Page 85 of The Faerie Handmaid

“I am on my way. Is there anything specific?”

She thought Braithe hesitated, just a fraction, but then her handmaid shook her head. “No. Shall I bring breakfast to you there?”

“Yes. For us both. If he feels well enough, some beef broth and toast would be good.”

“I will fetch it.”

Morgana found Lancelin propped on extra pillows, with a clean sheet over him and a cup of water close at hand. “Braithe tells me you slept well, sir.”

His lean face had better color this morning, and when she looked into his eyes, she saw the gleam of intelligence and subtle humor that she remembered so well. Too well. He said, “I could get out of this bed, I think.”

She bent and lifted up the edge of the sheet to look at his wound. “Not yet,” she pronounced, as she covered him again. “Not for some time, I fear. Although I believe the danger is past.”

“I expected to die of this wound.”

She shivered at the thought but tried to hide it by speaking crisply. “I certainly hope you will not, but we will take no chances.”

“Yes, Priestess.” His narrow mouth quirked. “I will obey your command.”

“Good.” She sat in the chair beside the bed, tucking her hands into her sleeves.

“We did not expect to meet again, did we?”

To her shame, her cheeks warmed. “We did not. I suppose we have learned that some things cannot be predicted.”

“I’m glad of it. Not of being slashed by a Saxon sword, but of the chance to see you once more.”

She had to look away. She could not meet that dark, canny gaze without her heart showing in her own eyes. “It seems our paths are meant to cross.” She spoke as lightly as she was able to in the moment, but she doubted he was deceived.

Lancelin was a temptation she thought she had put behind her for good, but now, in his presence, aware of his long body so close, the old treacherous warmth flickered in her breast. There was nothing new for them to say to one another. Her circumstance had not changed. Her Temple vow still held, despite Emerlyn’s thoughts on the matter.

She forced herself to look back at him as she changed the subject. “Braithe is going to bring us breakfast.”

“Ah, Braithe.” He shifted a little, revealing that his wound pained him more than he would admit. “I want to talk to you about her.”

“About Braithe?”

“Yes. It would seem your handmaid has a special gift.”

Morgana’s heartbeat stuttered. Warily, she said, “Braithe has many gifts.”

“I concur, but this one in particular could be useful to the king.”

Morgana’s heart jolted again, and she felt something new, a chill, the icy sensation of premonition. “I wish you would speak plainly,” she said.

“She hears thoughts.”

“Sometimes.”

“She heard mine very clearly.” Morgana frowned, and Lancelin added hastily, “She didn’t mean to. She was still half asleep.”

“What did she hear?”

It was Lancelin’s turn to flush and to avert his gaze. He fingered the edge of his sheet, revealing his discomfort. “I would rather not say,” he said at length. “It was not the content of my thought but the fact that she heard it that matters.”

“Why does it matter?”

His eyes brightened with enthusiasm even as the chill expanded in Morgana’s breast. “Just imagine,” he said, “what a boon it would be to know when someone is trying to deceive the king! Your little handmaid could sit beside him at audiences, or even when the knights meet around the table, and she would know if someone is not speaking the truth.”