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What had he done wrong? If he'd tried to free her, she would have just been recaptured again. If he didn't have command, he couldn't exactly set her free. He told her so, as best he could, and her face hardened, but she didn't respond right away.
If they were going to be stuck together, then he couldn't afford to have her angry with him. He could hardly sit up without blinding pain, could barely move an inch. She was an important ally… and at the same time, she was so much more than that.
A woman. His woman, he thought, and then pushed the thought away. No, she wasn't his. If she didn't want him, then he wouldn't force the issue, and she clearly didn't want him.
But that didn't change the fact that he would need her if he was going to recover, if he was going to reclaim what he'd lost. She was clearly a capable healer, and a gifted witch. More than that, she could move, and seemed to be the only one of the prisoners they had taken with any guts.
He should apologize to her, he thought. If he hadn't taken her, if he hadn't found her in that hidden chamber, then she would have been free and clear. She would never have had to deal with being his—or anyone else's—prisoner.
But when he opened his mouth, the words wouldn't come. He couldn't feel bad about having her near him, no matter what he wanted to say.
"I know it's bad," he said, instead.
She didn't respond. Whether it was because she had nothing to add, or because she was angry, he couldn't say. She'd put up a front of a medicine woman, and she would play professional until he finally gave up.
Finally, Gunnar let out a breath he hadn't realized that he'd been holding, wincing at the discomfort that it caused him.
"I can't set you free. Not any more." He looked at her, but she didn't look back at him. She made herself busy sorting through the herbs that she had picked with him the day before. "I can't promise that you'll be freed, because I don't have that power, but I can promise you something else. I can promise you that no matter what happens, you'll live through it."
"And how can you promise that? Look at you. You can hardly move." The words stung, and more than that, the way that she said them. As if she were just stating the facts, without emotion. The way that she hid her anger.
"If anything comes for you, I'll let myself be hurt before I let them do anything to you."
"Pretty words," she said, finally looking at him seriously. "But you still haven't answered me. What are you going to do
when you can't even move?"
"I will move when I need to," he answered.
Keeping from hurting himself in the stillness that followed the claim proved too much, and a twitch sent a shock of pain up his spine. She was right—he couldn't protect her if he wasn't healed. The first time that he had gotten what he wanted, he immediately regretted it.
"You see! You barely twist to get your body comfortable, and it is too much. If someone wanted to do me harm, there would be nothing you could do."
Gunnar looked her in the eyes, a mixture of pity and frustration playing out on them. He grit his teeth and pulled himself upright. The pain came—and then went. There were more important things than pain, and he had to show her that.
Of all the things he'd learned, in the years since he had learned that he could survive the most grievous wounds, that was the most important lesson. There was more to life than being able to avoid pain.
And right now, though he couldn't begin to say why it mattered, it was the most important thing in the world to teach Deirdre that lesson, too.
Eleven
If Gunnar was a liar, he at least told the lies she wanted to hear. Deirdre had to give him credit for that much, at least. She relaxed back into her seat, watching him deliriously lie on the floor of the wagon, pressed in with the other two wounded.
He wasn't the sort of charitable person who was going to save someone for no reason, and he certainly wasn't reliable enough to believe everything he said. But that didn't mean that he wasn't serious, either.
She didn't have any illusions about his intentions, either. He saw her as a ticket back to his position of power. She saw him the same way, she conceded, but it wasn't exactly the same. She had no reason to be here, except for him. Expecting the man who'd taken her to get her free again wasn't too unreasonable—was it?
It didn't matter much, she reasoned. She would let him think what he wanted. She needed him, after all, if she hoped to get away herself. She wouldn't be able to do it on her own. But if she lacked the speed, the strength, and the stealth to get away on her own, he gave her all of them in spades.
It would be easy for Gunnar to fight his way out. She only had to be faster than him, and if he were injured it would not be hard. If he were uninjured, then it would be easier still. He could just carry her. And with a two-hundred pound distraction, she could sneak out with no one any the wiser.
No, the real problem wasn't that she couldn't find a use for him, it was that she would need to make sure that he was on board with whatever plan she devised. To that end, she would have to make sure that she got on his good side.
She shouldn't have needled him while he was laying there injured. Kicking a man when he was down was the furthest thing from what she wanted to do, and the furthest from what she should have been doing. It was stupid, but she couldn't help it. She'd have to make it up to him when he woke.
The wagon's abrupt stop, though, made her pause. What was happening? Another ambush? Could she run? Without Gunnar focusing on her…
She looked at him, looked at the bright red mark that had already bled through the shirt she'd used as a makeshift bandage. If she left him, if she left these other two, how long would they last? It was one thing to say that if she stayed, more would die. They might die anyways.
