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“I’m sure.”
“A great deal of pain, Rowan.”
He savored the sound of his name on her lips. She’d said it in a low, husky whisper that impregnated the quiet between them. “Fortunately, I am no stranger to pain.”
He cringed as she pushed the shaft. Wood slid through his flesh. Pain was an understatement. His eyes watered, but he fought back the tears. She eyed him warily, her gaze wide… like a girl in the presence of a very dangerous wolf, he thought sardonically.
More pushing.
More pain.
The worst pain he’d ever felt.
I’m going to pass out…
He bit back a curse and slammed his fist onto the armrest. “Merde.”
“My uncle, Sir Andrew, was one of the strongest men I’ve ever known. Brave and just to a fault. He once told me,” she said, eyeing him carefully as she worked, “that bravery is not the absence of feeling but the devotion to do what’s required in the face of fear and discomfort.”
Rowan clenched his jaw as the damn princess pushed the shaft all the way through his forearm. A scream ripped out of him. Another curse, this one very much in English. He realized he was panting and sweating. Smoke rose from the floor and sat beside his chair; he whined, gently nudging Rowan’s hand with his bloodied muzzle. He felt the wolf’s rough tongue on his hand and knuckles.
“I’m so sorry,” Blanchette whispered. “That was the worst of it.”
If only that were true. Then she eyed the wolf, her eyes guarded. “He’s… he will not rip my throat out? For hurting you?”
Rowan bit back a laugh. “Nay, not unless I order it. He knows we’re friends.”
She raised a delicate brow and cocked her head. “Friends? Are we now?”
She dabbed the sweat from his brow, and their eyes locked. Her mouth was inches from his. He reflected on her words—the wisdom of Sir Andrew. The king’s brother.
“I remember your uncle,” he finally said through gritted teeth as she continued. “I fought alongside him many times.”
She paused and nodded, catching something in his gaze. “He told me that shortly before he died. They were the last words he ever said to me.”
Rowan closed his eyes and went back to that day. He thought of the battle, of fighting side by side with Sir Andrew, Edrick, and the king. They’d made quick work of the invading force and had toasted each other long into the night. The king had found a camp follower to warm his pavilion while Sir Andrew, Edrick, and Rowan had lain under the stars and passed a bottle of ale back and forth until dawn broke.
That was before everything else. Everything else that led me here.
And where is that, exactly?
Rowan opened his eyes and watched in fascination as Blanchette began sewing his wound. She narrowed her gaze in concentration. He felt the warm caress of her breath. An image surfaced in his mind—Blanchette embedding the axe in the brigand’s stomach, blood spattering her face like war paint.
“Blanchette… was that the first time you killed a man?”
She paused her handiwork, then shook her downcast head.
Rowan swallowed, feeling a well of emotions rise inside him. Of course it wasn’t. She wouldn’t have survived the sacking without sending a few men to their graves.
“You may try to run again, but you shall be abandoning me and your people. You call this kingdom your birthright… then stay and help me serve it. Help me bring justice to this world. Do not run again. Stay and fight.”
She hesitated but said nothing. Her eyes were fixated on the work before her. She continued weaving the needle and silk in and out of his wound.
He winced at the pain. Cursed again, this time in English. Then in French again. Blanchette muttered some soft words. She glanced at Smoke and said, “So, tell me, sir. How exactly did a wolf come to be in your service?”
* * *
Eight years earlier
