.
“Are all these children yours?” She pointed to the scurrying crew of carrot tops.
“Indeed, they are.” His voice rang with pride. “The Saints blessed me with fertile loins. There are ten in all. My wife and I care for and feed them, but they do their parts. No room for lollygaggers here. Too much to do.”
He radiated happiness and honesty. But she had to wonder—what kind of woman could give birth to ten children? She’d seen the animals at the abbey give birth and just thinking of bearing one child made her knees press together.
Orvis beamed. “And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”
The lie flowed smoothly from Rhys’s lips. “Lady Blackwell and I are traveling south, and we couldn’t think of a better place to rest for a few days.”
If possible, Orvis’s face brightened further. “You’re married? Well, bless my soul. I never thought I’d see the day when you settled down, my lord. She’s a real beauty.”
