“Let’s get this over with,” she said to Ferran with resignation.
Coming out of the forest, they walked across the small wooden boardwalk of the docks. Cedric saw them immediately. His light blue eyes targeted her like a hawk sighting a mouse. Then a slow, almost charming smile split his narrow face.
“Lorianne Blithe,” he said endearingly as she approached. “Healer Lorianne. Lori. Five years, has it been?”
“Seven,” she corrected immediately.
“You must excuse my rudeness before,” he said. “I wasn’t sure I recognized you.”
Liar, Lori thought.
“Then again, I’m not quite sure how I should address you, seeing as you’ve revoked your vows. What does that make you now? A peasant? A handmaid? A servant girl?”
Lori bit her lip. So that’s how Duncan handled this business. Perhaps he had made her disappearance seem more like a willing exile, and less like a frantic flight for her life. That was a lie, of course, since she had never revoked her vows as a Healer.
“What brings you back to the city?” Cedric said, his eyes still piercing. He hadn’t glanced once at Ferran.
“Business,” Lori said briefly. “I certainly didn’t anticipate seeing you here.”
Cedric spread his arms. “Here? At the seminary? Why, this place is practically my home.” His smile tightened. “You should never have come back to this city.”
The words hung between them, intentionally blunt.
Lori raised her chin a notch. “My condolences for your mother’s passing,” she said, cutting straight to the heart of the tension. “I assumed you and Headmaster Duncan worked out all of that nastiness. Why dredge it up now? I’ve paid my dues.”
“To whom?” Cedric murmured. “Certainly not to my family. Certainly not to my poor mother.”
Lori couldn’t quite believe her ears, despite what her instincts had told her all along. The nobility held onto grudges like children holding onto candy. Quite frankly, she didn’t think the upper tiers had anything better to do. Nothing caused a stir like a good, hardened, decade-old feud.
“I tended your mother to my best ability,” Lori began.
“You poisoned her!” Cedric interrupted.
Ferran shifted at Lori’s side. She could sense his questioning look. She couldn’t meet his eyes right now, not while staring down Cedric Daniellian.
“Why would I poison your mother?” she asked directly. “I’m a Healer…was a Healer, until I left.” A lie for a lie, she thought. “By the Goddess, your anger doesn’t make any sense, Cedric!”
“Lord Cedric, you disgusting low-born waif!” he snapped, his words falling like liquid silver from his tongue. “She died from poison,” he continued. “The last meal she ever ate. And you were the one preparing her food!” He choked in anger, and his pale complexion flushed to a fine rosy pink. “I don’t know why or who paid you to do it, but I know she died from your neglect.”
“Cedric….” Lori had the nerve to feel pity for him, if only for a moment. “I’m a Healer. I have no reason to kill anyone.”
“Your creed is a lie. You think me so naive? Not all Healers are true to their code,” he seethed. “Everyone has their price.”
“Enough, Cedric,” Ferran said suddenly. He took a step forward. “You’re not making any sense. Goddess’ bells, why harass the woman now? Seven years! Can you not let it go?”
Cedric glanced at Ferran for the first time. He looked the treasure hunter up and down, his lip curled in disgust. “Riffraff. How dare you speak as if you know me!” Cedric spat at Ferran’s boots. “I’ll have you thrown in the stocks for such disrespect! And this wench can be locked in a whorehouse for the debt she owes me….What do you think? How many men shall she service before she’s repaid my mother’s life?”
“That’s sick,” Lori rebuked.
“But fair, is it not?” Cedric sneered. “I’m sure you’re quite skilled on your knees.”
Ferran lunged without warning. In two steps, his heavy knuckles connected squarely with Cedric’s jaw.
Lori gasped in shock.
Cedric collapsed to the ground. Ferran fell on top of him. He grabbed Lord Cedric by his once-pristine shirt collar, now spattered with blood from his nose, then punched Cedric twice again for good measure before Cedric’s footman joined the fray. The footman jumped on Ferran’s back and tried to pry him off, but Ferran threw him over with a great heave of his wide shoulders.
Then Lori saw the footman reach for his belt. A knife glinted.
“Ferran!” she exclaimed, and ran forward. She grabbed the footman’s wrist and tried to twist the knife from his strong grip. The servant tripped over Cedric’s boot and fell forward, dragging Lori with him, and they both tumbled to the ground. Cedric, the footman, Lori and Ferran wrestled in a dog pile on the docks. Lori tried to find the hand holding the knife, but there were so many twisting limbs and bodies….
Suddenly a massive force struck Lori in the back and she collapsed to the ground. The impact stole her breath and took her strength. The fighting and tussling went on for a moment longer; then Ferran disentangled himself from Cedric and stood up.
Lord Daniellian sat there, holding his right hand over his swelling eye. His left hand and the sleeve of his jacket were drenched in blood. From the look on his face, Lori knew instinctively what he had done.
“The nobility aren’t above the law,” she wheezed. (Particularly where Healers are concerned; that’s why Cedric hired thugs to kill her the first time.) “You stabbed me.”
“As I recall, I was attacked by a thieving highwayman,” Cedric sneered at Ferran. “As though the King would take the side of an disavowed Healer over the word of the First Tier.” His very tone was an insult. “Take your life and run, little wench. Next time I see you, I’ll make sure the blade goes straight through your heart. Or perhaps your left kidney. Or maybe your throat.”
Lori stared at him defiantly, her temples pounding with rage. Cedric’s righteous satisfaction and her own boiling hatred spoke volumes.
Then a horrible, nauseating wave of pain tore through her. Lori ground her teeth and slowly reached around her side until her hand touched the hilt of the dagger embedded between her ribs. A thick wall of muscle had stopped the knife from penetrating her lungs. Damned lucky, she thought as her adrenaline waned. One inch to the left and she would now be drowning in her own blood.
Ferran’s shadow fell across her. She recognized his boots, the ones she mended only a week ago. She focused on the leather buckles and the wrinkled creases around the heel. Now she felt the deep tightness of the wound, and the fiery sensation spreading across her back.
“Come,” Ferran said softly, and gripped her under the arms, trying to lift her to her feet.
Lori gasped sharply and shook her head. No. Not now. It hurt too much to move, and she hated to show her weakness in front of Cedric.
“A shame I couldn’t do that seven years ago, when Mother’s grave was still fresh,” Daniellian said. “But I suppose the Goddess hears some of our prayers, hmmm? The Winds move at their own timing.”
Ferran whirled on Cedric and viciously pointed his finger at him. “This isn’t over, Daniellian,” he growled. “Remember my face, because it will be the last one you see.”
Cedric had the gall to laugh at that, even with his black eye, bleeding nose and split lip. He laughed far too long and hard—as though he’d never been threatened by a peasant before, and this was some sort of specialty entertainment.
“Shall I write down my address for you?” he mocked. “A sloppy wretch like you wouldn’t make it through The Regency gates!” And he kept laughing, even as his footman took a handkerchief and began dabbing the blood from his employer's face like a mother hen.
Ferran ignored him. He swept his arms under Lori and lifted her carefully, keeping the knife in place so it wouldn’t bleed out. Pain ripped through her body and Lori let out a harsh gasp. Her hands flew to his neck and she held on tightly, but Ferran didn
’t flinch. He turned and walked swiftly along the boardwalk back to his boat. Every footstep jarred her body, causing pain to roll through her torso. For a moment, she thought she’d vomit.
Dimly, she realized that he was speaking to her. “…Don’t interrupt a man who’s fighting for you. Stubborn woman, completely thoughtless, no common sense—absolutely none. Can’t believe how reckless you are. When all this is over, I’m going to bend you over my knee and give you a hard swat. Should have done that a long time ago. You can’t be both a Healer and a fighter, Lori. You have to pick one or the other. That stab wound should be mine; you should be the one carrying me back to the boat….”
She blinked up at him. “Did you just say you’re going to…” she paused, dragging in another shallow breath. “Swat me?”
Ferran gave her a severe look. But he couldn’t sustain it and sighed, “This better not be as serious as it looks,” he said.
“It’s not,” she assured him. She felt lightheaded from the pain, but no pressure from fluid in her chest, so she highly doubted that an internal organ had been nicked. Then again, she couldn’t see the blood. The back of her shirt stuck to her skin down to her pants.
Ferran navigated the docks and boarded his houseboat without another word about Cedric Daniellian. Honestly, Lori was relieved. She wanted to be long gone before Cedric had a chance to report them to the city guards, or run back to Headmaster Duncan and cause more trouble. A small guard force worked at the seminary and undoubtedly would arrive soon.
Ferran placed her gently on his cot, forcing her to sit up, then placed a blanket at her side. “Hold on for just a minute as I move the boat.” Then he left, quickly cast off, and navigated his houseboat along the banks of The Bath. He found a likely grove of trees where he could hide his houseboat and dropped anchor in the marshy shallows.
Ferran tied up the boat and returned to Lori's side. She kept swooning, and was on the verge of passing out, but every time her head tilted back, he patted her cheek, keeping her awake. She understood the necessity of her staying awake until he assessed the damage. Her body was going into shock, and her limbs were growing cold and clumsy. . Even in her injured state, her head was spinning with remedies and treatments to ease her pain and heal her wound. She tried to bundle it all in order, but the ideas kept slipping away from her grasp. Stop the pain first… no, staunch the blood, then stitches… no, draw the knife out… disinfect… boil water…we don’t have herbs…we have to sterilize a needle….
Ferran grabbed a bottle of whiskey from one of his many cabinets and uncorked it, taking a quick swig before pressing the bottle into her hand.
Lori refused to grab the neck of the bottle, and fumbled for a moment, looking up at him. “I hate that stuff,” she said. “It smells disgusting.”
“Don’t whine,” he replied. He forced the bottle to her lips, making her drink some whiskey. She choked as the fiery liquid hit the back of her throat, and her muscles tensed. Then as warmth arrived in her empty stomach, her body immediately relaxed. The pain eased, though the wound still throbbed fiercely. She took another swig and pushed the bottle away with a groan. The bitter taste was still in her mouth.
Ferran corked the bottle and placed it next to the cot. Then he stripped off his white shirt, which was stained by her blood, to reveal his perfectly defined torso. Lori stared, mesmerized by the sight. His abdomen was chiseled, like an elegant statue. His upper body was a flat board of solid muscle. At 6'4", his athletic physique lacked the usual cushion of fat carried by men his age. He stood straight and narrow, tight as a longbow. A red phoenix tattoo spread across his chest; its wide, unfurling wings graced his pectorals, and several curling tail-feathers wrapped down his right side.
Lori drank in the wondrous sight, completely unabashed. It was more potent than the whiskey.
Ferran noticed her blatant stare and shook his head, a wry grin coming over his lips. He flexed his shoulders. Lori’s mouth opened slightly in distraction.
He laughed at her expression. “One stab to the back and all your inhibitions fall, hmmm?” he teased. “We should have done this sooner.”
“You’re flaunting,” she accused, continuing to stare.
“Look as long as you want,” he replied. “It’s not the first time I’ve caught you.” He winked slyly, then took her shoulders in his big hands and pushed her gently over, onto her stomach.
She gasped again, pain stabbing through her, shattering the moment. Tears filled her eyes as he wrapped his shirt around the knife’s blade and pressed hard against the wound. He handled her body with experienced confidence, telling her silently that he had treated such wounds before. Another wave of nauseating pain rolled down her back.
“You’re a terrible medic,” she gasped. “You’re too rough!”
“And you’re a whiny patient,” he said idly. “Don’t complain. You did this to yourself, you know.”
“You’re heartless.”
“And you should have stayed out of the way!”
His patience slipped, and she saw his anger. She had seen such a response in many people—worried husbands, scolding wives and frightened parents, all reprimanding a wounded patient. Ferran was well-contained, but he must be furious with her. The realization filled her with a strange satisfaction. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had fussed over her so much.
“Reckless,” Ferran said.
“I am not!” Lori exclaimed, then cringed. The pain grew as the muscles along her back cramped and shuddered. As she closed her eyes and focused on breathing for a moment, she felt the whiskey bottle being pressed to her lips again and gratefully swallowed another sip.
“Do you need a stick to bite down on?” Ferran asked. He didn’t give her time to answer, but handed her a long, twisted cinnamon stick from a box he kept next to the stove.
Lori put it between her teeth, focusing on the harsh, spicy flavor. It cleared her mind slightly—just enough to realize what Ferran was intending to do. No! she thought suddenly. Wait!
She couldn’t help but critique his method, worrying about every small detail. She wondered if Ferran would cause more damage by pulling out the knife, if he would treat the wound correctly or slapdash some pirate-salve onto it. But she couldn’t speak without releasing the stick from her teeth, and she was in too much pain to do that. So she had to trust him; she had to let the man work.
He set his hand firmly on the knife, then carefully drew it out. His hands were rougher than she would have liked—clearly, he didn’t have the delicate touch of a schooled medic. But he worked confidently and quietly, keeping pressure on the wound. Slowly he withdrew the knife. It made a soft, sucking sound as it left her flesh. Next, he placed the blade beside her so she could see it: about six inches long, short and elegant, suited to a footman. Judging from the line of dark blood, the blade had sunk halfway into her flesh before jamming against her inner wall of rib and muscle.
Ferran threw his blood-soaked shirt aside, grabbed another shirt from a cabinet and pressed down again on the wound. “My last tunic,” he said, noticing her glance. “You owe me.”
She would have laughed at that, but she could barely draw her next breath. Her body’s natural defenses took over, and she felt her head slowly drifting out of her body.
Ferran grabbed the hem of Lori's shirt and ripped it open, baring her back. Lori felt a cold breeze against her skin, almost soothing. He took a sip from the bottle of whiskey, then splashed a large amount of whiskey onto the wound. Lori chomped down on the cinnamon stick. He held her firmly pinned down, his strong arm across her shoulders. She groaned and forced herself to relax, submitting to the torment, pressing her face against the rough material of the cot.
He waited until the pain eased and her body relaxed. Then he lifted her cold hand and settled it against her bundled shirt.
“Can you hold your hand down?” he said. “More pressure on the wound.”
Lori summoned her willpower and, with massive effort, did so. Her arm shook; h
er limbs felt heavy and useless.
Ferran lit the small pot-bellied stove inside the cabin. As the coals heated, he drew a knife from his belt, rinsed it off in a bucket of water and held the blade inside the stove’s iron furnace.
As Lori watched, she frowned, then dropped the cinnamon stick from her mouth.
“You’re not…” she gasped. “You’re not going to….?”
“We need to stop the bleeding, and I have no skill with a needle.” He glanced at her. His face was drawn and tense, but when he met her eyes, his gaze softened. “You’ll have a handsome scar,” he teased gently. “Consider yourself branded. Hundreds of cows endure this every day.”
Lori grinned weakly. “You’re going to brand me?” she wheezed. “Like a cow of the great Ebonaire estate?”
Ferran laughed, a short, ironic sound. “I’m disowned,” he reminded her. “You’ll be a poor cow belonging to a red-blooded scoundrel. But I’ll treat you well. We’ll roam the greenest pastures, and you’ll never be slaughtered or eaten.”
Lori groaned against the cot, fighting another wave of pain. “My body feels like raw meat,” she mumbled.
“Oh, come now, stop exaggerating,” he chided.
“You’re enjoying this, you sadistic bastard.”
“Maybe,” he shot her a puckish grin. “But I’ll make it up to you.”
“Nothing can possibly make up for this,” she moaned.
Ferran’s smile turned thoughtful. His voice lowered. “I can think of a few things,” he murmured.
She barely caught his words, and couldn’t think of a response anyway. Her strength was draining through the cot into the boards of the houseboat. She closed her eyes and focused on keeping pressure on the wound.
A minute or so later, she sensed him returning to her side. He put the cinnamon stick back in her mouth. Her arm fell limply over the edge of the bunk. She couldn’t prepare herself—she was too exhausted. She tried to focus on the taste of cinnamon, the pounding rain outside, the gentle creak of timbers as Silas’ houseboat guided them into the river.
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