The man opened his mouth but no sounds came out.
My hands began to move almost independently of my mind, applying the delicate salves to his skin, my fingers burning as they came into contact with him.
What in all the heavens and hells had happened here?
Just then, Brother Bartholomew came in.
“Grayspires has fallen!”
“Grayspires?” I cried hoarsely. “What happened?”
“The entire manor has burned down.”
“Who–what? Was anyone injured?”
“One body.”
“Who–”
My eyes sought my patient’s. Was it only coincidence? Had Gideon died in the fire?
“A–woman. Was it someone you knew? They said it looked like it might have been your sister-in-law. I’m so sorry.”
A woman. Dead in the rubble of Grayspires, and Gideon Nightshade barely escaped with his life.
Ada.
My skin prickled at his proximity and I began to clean his wounds to cover my emotion.
He was severely injured and came in and out of consciousness—burns all over his body, several broken bones including every rib, and his left leg was entirely missing below the knee. For a time I wasn’t sure if he would live or die.
I took care of him until my body ached and my stomach tightened, and the hours, days,weeksblurred by.
He did not get to die. There were still things I wanted to say to him.
“You shouldn’t have to take care of him,” Bartholomew muttered one afternoon as he brought me up a bowl of hearty broth, only to see me get it ready to feed to my patient.
“It is my duty to,” I said. “No matter how wretched the sinner.”
At this Gideon opened an eye, and he had been unable to speak, but I saw his lips twitch.
“And this sinner,” I said, “is particularly wretched, vile, and unforgivable. He deceived an innocent virgin into marrying him, and planned to dispose of her when she became inconvenient.”
I waited to see if I could detect any sign of guilt in his eye, but my husband looked as wicked as ever, his lips curving up into a pleased smile.
“You cannot deceive me,” Bartholomew said. “I believe you still—harbor feelings for this man.”
“And areyougoing to be the one to draw me away from him?” I asked tartly, without thinking through the implications.
The monk groaned, tearing at his silky brown hair as he began to weep.
“If only I could! If only I hadn’t made this vow of celibacy!”
And then he was seizing me in his arms, dragging me away from my husband’s bedside, and—kissingme!
Bartholomew’s lips were exquisitely soft and kind, kissing me with a tender gentleness.
Sogentle. So unlike my husband’s rough touch.
