Hunter's Season: Elder Races, Book 4

by Thea Harrison

  Xanthe returned to the pile of clothes on the bed and broke the silence. “Would you like a pair of trousers and a shirt?”

  His hand shot out to circle her wrist. She stilled and looked down at his hand. “As soon as I am better, you will take me back to Adriyel.”

  Her dark gaze lifted to meet his. “No, my lord.”

  He said, his voice edged, “I did not ask you. I ordered you to.”

  One of her silken eyebrows raised, a small quirk of reaction. “You may issue as many orders as you like, but I am not obligated to obey you,” she said. “I am not your servant. I am the Queen’s. You may be willing to defy her orders, but I will not disrespect or disobey her.”

  There was that loyalty of hers, straight and unwavering. He thought back to his disappointed sense of betrayal when he had so briefly thought she had kidnapped him, and his unruly temper subsided.

  He remarked in a much milder tone, “I’m acting like an ass, aren’t I?”

  Her demeanor softened. “You’re angry, and understandably so. It’s hard to have your movements restricted, especially when you feel the need to act.”

  “This has happened to you too,” he said. “You must stay here with me.”

  One corner of her mouth lifted. “Truly, it is not a hardship. I want to do it. But before her grace came up with this idea, I had asked to be the one to hunt for your attackers. Tiago denied me, and it was very hard. He’s hunting for all those responsible, himself.”

  She had wanted to hunt down those who attacked him? He blinked, and his grip loosened.

  The last several days had given him a deep, visceral knowledge of her, the timbre of her voice, her scent, the gentle touch of her hands on his body. Following an impulse to learn more about her by touch, he let his fingers slide over her forearm as he slowly let go of her. The texture of her skin was silken, warm.

  She took in a quick, near silent breath. As he stared into her eyes he saw her pupils dilate.

  She reacted to his touch.

  What was he doing? He frowned and released her fully.

  She angled her face away as she gathered up the pile of clothes. “Please leave trousers and a shirt,” he said.

  She nodded and did so, then took the rest of the clothes to set them on the nearby dresser. Afterward, she turned to him, not quite looking at him. “Do you require assistance with dressing?”

  He hesitated as he struggled with his pride. It wasn’t just his rage; all his emotions were unruly. Normally even tempered, he felt like a stranger to himself. At last, he admitted, “I don’t know.”

  She glanced at his face quickly and nodded. “Call if you have need.”

  “Thank you.”

  She stepped out of the room, and he shook out the trousers. Those he could manage, one leg at a time, although his muscles shook when he stood upright to pull them over his hips. The shirt was something else entirely. He could slide one arm into a sleeve, but could not flex his back muscles enough to fully don it.

  Instead of calling out to her, he stood again, forcing his knees to lock and accept his full weight. Then he walked carefully across the room, his bare feet making no sound on the smooth floorboards. When he reached the doorway, he leaned one shoulder against its support and looked curiously around the other room.

  It was more spacious than the bedroom, with a large kitchen cupboard and shelves along one wall, a table and two chairs, and two more armchairs positioned in front of the fireplace. There was a sideboard with a basin and bucket for washing dishes and preparing meals. A sheathed sword in a shoulder harness hung on a simple hook beside the doorway that stood open to the sunny morning.

  All of the furniture was made of plain, solid oak that had been polished to a warm golden color. The armchairs had seat cushions that looked worn and comfortable. As with many Dark Fae country cottages, the large fireplace was the heart of the house, a true cooking fireplace with walk-in room and a swiveling iron bar from which hung a cooking pot.

  Beside the fireplace was a shadowed alcove with a curtain pushed open. He could see the edge of a copper tub. There was also a simple pallet on the floor. He paused at that thoughtfully, looking back into ‘his’ room. There was only one bed in the cottage, and he was using it.

  Xanthe was busy unpacking two more large canvas bags. She looked at each package, container or jar interestedly, muttering to herself as she set the items on the table, which was already piled high with fresh fruits and vegetables.

  He opened his mouth to ask for her help but then hesitated. Instead, obeying again some nameless impulse, he tilted his head and watched her work. She had a quiet, peaceful demeanor, and she looked comfortable, at home with her own company. For the first time, he realized that she wasn’t dressed in a palace black uniform, but instead wore a soft looking, somewhat worn tunic and trousers. Her hair was braided, but not as tightly as usual, and the dark length shone with auburn highlights in the slice of sunlight that fell across her back and shoulders.

  His gaze lingered on the gentle curve of her cheek then dropped to the swell of her breasts, where he had rested his head earlier. Her hips were slight and trim but definitely feminine. She was not as tall as he, but her legs were lean and long.

  She looked up toward the doorway, saw that he was watching her, and a delicate tinge of color washed over her face. She glanced at his shirt that hung off one shoulder and set aside a wax wheel of cheese to walk over to him quickly.

  “You should have said something,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Did you just scold me?”

  She jerked to a halt, the color in her cheeks deepening. “I—I’m sorry, my lord.”

  She looked so flustered, he found himself smiling. He asked gently, “Xanthe, would you mind helping me slip into this blasted shirt?”

  Her gaze flew up to his, to his bare shoulders and chest, and darted away. “Not at all,” she said. She sounded winded.

  He could barely stand on his feet, and his body still throbbed with pain. But something else stirred, something that had been buried under grief and anger and had lain dormant for a long while.

  She came closer to carefully ease him fully into the shirt, and his back muscles protested only a small bit as she supported the full weight of his arm.

  He was taller than she was by half a head. He bent his head close to hers, inhaling her fresh, clean scent. “Thank you.”

  She tilted her head slightly, so that they stood almost cheek to cheek. If she raised her head a little more, if he lowered his….

  “You’re welcome,” she whispered.

  This was too intimate. He straightened. “I see Tiago was not joking when he said they brought half the marketplace.”

  She widened her gaze. “There are even biscuits and a pot of clotted cream. I haven’t reached the bottom of the bags yet. If I fish for supper occasionally and forage for sun potatoes and fresh greens, we have enough food for weeks.” She paused then asked hesitantly, “Would you like to sit at the table while I put things away?”

  For a moment he was tempted but another wave of dizziness washed over him. He gritted his teeth, hating his own weakness. “Perhaps later,” he said. “Right now, I think I need to lie down again.”

  “Of course.” She stepped close, put her arm around his waist and helped him back to the bed.

  Darkness danced around the edge of his vision. He muttered, “I’ve taken your only bed and put you on the floor.”

  “That does not matter.”

  He eased back onto the pillows. “It matters to me.”

  The darkness grew closer, hazing his mind. As if from a great distance, he felt her tuck the sheet over him. He thought he heard her say, “That is why people care about you so much.”

  Then his unruly emotions and wayward mind grew quiet, as the darkness took him over completely.

  Chapter Five

  The Dance

  Xanthe took the perishables like the eggs and clotted cream, loaded them carefully into the wire well
basket, and then lowered them into the cool deep water of the well. She kept a few of the eggs out to boil them. While those cooked, she found storage places for rest of the food.

  There were also biscuits, fresh bread, jams and jellies, cheese, both fresh and salted meat, nuts, three kinds of tea, butter, flour, barley, sugar, fruits and vegetables. Sweet potatoes. There were even three bars of soap that smelled like honeyed almonds and were rich enough that fine ladies would not distain using them. This cottage had never seen such rich fare.

  Xanthe was no fancy cook, but she could prepare good, plain meals, and all the luxuries from the market would help to dress up anything she might offer. By the time Aubrey awakened again, she had a substantial lunch prepared of the last of the chicken, sautéed turnip greens, boiled eggs, and bread, butter and jam. In small bowls were fresh berries sprinkled with sugar.

  She was just about to retrieve the clotted cream from the well when she heard his quiet footsteps. She turned as he entered the room. He ran his hands through loose raven hair. His clothes were rumpled, and his feet were still bare. It was shocking to see him in any way less than meticulously groomed and in formal clothing. As she studied his stance and angular features, she was pleased to see that he was much steadier already.

  He said, “I see that you have been busy.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  His gaze lit upon the contents on the table. “I am.”

  She had not been sure how to lay out the meal, if he might need to stay in bed or if he would rather she did not eat with him. But this was, after all, her home. There was only one place to sit and eat, and also, he had not seemed to mind in the slightest when she had joined him and Tiago for breakfast, so she had laid two settings.

  His gait was steady, if a bit stiff, as he walked over to ease into one of the chairs. The reality of sitting across from him and eating alone with him started to sink in.

  She remembered the clotted cream and said awkwardly, “I almost forgot something—I’ll be right back.”

  He snagged hold of her hand when she would have walked away. Her insides churned at the warm grasp. Although she would have given anything for him not to have been so badly wounded, already there were so many moments of this experience that she would hold close and treasure afterward. Chief among them was every time he touched her.

  He looked up at her. The gold of the sun glimmered in his light gray eyes. “Thank you for this, Xanthe. Thank you for everything.”

  She turned her hand to clasp his and press briefly at his lean fingers, as she said, entirely truthfully, “It is truly my pleasure, my lord.”

  “I expect you to start calling me Aubrey,” he said as he returned the squeeze of her fingers and released her. “After all, as you so eloquently pointed out, you are not my servant.”

  He was nobility, while she was a commoner. She forced her lips to move. “That would not be appropriate.”

  He winked at her. “As Tiago would say, screw appropriate.”

  Winked. At her.

  She should probably respond in some manner to what he had said, but her mind seized up, so she gave up and fled the cottage.

  When she drew up the wire basket from the well to retrieve the pot of cream, she splashed cold water on her face and stood for a moment with her head bent, the water dripping from her nose and chin.

  “Aubrey,” she whispered. The sweet pain, that honeyed stiletto, pierced her all over again.

  When she returned indoors, he was watching the dying flames in the cookfire, his food untouched. He had waited for her. That embarrassed her for some reason. She opened the pot and set it on the table as she slipped into her seat. She muttered, “For the berries.”

  Aubrey picked up his knife and fork. “Niniane knows I have a sweet tooth. It was kind of her to indulge it.”

  “We have steak for this evening,” she told him. “And a roast for tomorrow. After that, it will be fish and salt meat. If you like, I can use the roast for a field stew.” A field stew was traditional hunter’s fare and often combined sweet and savory flavors.

  “I love field stew. It’s the only thing I know how to cook, although it has been some time since I have actually hunted.” He gave her another smile to add to her treasure of memories. “Niniane was right, this cottage is charming. Your father did a wonderful job.”

  “Thank you.” She looked around as if seeing it through fresh eyes. To someone of Aubrey’s stature and wealth, it must seem like a very humble place.

  “Where is your father now?”

  The bite she had taken turned to dust in her mouth. She forced herself to swallow. “He was one of the palace guards who died the night Urien seized power.”

  Aubrey paused eating as well. “I’m very sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.” She gave him a quick smile. “I was only a new recruit in the army, so I was nowhere near the palace that night.”

  He studied her. “You stayed a soldier despite what had happened?”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “I did. I worked hard and eventually became a palace guard. I had a dream of one day taking Urien completely by surprise and sinking my knife into his back. The chance never came. When Tiago employed me, I told that to him in the interview. He liked that I could be so patient while I looked for an opportunity. He called the last two hundred years my hunting season.” She lifted her gaze to Aubrey’s face. Would he be repulsed by what she had just confessed?

  He didn’t look in the least repulsed. His expression was open and accepting. As they finished the main portion of their meal, he took the pot of cream, spooning some onto her berries first before he helped himself. The small courtesy warmed her.

  He said, “After Urien killed Rhian and Shaylee who were my friends, the hardest thing I ever did was to remain Chancellor when he renewed my appointment. In fact, several of my other friends could not accept it and they cut me off. A few have begun speaking to me again, but I no longer care for their regard.”

  She said, “You hated Urien too.”

  “Of course I did,” he said. His face had turned hard, the angles of the graceful bones standing out against his pale skin. “Passionately. It kept me awake at night. It poisoned the savor of my meals. But the Dark Fae and the welfare of Adriyel meant more to me than my own rancor. I tempered Urien’s actions whenever I possibly could, went behind his back when I thought I could get away with it, and did everything in my power to help steer the congress and the courts on a steady path.”

  Xanthe set aside her spoon. She said carefully, “I respect Niniane as my Queen, and in a very short time, I have grown to love her, so please do not mistake what I say. What you did has not gone unrecognized. I, along with everybody that I know, hoped that you would be crowned king. Those so-called friends of yours—while their first reaction was understandable, to go all that time without speaking to you was exceedingly short sighted, judgmental and cruel.”

  The hardness eased gradually from his face as he listened. He gave her a faint smile that was little more than a crinkling of his eyes at the edges. “Thank you.” He scraped the bottom of his bowl. “This was a delicious meal, and the company was even more delightful. I absolutely refuse to fall asleep again.”

  She laughed. “Sleep is your body’s way of recovering, but if you would rather, we can spread a blanket for you under a tree while you explore the pile of books Niniane and Tiago left.”

  “That sounds perfect.” He watched while she cleared the table and stacked the dishes in the basin. Then he held his side with a wince as he yawned widely.

  She suspected his fight against sleep would not last long. Not only had his injuries taxed his resources, so had the healing. The physician had ordered at least two sevendays of convalescence for a reason.

  She took a blanket outside for him and shook it out in the shade of a large elm tree that was located near the front door. He appeared a few moments later, carrying three books, and struggled to kneel on the blanket. She hovered beside him, anxious to help,
but his savage expression held her back.

  When he was seated on the ground, he eased himself back until he was prone. She went into the cottage and returned with a pillow.

  “Thank you,” he said. The skin around his mouth was white.

  “You’re welcome.” She watched for a moment as he selected one of the books and began to read. Then she went to draw water to clean the dishes.

  When she was finished, she looked outside. His eyes were closed, his book resting on his chest. She grinned. Each time he fell asleep he woke up stronger. This time, he might even wake up grumpier.

  After she had washed and put away the dishes, she puttered around for a bit. She made the bed and boiled the bandages that he had worn. When they were thoroughly cleansed, she hung them in the sun. After they dried, she would roll and store them.

  The rest of the cottage was already tidy. There was more than enough food. In a few days, she would have to do laundry, but for now there wasn’t anything that required attention until it was time to cook supper.

  An invisible leash pulled her to the sleeping man underneath the shade tree. Silently she eased herself down to sit on one corner of the blanket. She felt as guilty as if she were stealing, but she couldn’t help herself. Studying him at leisure without fear of discovery was an almost unimaginable luxury.

  He did not look quite so desperately ill, but he still looked worn. Shadows under his eyes lingered, as did the brackets of pain around his mouth. Tenderness pulled at her.

  It was one thing to admire him from a distance for all the fine things he embodied. It was totally different to grow to know him a little, and to see the real man behind the reputation. He struggled with his temper, chafed at illness and injury, carried shadows of loneliness in those kind eyes.

  Instead of showing her that her idol had feet of clay, all these things served to highlight just how outstanding his long service to his country had been. How many times had he felt endangered by Urien? Probably too often to count. When he had lain awake at night, did he, too, wonder if he might die friendless and alone?