His head shifted on the pillow and the brown gaze meeting hers was glazed. Casin stood at the top of the bed and pressed down on Saran’s shoulders the moment Saran tried to rise.
“I am here, Saran.” Melane attempted to soothe him and stepped as close as possible. Fearful of touching him any where, Melane’s hands hovered uselessly in the air. “Rest.”
“Melane. You are safe.” Saran slumped back on the stained sheets and his lids lowered.
Melane wept harder and scrubbed at her eyes and nose. Casin dragged a chair over for her to sit. Councilor Raiden folded his arms over his red robes. “We must reach out to the Overlord immediately.”
The other members nodded eagerly and it sickened Melane to see relief and pleasure in their eyes. Councilor Sellic went so far as to grin. “Then Overlord Vaan can cease this foolishness and return to his rightful place.”
An argument broke out and voices rose as the Councilors debated what actions to take. All without regard for the man injured before them.
“Enough!” Raiden lashed out. “This is the Overlord’s brother. A Warlord worthy of respect for his many sacrifices on behalf of Kaban.”
“I merely speak the truth we all are thinking.” Sellic’s protest drew a nod from the other three councilors.
To Melane’s surprise, Casin came to Saran’s defense. From his position, leaning against the wall to the side of her, he cocked a dark brow. “Warlord Saran is a good friend and a strong leader. You do him a disservice, Councilor Sellic. I will gladly follow any warrior who bears the Galip name. I will follow Saran when he mends as easily as I followed the Overlord. Many others would as well.”
Several Warlords and warriors grunted their agreement.
The healer interrupted another mounting quarrel among the men by clearing his throat. “This may not be possible. My strong guess is he’ll lose the hand.”
Melane interrupted the stroking of the hair from Saran’s face to draw in a shocked breath and pushed up from the chair she’d scooted close to the bed. “No!”
Warlord Bran and another warrior frowned at her.
Casin placed a warning hand on her shoulder. His gaze showed a depth of understanding and care. He alone seemed to feel the same way as she. “This is talk for warriors. You should not be here.”
Melane kept her own gaze on the healer, furious he’d even think to make the suggestion. “You can not let him lose his hand. Warlord Saran...”
She couldn’t put it into words but her heart knew how this would affect him. Such a loss would have far reaching consequences least of which centered around the future of Kaban.
The healer expelled a heavy breath. “I do not protest the impact this will have on any warrior suffering such a grievous wound. The next days will tell. If it gets worse, I will message the Overlord for permission to remove the hand and heat the wound to seal it.” He shrugged. “Infection might still set in and he could also lose the arm.”
Melane yanked on the ends of her wet hair. She was beyond distressed and refused to give in without a fight. “I will assist with his care. I will help in any way but you will not remove his hand or arm. Not even on Overlord Vaan’s orders. The decision on such a grave matter should be Saran’s alone to make.”
Though gazes grew doubtful, no one opposed her. None of them wished to be in Saran’s place.
Chapter 11
Melane blew out an exhausted breath. She had known caring for Saran would be a tiring task. What she hadn’t expected, was her reaction to everything pertaining to his recovery. More and more warriors began avoiding his room as the days wore on. Some mumbled about sending him to the Hills with honor while others looked to Melane in anger for prolonging his agony.
Angry grumbles increased and a few servants began to look askance. Not quite as angry with Melane but picking up on the growing undertones of malice from the warriors. All of them wished for her to ease her vigilance and allow Saran to journey to the Blessed One as a proud Warlord instead of prolonging his suffering.
It took effort but she ignored every dark glare. Only the Warlords of long standing held out hope for Saran’s recovery. Casin must have spoken to them for their shamed faces would not meet her eyes. Though doubtful of her success, each one lent Melane a hand with keeping Saran’s room free of the odor of sickness and made sure the fire in his room never ran out.
Healer Bogor seemed to think she wasted her energy. Time after time he pushed and prodded to allow him to take Saran’s arm or at least his hand.
Nothing warranted his constant pressure to act. She glanced at Saran as he tossed on the bed, sweat dripping from his brow and lips pinched in pain. Yes, he burned with fever. Yes, he stayed asleep thanks to the herbs they forced him to swallow. But all was not lost. Saran’s hand mended slowly but it mended. His other wounds were superficial. There would be scarring on his chest and one leg along with the few on his neck but many warriors boasted in pride of such marks.
Infection remained a concern but so far nothing indicated its presence. She smoothed her hand over Saran’s damp forehead, the wet strands of his hair slick about his head. Back and forth she rubbed and gradually the lines bracketing his mouth eased as his face turned into her palm. Melane allowed herself the rush of pleasure, which came with openly touching him in this manner.
Asleep he didn’t appear so fearless. If anything, he enchanted her all the more in repose. “You will heal. You will be fine.”
She said the promise every time she came to his room, unsure if he heard but wanting to offer a form of reassurance. The door opened behind her and she closed her eyes for a brief moment to gather her strength. When she turned, none of her thoughts showed on her face.
“Things have changed?” Healer Bogor asked.
“He gets stronger all the time.” Melane stepped away from Saran, missing the contact as her hand slid away from him.
Healer Bogor grunted and brushed at the folds of his blue tunic and pants. “The Overlord will know of your arguing ways.”
She shivered despite her determination to face the Overlord when the time came. As long as Saran survived, nothing else mattered. “I am sure it will please him to know his brother survived.”
To this she received a surly eye roll. Thanks to Casin keeping her abreast of news, Melane knew Overlord Vaan’s concern centered on Saran’s well being. Messages went back and forth, though she managed to intercept several.
Healer Bogor joined her at Saran’s side and lifted Saran’s hand, which suffered the most damage in the attack. Carefully he unrolled the bandages, muttering under his breath all the while. The sight was not pleasant but Melane didn’t look away. Every injury Saran had was a result of saving her life.
When the healer finished, he covered the right hand again and faced Melane. “He will not thank you for this.”
The arrival of Councilor Raiden prevented Melane from answering. Melane liked Councilor Raiden. Of all the council members only he continued to check on Saran, expressing well wishes.
“How fares Warlord Saran?”
Healer Bogor shrugged his shoulders. “Only time will tell but his role as a Warlord is over.”
A gasp broke past her lips. “You can not make such a claim until he wakes and you know for certain.”
Councilor Raiden barely looked away from Saran’s still form in the bed, sheets tucked neatly about his chest the way Melane arranged them. He shook his dark head and turned toward her. “Melane speaks truth. We will see how he progresses.”
With that ominous statement, the Councilor left and Melane contained her desire to actually strike the healer when he snorted and followed behind him.
***
Saran dreamed. His mind filled with thoughts of Melane. Not the durvish attack. Not their time since he withdrew his invitation. No, his thoughts went to their earlier moments from when she shared his bed. Those rare instances when he caught her unaware. Her quick smiles in his direction when he came in from training while she worked. The spark in her br
own eyes if he looked up from conversation and met her gaze.
Then the memories which at the time caused him to struggle to hide his shudder—the warmth of Melane’s fingers on his arm as she grazed him in passing the few times she accidently touched him.
The flow of images ran on a continuous bend. So much so, Saran thought he still dreamed when he opened his eyes to find Melane seated in a chair by his bed, her head resting by his sheet covered hip. Compelled, he tried to stroke the curve of her cheek but his right arm was too heavy to lift for some reason.
Harsh breaths escaped his lips but determined to feel her softness, Saran reached out to touch the flowing strands of her black hair with his left hand, ignoring the strain of muscles and twinges of pain.
Even that small movement hurt. Saran fell back on the bed from the effort and his hand thumped to the bed. Melane popped up, gaze confused until she met his eyes.
“Morning tide, Saran.” The smile she gave him held relief. She pushed at the loose hair about her face and smoothed it behind her ears. “I am thankful to see you awake.”
Her position as she leaned over him allowed Saran to stare at her plumped breasts and the press of budded nipples against the material of her dress. He spoke the first thing to come to his mind. “You are a beautiful woman.”
She pinkened at the cheeks and the flush of color only enhanced her appeal. Thick lashes fluttered and he wanted to bath in the warmth of her brown gaze. How did he receive the honor of being the Warlord she accepted?
“I think you still dream.” She smiled again and brushed a hand over his hair.
Saran closed his eyes. Exhaustion rolled over him and she may have the right of it. He didn’t feel quite aware which probably explained what came out of his mouth next. “If you are a dream, I would stay asleep longer.”
Her chuckle was music to his ears. There was something he needed to remember. Something important. He struggled to sit up, flailing about.
“Rest, Warlord. The healer will be pleased to know you are aware.”
Healer? Saran didn’t have the strength to open his eyes again. What had happened? Why did she think he needed rest? Thoughts muddled, he attempted to turn to his side and force the answers from her but pain kept him immobile. His body burned and his right side stiffened as if knives slashed his flesh.
Melane’s cooling hand ran over his face and down his jaw. “Rest. Just rest.”
Saran immediately settled. She stroked her fingers through his hair, her nails scraping along his scalp. An intimate touch he should protest. Instead, Saran stayed silent and enjoyed having her hands on him.
Thoughts drifted about while he considered pulling her down to the bed. His toqa stiffened beneath the sheets, eager for bed play. He wished they could stay in this moment of time. One which allowed him to pretend he loved and was loved in return.
It was his greatest desire. And one he could never voice aloud.
Chapter 12
The two fingers on his right were destroyed. Mauled. Saran didn’t need to peel back the layers of protective swaddling to know the truth. Aside from the fact he couldn’t feel them, he well remembered the blood, the awkward angle and the bone jutting from the torn skin. No healer could repair extensive damage of this nature. Never would he hold a sword again. Never would he wield any weapon with efficiency.
No longer would he be considered a warrior let alone a Warlord.
“The durvish nest has been routed, Warlord Saran. Two more were discovered after your attack.”
Saran snorted, not bothering to turn and face his friend. The bland smoothness of the stone walls in his bedroom matched his mood. He was glad no other would suffer his fate but he didn’t care about much else.
“The Overlord comes today. Messengers delivered the news of the attack to him. He was most pleased to hear you will recover.”
Saran didn’t care. He was of no mind to talk with anyone.
“I...I will leave you, Saran.” The slight hesitation at his lack of response did pull at Saran’s attention.
He adjusted his gaze to see Casin. His friend was a constant visitor and with each visit, he left sighing in frustration when Saran refused to speak. But today with his mind clear, he had a question. There was one thing he needed to know. Something hazy from his memories and the herbs the healer used to keep him asleep. “Melane. Was Melane harmed by the durvish?”
Casin looked relieved to have him speaking. Pleasure and relief sparked in his black eyes. “She is well. The lady sat by your side these last days letting no other tend you.” Casin cracked a rare smile. “As fierce and protective as any warrior.”
Out of pity? At the thought, bile rose in his throat. The door opened behind Casin and Bran entered. Saran pushed himself to a sitting position. Despite his misery, he refused to have warriors and Warlords witness him flat on his back.
Dizziness assailed him immediately. Days in bed recovering left him drained and as weak as a tarka pup. Clean blankets fell to his waist and his freshly soaped scent tickled his nostrils. Melane’s doing from Casin’s accounting. She had seen him at his lowest. Flushing in shame Saran growled, “Why are you here, Bran?”
“The Councilors wish to see you.” Bran remained unfazed by Saran’s short temper.
Of course they did. Everyone knew Saran had banned all of those robed men from his room the moment he woke. He had no intention of changing that decree.
Saran raked his undamaged hand through his knotted hair. Left untended, tangles gnarled the mass. Apparently Melane forgot one thing in his care, he thought bitterly. “My brother comes. Let them speak with him about Kaban.”
“It is Kuran, Saran. Kuran has attacked a village, burned homes and slayed the ones who didn’t escape.” Bran paused, exchanging a glance with Casin. “We would know how you wish us to respond.”
As if he still led them. Saran turned his head away once more to stare at the wall. His eyes stung with an unfamiliar sensation but he pushed it back. Despondency reared its head and he involuntarily clenched his ruined fingers.
Burning pain flared in the palm of his useless hand. Saran curled his body further on his side to hide his harsh gasps and tears as he waited for the searing agony in a hand with little function to fade. It had been like this from the moment he woke from the attack.
“Are you well, Warlord Saran?”
Bran’s question brought back the rage and regret. Warlord? He wasn’t a Warlord any longer. Far from it. “Get out! Both of you leave!”
The door snapped closed behind him. Saran cradled his arm close to his waist and rocked in place. Why? Why did this happen to him? He glared at the swathed fist. Fury built in a boiling wave. He needed to see. Needed to confirm the proof of his inability to continue as a Warlord.
He used his teeth to rip at the bandages, then spat the thick cloth out and the ends unraveled further revealing pink scars amidst swollen, purple flesh. Ragged lines marred his thumb, then twisted about his pointer and middle finger. Most of the damage concentrated on the last two fingers. Curled and bent they drew the eye to knuckles twice their normal size. Missing chunks along the tips and sides revealed gnarled healing scars and flesh. How did one wield a sword with such a hand?
The door creaked open, warning of another visitor. Without turning, Saran hastily covered his hand and snarled, “I wish to be alone.”
“I thought to check on you. Warlord Casin said you were up.”
Panic hit as he recognized the sweet voice. This time his stomach did roll with nausea. “Get out, Melane.”
Thankfully, he managed to maintain a low, harsh growl as the pain in his hand ebbed. Bad enough she washed his unconscious form like a newborn youngling. It would have unmanned him further for her to hear him mewling like a weakling.
Melane paid him no heed as her footsteps padded in his direction. Weight depressed the side of the bed, leaving Saran little choice but to turn and face her.
While her hair was pulled back neatly, the lines on her face told the
ir own story. Saran eyed the dress she wore, paying close attention to the wrinkled creases, which were unlike her usual crisp appearance. Her smile lost its luster at his frown. Saran licked his lips and swallowed.
He owed her thanks but couldn’t force the words out. Instead he stuck with the simplest of request. “Leave me, Melane. I am not for company this day.”
Or ever. He wanted nothing to do with anyone.
“Saran.” She reached across the bedding and placed a hand on his blanket covered thigh. His toqa twitched. She studied him for a moment, a light flush on her cheeks, then pushed forward to say, “Did you mean what you said...before the attack?”
Saran didn’t have to think about it. He knew what she sought. As much as he wished otherwise, he shut down any sympathy or regret for how things had come to pass. “It is done, Melane. What...what you want can never be.”
Prepared for anger, he was totally bemused when Melane laughed. The laughter went on far longer than humor warranted. Saran used his good hand to balance upright. Melane bowed over his bed, inky dark hair spilling over his lower half. He jerked when her chuckles turned jagged and sobs spilled out.
“Melane?” Lost, he started to touch her head with his left but his hand hesitated above her hair.
“T-this...is..rich.” Chuckles interspersed her speech.
“Melane, are you well?” The question sounded as helpless as he felt.
With a deep shuddering breath, she pushed up and swiped at her hair. Red blotches stood out on her face as she said, “I have sat day and night by your side while you moaned and cried out in pain. I changed the bandages on your hand, care in my very touch.”
Saran stiffened, sliding the offensive hand to the side of his thigh and out of sight. Her sorrow lashed at him but nothing stopped her flow of words.
“I bathed you every night and poured water and healing herbs down your throat. I kept your linen clean and fresh. I did that. No other.”
He didn’t remember. The days after the injury were mired in pain and the herbs they forced on him.
Unexpected Bride (Warlord Series Book 6) Page 9
