Page 45 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

Chapter Eleven

When Pippa’s door exploded, she assumed she was hallucinating.

But when shards of ice skittered across the floor and a cold wind followed, soothing her red cheeks, she decided it was a very nice hallucination. She was too tired to worry about it, in any case. As long as her hallucinations kept trailing cool fingers over her brow, she would lie here and try not to burn to ashes, try not to just drift away into nothingness.

“You are not burning to ash.”

It was not a request but a sharp command.

Pippa frowned. “Hallucinations shouldn’t sound so cross,” she said. At least, she thought she said it out loud. Her lips were chapped, her tongue too dry and unwieldy. Her throat was made of thorns and fire and vinegar. She whimpered.

The hallucination swore. It sounded very much like Lachlan.

“I am Lachlan.”

“I can’t fight another Red Lady. You chose the wrong Tithe. I’d apologize, but it’s your own fault for abducting me,” she muttered crossly.

“You’re not fighting another damn thing,” he said roughly. “And that’s not why I chose you.” He pushed her hair off her neck. She nearly moaned when the heat shifted slightly and air moved against her skin. “You have a fever, damn it.”

“It’s not really a fever,” she mumbled.

“You look like a boiled beet. I could cook an egg on your brow.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“Worse than that, Miss Cavendish. It’s accurate.”

“Rude.”

“You need willowbark tea. Something stronger.” He sounded uncharacteristically concerned. Not quite agitated, but this was certainly not his usual cool self-assurance either. “A Toad Witch. Or a doctor.”

“It’s not a fever,” she insisted. Willowbark tea never worked and it tasted awful. “Sage leaves don’t work either, before you suggest it. Or horned toads under the bed or honeysuckle flowers under the pillow. Not even iron scissors wrapped in red thread. None of the old charms.”

“This has happened before?”

“All of the time.” Her chemise was sticking to her clammy skin. It itched. “It’s just my magic.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I am defective.”

“The hell you are.” Now he sounded truly cross.

She could not keep up. She decided not to try. He could manage his own moods. He was a king, after all. And she was just a spinster burning to death.

“You are not burning to death.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“In fact, I think you’ll find I can.”

“Well, you cannot command death.”

“Watch me.”

He scooped her up into his arms. Her head lolled, too heavy, like an overripe turnip, or a boiled beet. She nearly pouted at that until he pushed her head into the crook of his neck. He smelled of winter winds and amber. She sniffed him discreetly.

“Are you sniffing me, little wisp?”

“No.” He was carrying her through the house and then outside. But to where? She thought she might weep. “I really can’t fight any more today.”

His voice gentled, mouth moving against her hair. It was startlingly nice. “I told you that’s not happening.”