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His eyes on me felt hot, as if his gaze went beneath my skin. Again, I sensed from him that inner drive that pushed him on so relentlessly.
“Hands.”
When he had come into the camp, obviously injured and utterly helpless, I hadn’t seriously thought about running. The idea had crossed my mind, yes, but once I saw the trouble he was in; I had to help. Now, just as automatically, I presented my hands for him, without even thinking. I heard the slight catch in his breath as his wound troubled him when he reached out to me, picking up the discarded tether. I said nothing as he bound my hands then my feet, slowly, which was all he could manage now. He avoided my gaze as he worked, though I kept looking straight at him, daring him to meet my eyes.
“Sorry,” he muttered, as he finished the job. “I have to sleep.”
And he didn’t trust me not to run while he slept.
That was fair enough. It made sense. What didn’t make sense was why I hadn’t taken advantage of his weakness. I could have. If I had, I would be free now, riding away for the mountains to safety, with Uther beside me.
Instead, I’d chosen to remain his prisoner. Why in the hell had I made that choice?
Because it was no longer enough for me to get away from him. That was no longer what I wanted. I wanted him to set me free. I wanted it to behisdecision. And in my heart, some stubborn part of me remained sure it was a decision hewouldmake.
Chapter Twelve
The Inn
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised that Devon woke early the following morning.
But that sort of thing had ceased to surprise me about Devon. If he’d slept late, then Uther would have woken and could have untied me—Uther wasn’t bound up like I was, because he didn’t represent a flight risk. So, Devon woke early to keep an eye on me; it was that simple. It needed to be done and so he did it, no matter the pain in his body, no matter the exhaustion, no matter the need for time to heal.
But even he had to make some concessions.
“You will have to make breakfast.”
He untied my hands and feet then tethered my ankle so he had me on a long leash while I went about the chores that he usually did, cooking and washing. He sat up against a boulder as I did the work, eyelids heavy but never closing, sitting still to let his body heal itself. He ate voraciously at breakfast, and I got the impression that he was forcing himself to eat even more, on the basis that his healing needed fuel, and the more it got, the faster that healing would go.
“I should change the dressing,” I said.
“Yes.”
Again, I probably should have been more surprised by how quickly he seemed to be healing when it had only been a matter of hours since I’d removed the arrow. But it was Devon so, of course, he healed fast.
“We’re going to stop here for today,” Devon decided. “We’ll move on tomorrow.”
“You need more time to heal.”
He shook his head. “We’re not safe when we sit still. Queen Rhea’s soldiers will struggle to find us out here, but the longer we stay put, the better their chances. And they’re not the only dangers in the wilderness. I’ll struggle to defend us from bandits or the like in my present condition.”
“You need a proper night in a proper bed,” I argued.
“Well, unless you plan to build me a proper bed, I don’t see that happening. Not today anyway.”
And so we spent a day of rest in the wilderness. I spent most of it chatting to Uther, trying as tentatively and patiently as I could to jog his memories of times past. He still recalled my mother, Cara, but only in the vaguest way as someone he’d known and loved. Neither I nor my sisters seemed to feature in his memories at all, and perhaps that was understandable.
Devon spent the day eating or in repose. But his eyes never closed, even when he looked asleep, there was always a thin slit between his eyelids, watching me, never giving me a chance to escape.
The following day I was again amazed by the rate at which Devon was healing. After breakfast, we moved on again, going slowly and resting often as riding aggravated Devon’s wound. As the afternoon wore on, we came across a small village; barely more than a street, a waystation for herders far from home where they could get a meal, a bed, and pick up supplies. Most prominent in the town was a large inn called ‘The Herder’s Rest’.
“I know that place,” observed Devon. “The landlord and his wife are good people. Mostly. He tried to overcharge me I remember, but he backed down when I mentioned it.”
“Mostlygood people.”
“No one’s perfect,” Devon shrugged.
“Very true,” I said, with feeling.
