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“I’ll have a bath readied for you, in your chambers.”
“I was thinking I’d just use the river.”
“Are you mad?” Finally, Moira’s face relaxed into a smile. “The river’s freezing this time of year.”
It was never comfortable for Moira to speak with Cian. Not just because of what he was, as she’d reconciled herself to that. She thought of it, when she thought of him, as a condition; a kind of disease.
At their first meeting he had saved her life, and since had proven himself again and again.
His kind had murdered her mother, and yet he had fought beside her, had risked his life—or more accurately his existence—in doing so.
No, she couldn’t hold what he was against him.
Still there was something inside her, something she couldn’t quite see clearly, or study, or understand. Whatever it was made her uneasy, even nervy around him.
He knew it, or sensed it, she was sure. For he was so much cooler to her than the others. It was so rare that he would spare her a smile, or an easy word.
After the attack on their way to Geall, he’d swooped her up off the ground. His arms were the arms of a man. Flesh and blood, strong and real.
“Hold on,” he’d said. And that was all.
She’d ridden with him to the castle, and his body had been that of a man. Lean and hard. And her heart had been raging for so many reasons, she’d been afraid to touch him.
What had he said to her then, in that sharp, impatient voice of his?
Oh yes: Get a grip on me before you fall on your ass again. I haven’t bitten you yet, have I?
It had made her embarrassed and ashamed, and grateful he couldn’t see the color flame into her cheeks.
Likely he’d have had something cutting to say about her virginal blushes as well.
Now she had to go to him, to ask him for help. It wasn’t something she would pass off to Blair, or Larkin, certainly not to a servant. It was her duty to face him, to speak the words, ask the boon.
She would ask him to leave the castle, the comfort and safety of it, and go out into a strange land to hunt one of his own.
And he would do it, she knew, already she knew he would do it. Not for her—the request of a princess, the favor of a friend. He would do it for the others. For the whole of it.
She went alone. The women who attended her wouldn’t approve, of course, and would consider the idea of their princess alone in a man’s bedchamber unseemly, even shocking.
Such matters were no longer an issue for Moira. What would her ladies think if they knew she’d once fed him blood when he was wounded?
She imagined they would shriek and hide their faces—those who didn’t swoon away. But they would have to look straight on at such things very soon. Or face much worse.
Her shoulders went tight as she stepped to the door of his chamber. But she knocked briskly, then stood to wait.
When he opened the door, the lights from the corridor washed over his face, and plunged the rest into shadow. She saw the faintest flicker of surprise come and go in his eyes as he studied her.
“Well, look at you. I barely recognized you. Your Highness.”
It reminded her she was wearing a dress, and the gold mitre of her office. And remembering, she felt foolishly exposed.
“There were matters of state to attend to. I’m expected to attire myself appropriately.”
“And fetchingly, too.” He leaned lazily on the door. “Is my presence required?”
“Yes. No.” Why did he forever make her clumsy? “May I come in? I would speak with you.”
“By all means.”
