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His words killed Gharek’s appetite. Before he could protest, the soldier walked away to return to his comrades drinking ale aroundthe fire. Siora had set down one of the bowls and knee-walked closer to him with the second bowl. She’d wiped away her tears, though her gaze remained sad. Gharek bared his teeth at her in warning. “I’m not hungry.”
She rolled her eyes and pointed at his rumbling midriff with the spoon. “That’s a lie. Put aside your pride, lord.”
Had she admonished him in the tone of a tutor to an errant student, he would have snapped his tethers to reach her. But she’d spoken in a tired, defeated manner, and some part of him, a part he wished might die a quick and convenient death, suffered a pang of guilt. “Pride has nothing to do with it,” he grumbled.
The stew smelled better than the finest plate of delicacies served at the royal palace, made even more tempting by the sight of it mounded on the spoon Siora held up to tempt him. “Then put aside your suspicions,” she said. “Trust me.” She pursed her lips to blow on the spoon and cool its contents. She possessed a full mouth, one he’d noted smiled readily and often when she’d taken care of Estred, and on occasion had even curved upward for him, startling him. He looked away, cursing inwardly at the errant observation. He’d never been one to think with his prick, and now wasn’t the time to start.
He surrendered to the scent of hot food and the demands of his stomach and accepted the bite she offered him. It was probably a good thing he was tied and dependent on her to feed him, or he would have wolfed down the bowl’s contents in two bites. She fed him the rest slowly, waiting until he finished each bite instead of shoving it between his teeth and trying to choke him.
During one pause he asked her, “Why do you wait to eat? Youcould enjoy yours in front of me and make me watch as you savored each spoonful.”
“Because if it’s poisoned, you’ll be the first to die.”
Gharek gaped at her, the sour burn of bile-tainted stew surging up from his stomach to his throat. Gods, she was right! He lurched back from her as if she offered him a diseased rat instead of the ladened spoon, only to stop at the hints of amusement dancing in her eyes and playing around the faint lines that bracketed either side of her mouth. “You bitch,” he breathed, feeling the hot blush of embarrassment crawl up his neck, into his cheeks, and set fire to his ears.
Her tut of disapproval only fueled his outrage. “You deserved it for throwing my good intention back in my face. I fed you first because it’s a small kindness most of us will do.”
“Sorry,” he snapped. “I’m fresh out of medals today.” When had this strange, quiet woman developed claws and the willingness to use them? Against him? Several times now.
Another sigh, and she shook her head. “And almost out of your share of the stew. Do you want more?”
“No.”
This time she shrugged. “More for me then,” she said, and proceeded to eat the rest of his dinner and hers as well, completely unconcerned at the idea of the food being poisoned. “I told you to trust me,” she said as she put the now empty bowls aside.
He should have left her to her fate in Wellspring Holt. “I did that once and look where we are now.” His shoulders were on fire and his hands had gone numb. Gharek clenched his jaw, unwilling to show any hint of his discomfort, especially in front of thisbeggar maid who’d just done a damn fine job of making a fool of him.
“I accept the blame for Estred’s sorrow but not for the failure of your foolish plan. It was already ruined before you even returned to the house to face the draga.” She wiped her hands on her tattered skirts. “I hope they give us water or ale. The stew was filling, but I’m parched.”
As if her remarks summoned him, the same soldier who’d brought them food returned with two cups of tepid water.
“No ale?” Gharek asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
Siora made a distressed sound, and the soldier’s eyes narrowed before he said, “I can piss in it for you. You’ll have a nice warm cup of ale in no time.”
Siora plucked the cups out of the man’s hands. “We like water. Our thanks for bringing it.”
The soldier’s gaze moved from her to Gharek and back again. “Most of the time, I’d say a man can do better than a used-up whore, but in this case I’ll say you can do a lot better than him.” He nodded once to a grim-faced Siora and planted a solid kick against Gharek’s outer thigh before sauntering away.
A pained grunt escaped Gharek’s tightly closed mouth despite his best efforts to hold it in. Siora gave a sympathetic cluck, which set his teeth on edge. “You know you invite your own misery,” she said.
“Obviously,” he replied. “I brought you into my house, didn’t I?”
That sympathy evaporated in an instant, and her mouth thinned into a harsh line. Her hands tightened on the cups she held. He fullyexpected her to douse him in the face with the contents from one of them. Instead, she set one cup down next to her and carefully tilted the other one to his lips. Her patience only infuriated him even more, though he stayed silent and drank the cup dry. He had plenty of other opportunities to slash at her without going thirsty for it.
When he was done, she knee-walked back from him and drained her own cup before setting it aside and stretching out on the damp grass. The air hung hot and humid around them, and in both torch and moonlight, he saw the silvery sheen of perspiration on her forehead as she stared up at the stars.
He envied her the ability to stargaze. With his arms wrenched up behind his back and tied, lying supine in the grass didn’t appeal, nor was it possible unless he wanted to be in agony instead of just pain. He bent his legs and curved his back so he could rest his torso against his knees and take the pressure off his spine. Siora glanced at him before returning to her study of the night sky.
“Are there ghosts around us?” he asked. Gharek never had use for idle conversation. If it didn’t serve the purpose of gleaning information or entrapping someone, he preferred to remain silent. However, sparring with her earlier had taken his mind off his discomfort.
She turned her head to regard him, light and shadow carving her features into strange angles. “You know I’m a shade speaker?”
He tried to shrug and regretted it. “The villagers where you plied your trade were happy to give me that information.” It might explain the strangeness of her scrutiny at times. Did she see ghosts always hovering around the living?
“And you believe me to be an authentic shade speaker?”
“Whether or not I believe it doesn’t matter. Most who claim themselves necromancers are charlatans.”
