Her mouth tightened.
The herb seller had stopped touching her bundles, and a woman near the bread stall watched them openly. Two men beside the apple cart bent their heads as if their conversation had become fascinating.
Connor lowered his voice. “What is in yer hand?”
Violet’s arm moved slightly, bringing the bundle nearer to her dress. Too late.
“Herbs,” she answered.
“I can see that.”
“Then why ask?”
“Can we do this elsewhere?” he asked, his voice low. “Ye ken, preferably somewhere ye arenae dying?”
“I ken what helps me,” she huffed.
That cut through his temper.
He looked at the bundle again. Dry stems, roots, blue thread. He did not know herbs well enough, and that ignorance sharpened his voice.
“Helps ye with what?”
“Connor.”
“With what, Violet?”
She looked past him toward the lane that led out of the village. Her throat moved once, but she did not answer.
The herb seller cleared her throat, then lost her courage when Connor turned his gaze on her. She dropped her eyes to the stall and began arranging sage that needed no arranging.
“Fine,” he bit out. “Daenae tell me here. Ye are coming with me.”
“I can return to the castle.”
“Ye can barely stand.”
“I can walk.”
Conner grunted. “Aye, with me holding ye upright.”
The market had fallen silent in that sly way when people were pretending they were not listening. A child was pulled closer tohis mother’s dress, and one of the villagers bowed too quickly when Connor glanced in his direction.
Violet noticed, and her shoulders immediately stiffened. “Donaemake a spectacle.”
Connor shifted his grip, ready to lift her. She saw the movement and went rigid. He stopped, and for one breath, he held himself still. Then he bent his head close enough so that only she could hear him.
“Walk with me, then,” he murmured. “And daenae make me carry ye through the whole market unless ye want every villager discussing it by supper.”
Her eyes narrowed, and color touched her cheeks, faint and angry. Good. Anger meant she was still with him.
“Ye are impossible,” she huffed.
“I have been called worse.”
She drew in a careful breath and felt the wind on her face. Connor kept one hand on her elbow and the other on her back, close enough to catch her, loose enough to let her pretend she had chosen every step.
She did not let go of the herbs as the crowd parted for them. Men dipped their heads, and women looked at Violet and then away, some with curiosity, some with open concern.
