and the child.
“All will be well,” she said, from the lucid calm that cradled
them.
Suddenly, it was over. Sounds from the street insinuated
their way into the room, and the breeze piped about her skirts.
The boy slept on, and she sagged against the table, drained,
weary beyond belief. Her legs could just carry her to a plain
wooden chair, and she collapsed into it.
Time must have passed, but she barely noticed it. Her legs
were still limp as wet wool. Her heavy lids opened reluctantly
to view her patient. Ivan slept peacefully. It might have been
another hour before she had the strength to get up, and when
she finally rose to her feet, she bandaged the boy’s leg and
cleaned up the blood.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside the kitchen. Sera
looked up to see Father Anselm hurrying in with the doctor,
who set down his bag and deftly unwrapped the bandage.
He looked from the leg to Father Anselm. “You brought
me from a woman in labor for this? ’Tis but a scratch.”
Father Anselm bent over Ivan’s leg. “No. It couldn’t be. He
was bleeding copiously.”
The doctor raised a skeptical brow. “Then I suggest you set
up a shrine in this kitchen, because that boy’s just had a miracle
cure. On the other hand, perhaps you need a rest, Father. You
have obviously been working much too hard.”
“I saw it, I tell you.”
The doctor waved his fingers impatiently. “Some other time
we’ll discuss this. I must return to Madame DuLac.”
As the doctor’s footsteps died away, Father Anselm stared
at Sera. She turned away from him and busied herself with
needless cleaning chores.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Father Anselm shake
his head. “I’ll not ask you a thing, my lady. Nor will I discuss
this elsewhere. But I thank you for saving that boy’s leg, and I
hope someday you’ll tell me how you did it.”
Sera slipped from the kitchen as soon as she could, leaving
Father Anselm to sit by Ivan until he awoke. As she left the
orphanage, her stomach queasy from doubt and effort, she
fretted.
Had the Gift finally awakened in all its fullness? How would
she learn to control it without Grandfather’s guidance? Would
it be obvious to others here—like a second head suddenly
sprouted? They would hate her if they knew. They would
whisper, and the whispers would grow into shouts of hatred. In
the end, they would kill her, just as they’d killed her mother. If
the Gift remained a part of her, home was the only place where
she could live in peace.
She hid her clenched hands in her apron. And felt the crackle
of paper—her list of inns—her possible exit from this world of
terror and misery. Stopping a woman passing by for directions,
Sera set out for the hill leading to the northern end of the city.
She climbed, skirting fallen timbers and rocks until, halfway
up, she paused and stared, bemused. Silhouetted against the
sun, Nicholas stood speaking to a group of men. He mustn’t
see her and wonder and ask questions.
She slipped behind a copse of bushes. His back was to her,
his long legs braced slightly apart, and he pointed at something
in the distance. The light turned his thin linen shirt translucent.
The play of muscle along his broad back and arms left her
slightly breathless. Her gaze stroked his slim waist and hips.
The men clustered around him looked at him with absolute
trust. Someone gave him a map. His head bent over it, and he
spoke again. The men’s faces cleared of worry.
Something hurt, deep in her chest. She would be leaving so
soon. Seizing the stolen moment and holding it close, Sera
committed his face, his beautiful, strong body, his lithe
movements, to memory. Very soon, she would be home again.
And life would no longer hold the promise of his presence.
Carefully, silently, she backed away, and then she climbed up
the long, steep hill.
The Blue Herron was situated high above the ruins. A stiff
wind would have torn the inn’s ramshackle shutters from the
windows, and the building leaned precariously to one side. In
the yard, drovers shouted crude invitations to women leaning
from the upper story windows, the necklines of their gowns cut
so low that their breasts were barely covered.
At Sera’s approach, a man turned. “Eh, Darlin’, wantin’ a
bit of coin, are you?” He came toward her, grinning and holding
out his hand. “You look like a fine ’un, you do. Come away
with me, luv, and I’ll show you a good time and give you top
price.”
Sera’s heart began to pound. The man looked at her as
Dawson had. She forced herself not to back away and run.
“Leave ’er be, Tom,” yelled another across the yard. “She’s
quality, she is.”
“What’s she doin’ in a place like this, if she’s an aristo, eh
Cully?” the first replied.
“I’m looking for a man,” said Sera, just barely holding her
ground.
“See, Cully, what’d I tell ya’? An’ I’m yer man, I am.”
“No, you are not.” Sera cleared her throat. “I am looking
for a particular man. A merchant. Medium height, dark hair and
beard, carrying a great many jewels. Have you seen him? I can
offer a reward for any information.”
“How much?” asked the big drover.
“Five Laurentian pounds sterling.” She had that much in
wages from Master Raymond. “Do you know of him?”
The drover scratched his head. “Little lady, I’m that tempted
to say I do and take your money fer a tale I’d make up, but
there’s too much trouble in this town, and I’ll not add to it. I’m
that sorry, but I don’t know of any merchant. We’re just arrived
yester’eve. None of these men will know him.”
“Perhaps the women, or the innkeeper. . ..” Sera looked up
at the women in the windows, who were listening intently.
“The innkeeper, is that what you call him these days?”
shouted a blonde with rouged lips and cheeks. The others all
laughed.
“I might know of someone who knows of someone who
knows where the merchant is,” said the blonde. “Come back
tomorrow, and bring your money. I’ll have more news by then.”
A short time later, Sera slipped back into the orphanage. At
this moment, giddy with hope, she wanted to dance, to leap and
skip. Tomorrow, she would surely find the thief and the ruby.
She had to calm herself, before anyone saw her in this state
of exultation. Sitting down on a bench warmed by the sun, she
shut her eyes and breathed deeply. When she opened them, she
saw Father Anselm walking toward her. His face clouded in
worry.
“Do you mind?” He motioned to the place beside her on
the bench.
“No, please.” Sera made room for him and he sat with a
gusty sigh.
“Ivan Drominsky has fully recovered, but I supp
ose you
expected that. He asked for you, and when I told him you had
left the orphanage for a little while, he said you’ve been
wandering the city alone, and not in the safer districts. Is that
true?”
Sera froze in fear.
“I can see that it is,” said Father Anselm quietly. “Really,
my dear, I must warn you that it’s not safe for a woman to walk
alone. Can’t you ask young Oblomov to attend you on these
journeys?”
Sera pressed her fists to her sides. “He has duties of his
own.”
In the silence, she could feel Father Anselm’s gaze and held
her breath, wishing him away before he asked for what she
couldn’t give—the truth.
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t tell anyone else.”
“I won’t disclose your secrets unless you allow me to. But
for your safety, please take Ivan and a few of the older boys
with you, wherever you go. It will keep the young scamp
occupied and out of the ruins. Will you do that, at least?”
The boys. . .. Did she dare involve them? Did she have a
choice?
“All right,” she said.
Father Anselm patted her hand. “That’s good. You have
taken a weight off my mind, Sera.” Then his gentle gaze held
hers. “Please consider me a friend. I’ll never fear you, my dear,
nor condemn you for any unexplainable gifts you might have.”
He left her then, to sit, trembling, until she could force herself
to walk back into the chapter house.
***
“There you are. Not working her too hard, are you Father?”
Nicholas forced himself to walk toward Sera in an easy, relaxed
stride when what he wanted to do was race to her and shake her
for being late and not sending word tonight. How could he
possibly get anything done when he worried about what perils
she might face in the gutted ruins near the chapter house? Just
yesterday, he’d heard that she’d searched through a condemned
house for a child’s favorite blanket.
She looked tired, and at the same time almost twitchy, with
a kind of excess emotion tugging at her beneath the calm surface
she attempted.
“I have kept an eye on her, sire,” said Father Anselm.
Nicholas gave him a grateful grin.
“But she is a stubborn little thing,” Father Anselm continued.
“I doubt she took the time to dine this afternoon.”
“I was planning on it, Father,” Sera said in protest. “Other
problems took precedence.”
“As you see, your majesty.” Father Anselm gave Nicholas
a wry smile.
Nicholas nodded, seeing far too well. “Between the two of
us, we’ll keep her healthy,” he said.
“I am perfectly fine,” said Sera quickly.
“So I see.” With Sera, a man had to pick his battles carefully.
“Lieutenant Carlsohnn has already laid the table. Will you join
us, Father?”
“No, thank you. I must return to the orphanage. Two of the
boys got into a scrape, and I’m to judge their punishment. I
shall see you on the morrow, my dear.” He bowed to Sera, and
then to Nicholas, and walked away, whistling.
She entered the tent ahead of Nicholas and took her seat at
the small table. He sat across from her, studying her face while
he told her about his day.
“The architect who will build the baths has a temperament.
Have your ever met a man with artistic temperament? No, there
are probably none where you come from.
“This man closes his eyes and says, ‘I’m thinking.’ Then
he goes on to say ochre Ionic columns or Roman murals of
mermaids and satyrs or something else that gives apoplexy to
the entire city council. And then I am supposed to make aesthetic
judgments on this project—I, who have no real interest in more
than the rough engineering and problem solving. I’ll be the first
king deposed for his lack of artistic appreciation.”
Sera looked down at her plate. For a moment, studying her
down-turned face, Nicholas thought he saw guilt and fear flit
across it.
“I must be losing my touch,” said Nicholas. What foolish
scheme was she hatching now, and why?
“I thought you were beginning to like my Outlander humor,”
he said, accenting both syllables as she did. At his gentle
teasing, she lowered her chin further, and her flush came all the
way up to her forehead. The niggling worry turned to real
anxiety.
“Is anything wrong, Sera?”
“No,” she said.
Finally, Nicholas dropped his napkin beside his plate and
leaned toward her. His fingers lifted her chin. He frowned,
studying her face.
“You look weary. Haven’t you been sleeping well?”
“You needn’t interrogate me,” she said with more asperity
than he’d heard since he’d informed her that she must stay in
Laurentia, with him.
The anxiety turned to dread. She was planning something—
another escape. He was certain of it. “If you don’t get more
rest, perhaps you should return to Montanyard.”
Sera’s chin jerked. “Absolutely not. I’m fine, I tell you.”
He raised a brow and gave her a long look. “Why aren’t
you sleeping?”
“I sleep well enough,” she said and grabbed her fork,
spearing the fillet and chewing rapidly to keep him from asking
her more questions.
“Yes, I can see by the circles beneath your eyes. And your
voracious appetite,” he continued, eyeing her half-finished plate.
“We shall have to order larger portions for you.”
“That is another attempt at this Outlander hu-mor, no doubt,”
Sera said. She gave him a defiant look, but there was fear beneath
it. And suddenly, tonight, he didn’t want to fight. He just wanted
what he always wanted from Sera. A little trust, so he could
solve the seemingly overwhelming problems she carried with
her.
“Well?”
“It’s the children,” she said, and he knew immediately from
her quick, guilty glance, and the relief behind it, that it was not
the real reason, but also, not quite a lie. “There are some who
will never find families to take them in—boys too old and streetwise
to be charming, girls not pretty enough. What will you do
with them?”
“Wrong question. What will you do with them, Sera?”
“I?”
He nodded. “From the first day here, they belonged to you.
Set up a school, an apprenticeship program—everything we’ve
talked about. Tell me what you need, and I’ll see that you get
it.”
“First Father Anselm and now you,” she said with a sigh. “I
shan’t be here long enough to oversee such a project.” So she
thought. But he knew how she liked Ivan, scrappy, angry with
the world, mischievous. He tugged at her, just as the other
urchins did. She couldn’t deny them. He needed this to hold
her here, with him.
So Nicholas simply gave her a knowing smile, and he called
for Carlsohnn, who cleared the table and brought his writing
desk. This was their pattern. Every evening after dinner, she
wrote directives while he dictated. He would pace the small
tent, then pause behind her to think as she bent over the writing
desk. Idly, he would brush his fingers down the graceful nape
of her bent neck and rub his thumb along the silken skin right
beneath her hairline, pretending he wasn’t holding his breath,
waiting for her shiver of pleasure. He would lean over her to
see how she’d written a phrase, his hands cupping her shoulders
through the light wool of her gown, tormenting himself with
the fresh, wildflower scent of her, wanting more, needing at
least this.
“First the school, I think.” He stood directly behind her and
kneaded the knot of tension in her shoulders and neck. He felt
triumph when she closed her eyes and arched her head back
toward him. She was so close he could smell that elusive scent,
see the rise and fall of her soft, rounded breasts beneath her
gown with every heightened breath she took.
And all the while, growing warm and hard from her
closeness, and the need that sprang from something elemental
inside him, he kept his voice light as he dictated directives that
would bind her even more to him and this land.
It was wrong, he knew, to have this overwhelming desire,
to try to tempt her so she would stay forever. But here, in Selonia,
they lived in a world apart. Couldn’t they both forget their duty
to others, if only for a while? Besides, his country needed her.
She had to stay.
“The medical facilities,” Sera suggested, dipping the quill
into the inkwell during a pause, as Nicholas began to pace the
small tent.
“It will need its own doctor, a good one. This is just the
project that will bring Baron Summers out of retirement. He
needs something more interesting than that ancient trout to keep
him busy.”
Sera stole a glance at his face, her face alight with their
plans, with purpose. Like a greedy miser, he stored the
memories—portraits of Sera in all her moods. And the odd sense
of—what? Was this what they called joy?— that he felt on nights
like this, when they joined their minds and hearts in common,
hopeful plans.
“Are you weary?” Her soft voice twined around his
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