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“Keep your coin.” Missus Ryma sniffed, indignant. “Your high-and-mighty husband wanted you so badly as to chase you down, then he can pay for your keep.”
Nic smiled at the innkeeper’s wink and picked up the carafe and her glass.
“You’re sure now?” Missus Ryma said, standing also. “There’s other ways of dealing with unwanted husbands, if you know what I mean.”
Nic blinked at her, processing the broad hint. Did she mean she’d have him killed?
“The sea takes so many,” Missus Ryma added with mock sorrow. “So many lost without a trace, all the time.”
She tried to consider that option. If Nic had truly rid herself of sentimentality, she’d take that offer without another thought. But the hunters would still be after her. And, all in all, Gabriel didn’t deserve to die simply because he’d been lucky enough to plant a child in her. He’d been playing by the rules. It wasn’t his fault that she’d trapped herself. She wanted to be free of him, but not enough to arrange his death. “I’m sure,” she said. “We’re working out our differences.”
When she said the words, oddly enough, they didn’t even sound like a lie.
Gabriel woke, thistime frowning at the slanted, polished wood ceiling of a cozy bedroom, the sound of rain sleeting against the roof. He lay in a comfortable bed, warm under a fluffy comforter, and he was blessedly free of pain. Turning his head on the down-filled pillow, he spotted Nic—no, Veronica, as she’d never given him permission to use her nickname—sitting on a low stool by a crackling fire. A full glass of wine sat on the floor beside her. She wore a gauzy nightgown that showed her lush figure in silhouette, and she had her hair down, combing the long fall of it dry.
She looked so lovely and relaxed, at peace, as she never was when dealing with him. With stark awareness, he realized that, from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, she had treated him as the enemy. He’d known she was prickly and on guard, but he’d put that down to how the other bastards had abused her. Not that she’d hated and fearedhim, in particular.
He saw it, the moment she realized he was awake and watching her. Her entire aspect shifted, going from calm, even languid woman enjoying a glass of wine and a warm fire on a wretched night, to wary prey facing the predator. Moving slowly—warily?—she turned her head to look at him, eyes lambent green as an owl’s catching the lantern light. The hideous collar still hung around her neck, though it looked like she’d woven the chain around it more neatly.
“We’re at the inn at Port Anatole,” she informed him before he thought to ask. “The healer has seen to you, but she’s not a wizard, so there’s only so much she could do. You need to lie still and rest.”
“Vale?” he asked, his voice rough with disuse.
She smiled a little, affection in it—for the horse, not him. “He’s a real trooper. And in the stables, being cared for. You’re paying extra for the best box stall, extra grain, and veterinary care. I hope you’re not totally broke.”
“He’s worth it,” Gabriel conceded, wondering exactly how much coin he had left. “I’m surprised to seeyoustill here.”
“And not in a hidey-hole in some barge trying to escape? No thank you.” She shuddered delicately. “I don’t care to repeat that experience, especially when I end up suffering for no gain.”
So that was how she’d stowed away. It did sound harrowing. He wanted to apologize, but that seemed like the wrong sentiment.
“There’s food, if you feel like eating,” she said into the awkward silence.
“I would like that. Thank you.” He shifted to sit up.
“Wait and let me help,” she snapped, setting down the comb and picking up her wine. She took a long drink, as if she needed the fortification, and set it on the nearby table. With her body silhouetted against the firelight, he could see every detail of her body through the sheer gown, even to the V at the juncture of her curving thighs. Gabriel quickly averted his gaze from the alluring sight, feeling like he was invading her privacy. Then she was at his bedside, slipping an arm under his shoulders to lift him enough that she could mound more pillows behind him. “Good?”
He nodded. Then—as soon as she turned her back—shifted to adjust them himself. She whirled, giving him a narrow green glare. “Inytta fixed you up, and her stitches are leagues better than mine, but you’re still to be careful lest you pull them out. You popped at least half of mine on the ride here.” She set a tray on his lap, the scent of Missus Ryma’s excellent food making his mouth water.
“I don’t want you to have to wait on me,” he explained, though it came out sounding grumpy.
“Why not? That’s what you bought and paid for.”
He focused on chewing the succulent chicken in pastry and wine sauce, so as not to set his teeth in aggravation—or snap back a similar retort. Once he chewed and swallowed, he glanced at her, standing by the bed and holding her wineglass, watching him moodily. “Is there any of that to share?” He nodded at the wine.
She glanced at the glass she held, as if she’d forgotten about it. “Yes, but Inytta gave you some powerful herbs to dull the pain. I’m not sure they would mix well.”
He raised a brow. “Do I need to do anything useful for the remainder of the night, or am I under orders to stay in bed?”
“Good point.” She went to the table where she’d gotten the food, poured a glass, topped hers off, and brought it back, giving him an arch look. “Icertainly have no expectations of you, since you’ve already planted a child in my belly. Of course, if you do feel up to the task, you have the right to use my body any way you wish.”
He sipped the wine, letting its warming qualities disperse her chilly accusations, and decided not to take her bait. He could assure her he had no intention of commanding her intimate affections, but demonstrating his restraint would go much further in winning her trust. If that were possible. “How are things with the pregnancy—are you feeling well that way?”
“I’m taking good care of your property. Inytta verified that all is well, so you need have no concern there.”
Despite his best intentions, he set his teeth and carefully set down the wine. Giving her a long look, he waited for her to shift uncomfortably under the weight of his stare.
“Lady Veronica,” he said softly, “you’ve made it abundantly clear that you are unwilling to discuss your reasons for running from our union.” When she opened her mouth, he held up a hand to stop her. “Besides that you don’t want to be married to me. I’ve offered to hear you out, but unless you are willing to explain why you apparently changed your mind about being my wife, familiar, and mother of my child, then would you kindly agree to leave off sniping at me about it? Either be honest with me and give me the full story—which is my first choice, by the way—or drop the subject.”
