“Fine,” Nyneve sighed. “I apparently cannot stand.”
“I noticed,” he grunted, bracketing him to her side so he could reach for her stool and drag it to the side of the tub. Nyneve waited for him to make a comment about how it was surely on his account that she could not stand, or that perhapshe had such an impact on many noblewomen. But for once, Mordred stayed quiet. She accepted his help to settle onto the stool and then reached around, trying to undo the tight knot of her apron. Her arms were limp as broken flower stalks.
“Here,” Mordred murmured, going down on one knee at her side. Too tired for words, she just smacked at his hand as it landed on her apron tie. He pulled back and looked at her tiredly. “Nyneve, I had my head between your thighs last night. What modesty are you trying to protect?”
“It’s about the principle,” she protested. “Notmodesty.”
“By all means, let the bathwater go cold for your principles, then,” he replied.
She rolled her eyes, but then her gaze strayed to the steaming water that called to her tired, sore body. “Fine.”
His breath ghosted her neck as he reached for her apron again, fingers undoing the double-knot in one deft movement. She shrugged out of the apron and handed it to Mordred, who folded it neatly and set it aside as she reached for her boots and nearly toppled off the stool.
“Would you just let me do it?” the knight demanded, an edge appearing in his voice.
“I can take off my own damn boots,” Nyneve replied without a drop of malice, simply because she could not summon it. Heat, however, seemed to not be in such short supply as Mordred knelt in front of her, his hand reaching for her ankle.
“Can we not do this over every single item of clothing?” he asked, rubbing one eye. “I should like to sleep at some point.”
Her only answer was a huff, which he seemed to understand perfectly fine, seeing as he began to unlace her boots and pull them off her feet. It was terribly intimate, Sir Mordred Pendragon on his knees before her, gently removing her shoes and then her wool stockings.
“Can you manage your kirtle?” Mordred asked. Nyneve met his gaze and watched a muscle in his jaw jump.
“I hope so,” she muttered, trying to undo the laces. Her fingers trembled violently—a common side effect of working more intense healings. The knight waited at her feet, unmoving, until she said, “Fine. Help, if you would.”
He had the kirtle unlaced withonehand in half the time it usually took her. Unable to contain her curiosity, she glanced up at him, brow furrowed. She was probably imagining the flush on his sharp cheekbones. He hadn’t restored his glamour, she realized all at once. Now that she had seen him without it, his true appearance seemed so much more... natural. Obvious. And impossibly enticing.
“Here,” Mordred said, shifting his weight to rest one forearm on the edge of the tub, which was still steaming merrily. “Lean on me if you need to.” His gaze glided up to hers. “I can certainly avert my eyes if you so desire.”
Nyneve shrugged, putting one open palm on his shoulder and pushing up to stand. Blackness swarmed her vision, so she held still and allowed it to clear. With her free hand, she shimmied out of her smallclothes. “Youdidhave your head between my thighs,” she echoed, grasping the hem of her shift. “Not much modesty to preserve, as you said.”
She pulled the thin garment up and over her head, letting it fall to the ground. And then she found she could not resist—she glanced down at Mordred to find him gazing up at her, full mouth parted, a vein in his neck pulsing. His eyes dipped to her breasts, nipples hardened in the cool air, and then down the slopes of her belly and hips.
“Get in the water,” he said tightly.
For once in her life, Nyneve obeyed, settling into the gloriously hot water, a sigh tumbling from her mouth. Her eyes closed, she told Mordred where to find the lye soap and washingcloths in the cabinet, which he brought to her side without a word.
For a few moments, she just lay in the tub, basking in the relief provided by the steaming waters. Then she summoned the courage to wash, thankful that the task did not require much dexterity from her weakened muscles and limbs. Mordred stayed on the stool, his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, until she asked for one of the large cuts of muslin. Then he rose to his feet, holding the drying cloth out to her unfolded, his arms wide, as if to shield her bare body from his eyes.
“Your turn,” Nyneve said tiredly, gesturing toward the still-steaming water. “Foolish to waste the magic.”
He met her gaze for a moment, his eyes hooded by the half-light, and then nodded. She stepped into her small quarters, shivering, and dressed in her spare clothing, not bothering to don more than her smallclothes, chemise, and stockings, wrapping a large woolen blanket around her shoulders. When she emerged into the front room, Mordred had thankfully finished bathing but was dressed in only his trousers as he stared at his cut tunic laid out on the table.
“Garment magic,” Nyneve lamented, shaking her head. Every magic-user had their own natural talents, but she maintained that knitting someone’s skin back together was easier than weaving together torn fibers, and there were few who disagreed.
He turned his head to look at her, amusement moving across his features like a heatwave. His hair was curlier when it was wet, she noticed, taking in a spiral that hung over his forehead. She furiously averted her eyes, wrapping her blanket tighter around her shoulders. Then, ignoring him entirely, she padded over to the cabinet and pulled out a jug of cider, mostly so she could give her hands something to do that was not touching him.
“It was Ragrshydan,” Mordred said out of nowhere in a quiet voice. “He was angry I disobeyed him.”
Nyneve turned from the cabinet, looking over at him. The knight stood with his back against the table, his hands bracketing his hips. It made all the muscles in his lithe body stand out like the veins of a leaf in the sun.
“Because of me?” she asked tentatively, holding her ground and hoping the three paces between them would be enough.
His attention snapped toward her, but instead of the glittering malice she expected, she found more bone-deep exhaustion in his eyes. “It does not matter,” Mordred said wearily. “I am only a weapon. A sword does not refuse the bidding of its master.”
The last few words came out bitter, his lip curling, but Nyneve knew enough about sorrow that she could taste it hiding beneath, sea salt on her tongue.
“That... darkness inside you...” she began, hugging the earthenware jug against her chest as she thought about the way he brimmed with unfathomable power just beneath his Threads. “Did She put it there? The Morrigan?”
