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“We’ll see.” She rather enjoyed needling him with his title, but probably she should stop.
“Can I put on some pants now?”
Turning away so he wouldn’t see her smile, she fetched his spare pair of leather pants. The leather shed the goo better than the woven fabrics. If they were going to have to fight hunters again, she should look into something like that. She shuddered as she settled on the nearby bench. It seemed certain more would be coming. A daunting thought.
He pulled on the pants, still facing away from her so he presented a most interesting view as he bent over. She made herself look away, squelching the pang of longing.
“How does all of that explain you being so practical that asking if you had someone you wanted to marry is a foolish question?” he wanted to know.
It was obvious to her, but… “Once I discovered I would be a familiar and not a wizard—and being well aware that my bloodline is too valuable to squander—I knew I’d be expected to breed. The Convocation prefers that female familiars in particular have their babies young, while they’re still in the bloom of health. No matter what, I faced being paired with a wizard the Convocation selected for me. Even if they paired me with a female wizard, the Convocation would choose who impregnated me, to maximize the magical potential of my children. A practical woman doesn’t nurse fantasies of romance given that reality.”
Gabriel had fastened his pants and finally turned, regarding her with a somber expression. “Is that why you chose the Betrothal Trials, because it gave you at least some control of the outcome?”
“Exactly,” she agreed, hoping he’d be satisfied with that answer.
He straddled the bench she sat on. “Arm, please.”
She held it out, and he cradled it gently, studying the wounds, rough fingers stroking the sensitive skin of her wrist. Taking up a wet cloth, he began tenderly blotting the bite wounds she’d already cleaned, and she braced herself against the surprisingly bright pain. His black gaze flicked up to her face. “The punctures aren’t too deep, but there will be a lot of bruising.”
“The hunter was mostly crushing my arm so I’d drop the enchanted dagger. I’m sorry I lost it.”
He shrugged slightly, dabbing his fingers in Inytta’s ointment and smoothing it over her wounds. She wanted to moan, both at the bliss of the cooling relief from the throbbing pain, and at the shivers from his touch. He caressed the sensitive inside of her elbow, too, an absent stroking of his thumb where he held her arm, though she thought he might not be aware of it.
She was aware, however. Excruciatingly aware. Especially that she was naked under the blanket and he was still shirtless, his head bent over her arm as he tended it with exquisite care. He’d been like that in bed, too—meticulously patient, evoking pleasure from every fingertip of skin. If she leaned in, she could press her lips to his temple, inhale the moonsilver essence of him.
“We’ll figure out something else,” he said, and she had to jerk her thoughts from sex to focus on the conversation. “There have to be other ways to deal with those hunters. Magical ones, like you say. I might be a shitty wizard, but I can learn.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
He looked up again, meeting her gaze. “I have my share of pride, but I can recognize my limitations. A green soldier with a sword can be more of a liability than having no one at all. That’s probably a good comparison.”
Nic couldn’t bring herself to be so cruel as to agree.
He saw it in her face, though, and nodded. “So I’ll learn.”
“Convocation Academy?” she asked doubtfully.
“We arenotgoing anywhere near your Convocation Center,” he informed her decisively, all arrogant Lord Phel again. Then he grinned. “Youwill be the one to teach me.”
~15~
“Ihope youknow where we are, because I sure don’t,” Nic said to him, impatiently shoving the wayward curls the brisk wind was whipping into her eyes so she could study the harbor town they approached. For a short, glorious time that morning, Gabriel had watched as she’d taken her hair out of the long braid. Grumbling about the lack of a brush, she’d run her fingers through the gleaming black waves, then braided it again.
Gabriel had nearly asked her to leave it loose, but they’d achieved a tentative peace he was reluctant to test. She’d been quiet since she’d told him the story of her past—and he’d been mulling what lay in the spaces between, the things she hadn’t said. People could be cruel in their jealousy, and surely Lady Veronica Elal, with her highborn poise, keen intelligence, and the easy confidence of her immense magic, had been a target of envy. He could just imagine how the mean-spirited among her classmates had reacted to her abrupt reduction in status. Especially as the Convocation seemed entirely concerned with status, and also convinced that all of it belonged to wizards and none to familiars.
A bruising fall, indeed.
He also knew her well enough at this point to be sure she’d had some clever plan to control the outcome of the Betrothal Trials. Had she relied on a spell to prevent fertility as he’d used one to encourage it? But that made no sense unless persistent infertility would eventually release her into a situation with greater freedom. He doubted it, however. Whatever her plan had been, he’d clearly foiled it—and that’s why she’d run.
He couldn’t think about it right then, as limping the decrepit barge into the harbor took most of his concentration. He’d be grateful to get them onto land again, as his magic was wearing thin. He hadn’t slept, wary of losing his grip on the magic they depended on to carry them against the current. On the way to Wartson, he’d drifted with the current more than he’d realized. The trip back had been much more difficult, though he hadn’t let on to Nic. He didn’t want to use her magic again. It felt too… parasitic.
“Hello to the pilot,” Nic called through cupped hands. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes, I know where we are more or less,” he replied.
She gave him the side-eye, eyes deeper green this morning, vivid against her black hair and lashes. She raised a winged brow at him. “Do I want to know how much less than more?”
“Probably not,” he admitted.
