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“And your luggage, sir?” the man asked, mistrust evident in the way he sized them up.
“I heard no carriage arrive.”
“We lost a wheel on the road south of Bolventor. My coachman and groom are attending to it. My wife was impatient to be in out of the weather. We walked.”
“But that’s five miles and across Maidenwell Heath. Rocky, it is. And wild country.”
“Which is why we’d appreciate a room and not a lecture.” The floor swayed, the long tables tipping and falling like boats on a river. Black specks danced at the corners of his vision. Ellery’s hand encircled his upper arm, and he focused on the aching pressure to steady him.
A rush of cool air signaled the opening of the door. The man from outside had returned. Conor’s hand moved to the grip of his sword. To the men, it looked only as if he dropped his hand to his empty waist. But Ellery did see. She tensed, her eyes moving from the tavern keeper to the man and back. Without warning, she went limp. Conor almost fell, trying to catch her. His arm burned, his fingers went numb but he managed to pull her in close.
Ellery’s eyelids fluttered open as she wiped a trembling hand across her forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m feeling ill and so very tired.” She gave the tavern keeper a wide-eyed pleading look that would have done Sarah Siddons proud.
“You have money for a room? I won’t be havin’ no tinkers or gypsies sourin’ the place for my payin’ customers.”
“Give ’em a room, Kay.” Conor whipped around. He’d never even sensed Evan slipping in from the kitchen. But there he stood, looking as he always did. Tall and gangly with a shock of black hair and eyes dark as pitch.
The innkeeper looked as if he wanted to refuse. He muttered something about troublemakers and brothers-in-law, but he ushered them toward a rickety set of stairs at the back of the inn. Conor had to duck as they followed him down a low-ceilinged hall, stopping at the third in a row of four doors.
“It looks out on the stable yard. But it’s clean.”
“And the water?” Conor asked, surveying the musty chamber.
“I’ll heat it. But I ain’t got no bath nor help to carry it. If’n ya want it, you’ll have to come and get it. There’s a pail on the table there for washing. My name’s Kay if you need aught else.”
The spots were back and growing larger. He shook his head to try and clear them.
“You’re too kind. Thank you,” Ellery said firmly. The invalid act was obviously over. She pushed the man out the door, shutting it just as Conor’s control slipped and the fith-fath dissolved.
She blew out a large breath. “That was close.” He would have nodded, but the nausea that had plagued him all day sent him diving for the wash pail.
Afterwards, he rolled up and over onto the bed. He’d lay here. He’d rest. Just a few minutes, and he’d be better. He was sure of it.
“So much for using that pail for sponging off,” was Ellery’s wry comment.
Chapter Nine
Ellery leaned back against the headboard, closing her eyes. Conor lay next to her, sleeping—finally. The room had only the one bed and no chairs so it was together here or alone on the floor, and she was just too tired for worrying over conventions.
Conor had passed between raging fevers and chills that left him curled into a ball. He’d emptied his stomach long ago, but still he heaved until blood stained his lips. She’d tried offering him water, but he pushed it away or it dribbled down the corner of his mouth, untasted.
She couldn’t see any injuries. So why did he sicken? Where was his ability to heal when he needed it most?
She had some nursing skill. No one could live in the tail of an army without picking up the basics. But it was just about enough to make her well aware that she was as unprepared as she could be. She didn’t even have clothes, for heaven’s sake. She needed help. Or at least, supplies. Something to fight the fever—and the Keun Marow if she had to.
Conor’s sword belt hung on a peg by the door. Ellery rose, hoping her absence didn’t wake him. Her fingers found the worn ridges where countless others had gripped it before her. Or was all that due to one man? She glanced back at the bed. Could Conor alone have caused such wear? It seemed doubtful, but then just what did an amhas-draoi do?
She slid the blade free, catching the awkward weight of it before it clanged to the floor. It was far heavier than her father’s saber, but looked more deadly. The polished edges gleamed red in the firelight.
The sword was useless to her. She could barely lift it much less wield it effectively against an enemy. A knife or a dagger would stand her far better and would be small enough to hide beneath the greatcoat. Though, beneath Conor’s greatcoat, she could hide an entire armory with no one the wiser.
She returned the sword, taking a dagger instead. Now this was a weapon she understood. Her father had made certain of that. He’d had her practice hour after hour until she could throw it with a good chance of hitting her mark, and she could fight in close
quarters if cornered.
“It’s best to know a bit of knife play. You never know when the enemy might be on our heels.” He would eye the faces of the men as if one of them might drag her away by the hair if given half a chance. “Or when a friend might fall to drink and bad judgment.”
Ellery had never had to use what he’d taught her. But she sent him a quick prayer of thanks tonight as she strapped the belt around her waist.
