She slipped an arm around my waist, holding me hard against her, and then she began to move, very slowly. “Just once around the room, for now,” she said. “Then you can rest until your strength returns.”
My feet did not move from the floor, but rather slid along it with each step she took. The floor covering was odd. Thicker than any tapestry or floor covering I’d ever seen, and soft, but not like any fur I’d known. It was no more than ten paces to the doorway at the end of the room, and yet by the time we reached it, I was drained and struggling to remain upright. To my shame, I was leaning upon the slight woman far more heavily than she should be able to bear.
But immortals grow stronger, their senses more acute, with each passing year.
The voice of my mind whispered this information to me. I realized it was true, and that the knowledge I had once possessed was still within me, awaiting recovery. It reassured me a great deal.
Arianna paused at the closed door, turned me carefully, and then waited, giving me time to rest before starting back toward the bed.
It gave me a moment to examine the room. I saw the bed. A large affair, finer than any I had ever seen. The wood seemed like oak, but it gleamed with a luster unknown to me. A shine so bright it reflected the light of the oil lamp on the table beside it. The table, too, shone like glass, though it again was wood. There was a window at one end, but its curtains were drawn tight, affording not one glimpse of the world without.
We walked back to the bed, and Arianna used one hand to pull the covers back out of the way. Soft quilts, but different from those I’d known. And crisp white linens underneath, impossibly white and spotlessly clean. She eased me onto the bed, and I lay back gratefully, but was shocked anew at the plushness of the plump pillows, and the way the mattress seemed to cradle me like a cloud. Surely these were not stuffed with straw. No, nor even down. They definitely smelled different. Their scent was one that seemed new and clean, and yet foreign to me all the same. She must be, I mused, a very wealthy woman, to afford such luxury. And yet, this place did not appear to be a castle. The room was small, its ceilings low. Still, it was far finer than any cottage I had seen. Far finer, with perfectly smooth walls that were neither stone nor wood, coated in a color between yellow and white.
Arianna tugged the covers over me. “I’ll bring food,” she said. “You need to eat and drink a great deal in these first hours. It will help get rid of the lingering weakness.”
I nodded, wondering if I could stay awake long enough to sample her fare. Surely I ought to have had enough of sleep, if I’d been dead, even for the short while it must have taken for her to find the secret in my murderer’s journals and restore my heart to my body.
“I am hungry,” I said.
“Of course you are. Now, I’ll only be a short while. Please, Nicodimus, promise me you won’t try to get up while I’m away. Just lie here and rest, all right?”
I stared at her, fussing over me like a mother over a sickly child. I dared not admit to her that I was afraid of falling asleep. Afraid I would not awaken again.
“I give you my word, Arianna,” I said.
She squeezed my hand and turned to go, but I found myself gripping her hand stubbornly. Tilting her head, she gazed down at me.
“Do not be long,” I said softly, hating that she might realize how confused and afraid I was.
At first I glimpsed pity in her eyes. But then she chased it away with a smile. “You really are hungry, aren’t you? I promise, I’ll be so fast you’ll barely have time to miss me.”
I returned her smile. I liked the woman. Odd, she was–as were many of her words and phrases, her clothing, her hair, and many, many other things about her–but direct, too, and seemingly very concerned with my well-being.
She glanced down at my hand on hers and bit her lower lip. “You’ll be all right,” she told me. “I promise.” Then she tugged her hand gently from mine, and hurried from the room.
* * * *
ARIANNA PULLED THE door closed behind her, leaned back against it, and quickly blinked her eyes dry.
He was alive. Nicodimus was alive. Gods, the magnitude of it stunned her to the soul. Every emotion she’d ever felt for him had flooded back into her being as soon as she’d looked into his deep blue eyes again. For a moment, she’d forgotten that so many years had passed.
And that he’d died hating her.
She knew she mustn’t let herself forget those things again. Eventually, he would remember. And there could be no doubt in her mind that he would hate her all over again.
Or would he?
Worry gnawed at her as she hurried through the small house and into the kitchen, yanking a platter and glass from the cupboard, and utensils from the drawer. He was in far worse shape than any of those written about in Dearborne’s journals had been. Oh, they too had been weak at first, but according to the notes, their memories had returned within moments, and their strength to a far greater degree, as well. Nicodimus had lain in the grip of death for a great deal longer than any of them had, though. Surely it was only a matter of time before he recovered fully.
She closed her eyes, and willed it to be so–even as she feared the opposite would prove true. Dammit, maybe she should have kept the journals rather than boxing them all up and shipping them back to Raven in the States, for safekeeping.
But no. She’d read them so thoroughly, and so often, that she had practically memorized their contents. They would be of no help to her now.
Arianna filled the platter with food. She had guessed Nicodimus would awaken ravenous, and she’d planned for it. She piled slices of ham and roast beef on the platter, added soft rolls, potatoes, and vegetables, then slathered the lot of it in gravy. She popped the feast into the microwave, and pressed a button.
Watching the modem wonder heat the food in record time, she mentally reviewed the precautions she had taken. She hadn’t wanted Nicodimus to be shocked upon awakening. He had no idea how much time had truly passed, and Arianna thought it best he not learn the truth until he’d had time to adjust to simply being alive again. So she’d covered the bedroom’s light fixture with a pretty scarf, and draped another over the wall switch, securing it with a couple of thumbtacks. She’d placed furniture in front of every outlet, to prevent him seeing them and growing curious. She’d closed the shutters and drawn the drapes on the room’s single window. It was a rear room, not near the road that passed by in front of the house. And it was solid. With the door closed he shouldn’t detect the traffic passing by–what little of it there was here.
Not at first, anyway. Gradually, though, his immortal senses would regain their former acuity. He would hear the passing cars then. She closed her eyes and drew a breath. The timer pinged. She would just deal with that when the time came. One problem at a time was more than enough to handle.
She filled the glass with milk, took the platter from the microwave, and headed back into the bedroom.
Nicodimus blinked at her in surprise, his gaze going from the heaping, steaming platter to her eyes again. “Surely you did not have time to prepare such a meal as that?”
“I had it ready and waiting, Nicodimus. I knew you’d need sustenance.” She moved closer as he slowly, painstakingly, sat up in the bed. The covers fell away from his chest, and her heart tripped over itself in response to the sight of him. Glorious, as he’d always been. He hadn’t grown thin in his grave. His body had apparently been preserved exactly as it had been at the moment when his heart had been removed. A flare of desire sparked to life deep in her belly. Gods, how pathetic was she? That she could want him still, just as she always had. And yet, why had she thought that would be different now? Why had she been foolish enough to believe the years would have changed that?
She hadn’t prepared herself for this. She wasn’t even certain she could have.
She set the platter on his lap. He frowned at it for a moment, then gripped the stainless steel fork in his fisted hand and turned it slowly. “What sort of t
ool is this?”
She could have kicked herself. Her first mistake. Gods knew there would be more. “It’s a fork,” she said. “It’s to eat with.”
He eyed the fork, turning it this way and that. “I have seen one before . . . in . . . Greece, I believe. But they were not the custom in my country. I never saw the need.” Shrugging, he speared a hunk of meat with the fork, and drew it whole, to his lips. He bit off a chunk, while gravy dripped from the rest back onto the plate.
Arianna settled into a chair beside the bed, grateful that he seemed more interested in the food than in the fork. He ate with gusto, cleaning the plate, and using the remains of a roll to swipe the last droplets of gravy away. Then he chugged the milk and set the glass aside, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and sighing in content.
“My praise to your cook,” he said, nodding at her.
“I don’t have any cook,” she replied automatically.
He seemed surprised by that. “Then you are truly a woman of many talents.”
Not as many as he thought, she mused, but she couldn’t very well tell him the food had been purchased already made, and needed only heating up. “Would you like some more?” she asked.
He pressed a hand to his belly. “No, I am sated. Thank you. It seems I am growing more deeply indebted to you all the while.”
She shook her head quickly. “No, you mustn’t think of it that way. You are . . . .” My husband. But no, she couldn’t tell him that. “You are my friend, Nicodimus. I would do as much for any friend.”
“Then you are an exceptionally generous soul,” he told her, but as he spoke his eyes seemed heavy.
“Lie back now,” she whispered, leaning over him to take the dishes away, pulling the covers over him once again. “Rest.”
“But there is much I still do not know.” His protest was mild, and spoken even as he settled himself into the nest of pillows.
“You have time, now. I promise you. So much time. It’s safe to go to sleep Nicodimus. You’ll wake again feeling stronger and more like yourself than you do now.”
“That would be more reassuring,” he muttered, “if I knew who ‘myself’ might be.”
She smiled as his eyes drifted closed. “Oh, I can tell you that much, at least. Who you are, Nicodimus, is the finest man I’ve ever known.”
His eyes opened, and he stared deeply into hers. “I fear I shall never equal such high praise.”
“You already do,” she told him. “You’re strong and brave, honorable and honest. Intelligent and loyal.”
“You . . . sound as if you know me very well.”
“I did . . . I do.” Closing her eyes, she shook the lingering sadness away. Sadness for what she’d lost so long ago, when she had lost him. “Go to sleep now. I’ll stay with you. I’ll be right here when you wake.”
His breath escaped on a drawn out sigh, and his eyes fell closed once more.
Chapter 18
MEMORIES CAME TO me slowly as I slept. Dreams came to me. Dreams of a woman . . . a beautiful, fragile woman called Anya–my wife–and of two sons, Jaymes and Will. The images fluttered in my mind like a breeze through the branches of a leafy tree. None solid, just brief glimpses. A small village, the hut where we lived, Will and Jaymes hunting at my side. The happiness we’d shared.
I sought for some memory of Arianna–something to tell me who she was, and what she had been to me. For I sensed that there had been something . . . more than friendship between us. But what came was a feeling of foreboding. A certainty that the woman was not to be trusted–a feeling of pain . . . deep, intense pain, that I sensed she had caused. It was vivid, this feeling. So real that I woke to the grim certainty that she was no friend of mine, but perhaps an enemy of the most dangerous sort. That all of this caring was but a ruse, a trick of some kind.
Yet as I opened my eyes, it was to see her there, asleep beside my bed in a softly stuffed chair. She did not look like a dangerous enemy. Nor had she acted like one, thus far.
I was confused. More now than I had been before. The images creeping into my mind were disjointed and made no sense. All but one . . . a single piece of knowledge that lay there, bright as the glaring sun at midday, and just as undeniable.
Arianna stirred and opened her eyes, her gaze meeting mine, and the words tumbled from my lips without forethought. “I remember you now,” I said. “You’re the woman who killed me.”
Her brown eyes widened as she rose from the chair. But behind the shock in her expression, I saw the guilt. Obvious guilt. It was true then.
“Nicodimus, no. I know it seemed that way to you at the time, but–”
“Where is my wife?” I demanded of her. “Where are my sons? Tell me where they are.”
Closing her eyes slowly, standing motionless, she shook her head. “You . . . you remember them, then.”
“I love them,” I whispered. “It should be my Anya, my heart, tending me now, not my betrayer.”
She lowered her head as if in great pain. “She would be here if she could. But it’s not possible just now, Nicodimus. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
“The hell I am,” I muttered. I flung back the covers, swung my legs to the side and made as if to stand, but my knees buckled quickly, and I collapsed in an ungainly heap upon the floor.
She was beside me in an instant, gripping my arms, but I shoved her hands away. As she stood back, looking down on me helplessly, I gripped the edge of the bed and managed to drag myself back into it. Weak as a newborn foal! And completely at her mercy. It infuriated me.
“You mustn’t try to get up,” she told me, standing by the bed, hands clutched in front of her. Her knuckles were white, her arms trembling.
“I’ll not lie here at your mercy, woman,” I replied harshly. “I’ll not become dependent for my very life upon my enemy.”
Her expression grew hard and cold. “Right now, Nicodimus, you have no choice in the matter. You’re too weak to leave here. And until your strength returns, here is where you’ll stay.”
I clenched my jaw until my teeth ached. Frustration burned in my belly. This weakness . . . I was a warrior, damn it. A fierce fighter, a skilled hunter. I was not this weakling who required a mere woman to attend my every need.”
“Don’t look so devastated, Nicodimus. You’re healing fast. Your body will be well again, soon, and I hope your mind along with it. The answers you demand will come. And when they do, and your strength has returned, you’ll be free to leave here.”
“I’ve no wish to wait that long,” I muttered.
“I’m sure tolerating my presence will be a great burden to you until then, but as I said, you have no choice.” She dropped her gaze, turning away. “I’ll get you some breakfast.”
“Where is Anya!” I demanded in desperation as she started for the door.
She froze, her back to me. “I cannot tell you that. When you’re ready to remember, you will.”
She left, giving me no time to issue the threats forming in my mind. I wanted to leap from my sickbed and close my hands around her tender throat, to choke the answers from her if need be. She knew the answers to the questions burning in my mind. I could see plainly that she did. I wanted to make her tell me of my wife and my sons. But I was unable. Weaker than a woman, when I had once been the strongest man in my clan. I could have howled in frustration.
The tale she’d told, of having brought me back to life by replacing the heart in my chest . . . it was untrue. It was no more than a well-spun web of lies. She was responsible for my downfall, she’d all but admitted as much. Why would my enemy wish to help me now?
No, she had reasons for what she did. Reasons for keeping me here, keeping me from my family, and from knowing the truth. Some plot, some scheme I couldn’t begin to fathom. Else why would I feel this certainty of her past treachery burning so strongly in my gut?
I would find the truth behind the lies she told. I would!
* * * *
ARIANNA SANK INTO a c
hair at the kitchen table, burying her head in her hands. Her back ached from the night spent in a chair, and her heart ached from Nicodimus’s rejection of her. His mistrust. When she ought to have been prepared for it. She had told herself that she was, that she would be able to handle it when his memories of her began to return.
“He has every right to hate me,” she muttered. “I knew that before he ever awoke.”
And yet she’d hoped, foolishly, perhaps, that it would be different now. Stupid. She was stupid and her heart was behaving like the heart of the young girl he’d known. It would only get worse when he remembered all of it. The true extent of her betrayal, as he had perceived it. He would hate her even more when he remembered seeing her in the arms of his worst enemy. And Marten’s words as Nicodimus lay dying. She ought to prepare herself for that. Until this very moment, she’d thought she knew what to expect and how to cope with it. But now . . . Gods, she hadn’t expected it to hurt this much!
At least she knew now the true reason he’d never been able to love her. It went beyond his past pain. The truth was, he’d never stopped loving his wife. His Anya. He loved her still. Remembered her, even when he’d forgotten everything else.
It was going to devastate him all over again when he remembered Anya’s death, and his sons’ as well. And he would refuse to let her offer any comfort at all.
A knock came at the front door, and Arianna lifted her head slowly. Brushing the tears from her eyes, giving a quick glance toward the back of the house to be sure Nicodimus hadn’t dragged himself into sight, she rose and went to answer it.
Her beautiful sister stood there, brows instantly furrowing as she searched Arianna’s face. And then Raven was hugging her close. “What’s happened? You look terrible, Arianna, what’s happened?”
Arianna hugged her sister in return, looking over Raven’s shoulder to Duncan, who stood just behind her. Sighing, she stepped back. “Come in. How on earth did you find me?”
“Not easily,” Duncan said, ushering Raven through the door. “We’ve been trying to catch up to you since you left Sanctuary, but you’ve been difficult to catch up to, Arianna.”
Eternal Love: The Immortal Witch Series Page 58
