Destined for a King (4 page)

When Calista returned to her chamber, laden with preparations from the stillroom, Torch fared the same. He clearly still walked in a feverish mist, his head turning on the pillow, his fingers clenching and unclenching. Every so often, his entire body jerked, and he winced. No doubt he was tweaking the burn she'd left on his upper thigh.

Ever on guard, Owl glared at her. “He ain't gettin' any better.”

“I can see that.” She set her basket down and hurried to the mattress.

An arm twitched, and a hand came to rest on her thigh. Long fingers calloused from reins and bowstrings and days of practice at swordplay closed around the leg muscle and squeezed. She thought a smile flitted across his face. Rogue. But if he had his way—if he recovered, and he must—he'd soon claim the right to touch her far more intimately than that.

We must comply with their wishes.
Her mother's parting words floated back to her, taking on hard new meaning. If he brought her before the altar to the Three and made his vows to her, she'd have no choice but to comply. To submit. To let him take her into his bed.

She shook the thoughts aside. Difficult when his fingers still gripped her. His touch, however unknowing, caused a heat of another sort to unfurl inside her. Not the dry burn of a fever, but something moist and delicious. Submission somehow seemed less frightening than it should.

With her fingers, she brushed a lock of chestnut hair back from his forehead. His skin was far too warm. Still.

“What yer plannin' on doin' ter make him better?” Owl again. At times like these, she nearly forgot he was still in the chamber, until he spoke up.

“I've brought willow bark for the fever. Put some water on to heat, so I can make an infusion.” Idly, she traced a line on Torch's forehead. Care had begun to etch on his flesh something that would deepen into a furrow in his later years—if ever he reached them. Odd to think she wasn't even certain how old he was.

Yes, and if he took her to wife, how long would she have with such a man as this, truly, when the king had a price on his head that was likely to double and double again on their wedding day?

A rustle of fabric and the clank of the kettle in the grate told her the boy had complied.

And now to check Torch's bandaging. She lifted the sheet and folded it back carefully to preserve his modesty, such as it was. A wide swath of linen wrapped about the muscle of his upper thigh, and she well knew what lay beneath it. What had been a puncture a fingerbreadth wide had become a shiny burn where she'd stuck the poker. The fabric that covered it was clean. After two days the wound was no longer seeping, a good sign.

She leaned closer and sniffed to be certain. No sickly odor of putrefaction, just the heady scent of leather tinged with spice underlain by a heavy dose of masculine strength. The hand on her thigh moved to her head, palm molding to the contour of her scalp, fingers tangling into her hair.

“Ah, yes, love.”

Heat flooded her cheeks and prickled down her spine. She snapped her head up, and his hand flopped to the mattress. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed Owl gaping in shock. Certain her cheeks were purple by now, she turned away, and her gaze slammed into Torch's.

Brown eyes flecked with green and gold regarded her through a haze of fever, but a wicked smile somehow found its way to his lips. “Don't stop now, sweet. You were so close.”

He was half out of his mind. He had to be. Surely if he were lucid, he wouldn't make such lascivious comments.

He would, and you know it.

She tried to push the annoying voice in her head aside, but it was difficult to ignore. Somewhere inside, she knew it spoke the truth. Next time use your tongue, indeed. And if he expected her to use it
there…
By the Three, why did that notion make her warm all over? She hadn't so much as kissed him, and yet she was contemplating something far, far more intimate.

Her knowledge of exactly what lay beneath that sheet didn't help in the slightest, and not just the section she'd uncovered. In the course of his healing, she'd had ample time to see all the mysteries of the male body garment and gear normally kept hidden. Muscle and hair and skin. Tempting planes and contours. And if she were completely honest with herself, part of her burned with curiosity to press her tongue to his skin and sample that taste.

Where were these thoughts coming from? And with Owl in the room?

“You need rest,” she admonished her patient as much as herself. Now was hardly the time to contemplate any of this. Not while he was ailing.

“I'll rest better after a little loving.”

Damn the man, he was incorrigible. “You haven't the strength.”

His grin only widened and somehow his hand found its way back to her thigh. “Try me.”

“You're mad with fever. You won't recall any of this later.”

His other hand drifted to the stone he wore at his throat. “You I recall. You haunt my dreams. You I cannot get out of my head.”

Now she knew he was jesting. Her eyes narrowed but somehow remained focused on that stone. And why would a man wear such a piece? Smooth and round from once lining a riverbed, the stone was gray with a darker vein running through it. In fact, if she found it lying in the path, she'd merely kick it aside as another pebble. She certainly wouldn't think to have it set into a clasp for her neck. His squire had even left it untouched when he'd removed the rest of Torch's clothing.

How odd, but perhaps it was a custom of the Freeholds she was unfamiliar with.

He reached out, his heated fingers curling about hers. She held her breath as he raised her hand. And would he bring it to his lips? But no, he set it over his throat. Over that stone. Its smoothness fit into the curve of her palm, and the rock seemed to pulse like a living thing.

She snatched her hand away, but a moment later, she almost laughed at herself. It was merely a fancy, nothing more. That stone was simply transferring the heat of his fever to her.

His eyes drifted shut again, and she turned away to find Owl watching her through narrowed eyes. “Ye aren't t' touch that.” Even his voice was more sullen than usual.

“I didn't. He placed my hand over it.”

“Even so,” Owl muttered.

“What is it?”

“I'm not t' tell ye that, either. His lordship wants ye t' know, he'll tell ye himself.”

“It seems he wants me to know,” she persisted.

“Then he'll tell ye when he's able.” Stubborn thing, but that was only part of his age. She'd known a good many castle youths just as sullen and pigheaded, from the stables to the pages and squires in the retinues of the other Strongholders. He'd grow out of it, or have it beaten out of him, eventually.

Or perhaps not. His master was just as hard of head.

“Yer water's boilin'.”

With a sigh, she clambered off the mattress and set about infusing willow bark into a cup of hot water. “You'll have to help me get this into him.”

“Oh no.” She turned to find Owl backing away. “Last time he nearly took me head off.”

“Do you wish to see your lord recover or not?”

“Not at the price of me head or any other part.” Last time the infusion had been too hot, and Owl had spilled some down Torch's chin. He'd cuffed the boy, sending him sprawling, and a wave of hot liquid had soaked the front of Owl's garments.

“The least you could do is help me lift him.” If she had to perform this task, she would, even at the risk to her head. But if the boy cooperated, she might avoid more physical contact with Torch than was proper. Not that she hadn't already experienced more than her share—still her thoughts hardly needed the fodder.

She set the steaming mug on the windowsill and took several pillows to set against the headboard. Then she and Owl struggled to ease Torch's considerable dead weight into a sitting position. At last, the pillows were propped at his back, Calista tucked in beside him. The heat radiating from his body soaked into her like hot bathwater. His head slumped to one side, her hair cushioning his cheek, and one arm flopped into her lap.

She glowered at Owl. “Now if you'll just bring me that cup, you can vacate.”

He folded his arms, as she knew he would. “Orders.”

“Aren't you supposed to be training? I am tired of your surly face, and I'm sure you're tired of mine.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but Tamsin chose that moment to enter the chamber. “Would ye be needin' anythin', me lady?”

The scowl melted away from Owl's face along with whatever wits the boy possessed. In its place appeared a slack-jawed, vacant expression as his gaze focused somewhat south of the maid's chin. Naturally. Calista had no proof, having been shut up here with Torch for nearly the past sennight, but she could well imagine her maid leading the Bastard Brotherhood on a merry chase. With so many others to choose from, poor Owl hardly stood a chance.

Calista bit back a smile. “As a matter of fact, this chamber needs airing. It's awfully stuffy in here with so many people. Perhaps you might show Owl here about the castle. The bathhouse would be a good place to start.”

Owl's face went white before it bloomed red. “Bathhouse?” His voice sounded strangled. “Kestrel already made me bathe.”

“I hear bathing works wonders if carried out more often than once a fortnight. I'm certain Tamsin can fix you up quite nicely with some sweet smelling soap.” Her poor maid. Calista would owe her several favors after this. “It would do wonders for your disposition.”

“No, no, I can't do it. Orders.”

“What do you possibly think I'd do to your lord while you're off bathing? Do you think I care so little about my father that I'd dare try something harmful?”

“N-no.” He scratched at a spot on his nose. “I don't suppose so.”

“Send Kestrel along if you must. Or at least inform him of the plans, and he can decide. But I swear on all the gods, I will do no more than dose him with willow bark and do my best to break the fever.”

“All…all right.”

Thank the gods. “Now off with you. But hand me that mug first.”

Tamsin dropped a curtsey that set her chest to jiggling. Owl's eyes nearly popped out of his head before glazing over as if he'd caught Torch's fever. “Thank you, Tamsin,” she muttered. “Next harvest festival, I'll give you the entire three days off to attend.”

“Aye, me lady.”

The door closed behind them, and Calista let out a breath. With Owl's brooding presence gone, she felt lighter already. Torch seemed to have mistaken her for a pillow. She nudged him, but his head merely swayed before coming to settle on her shoulder once more. One of his hands came to rest on her thigh. At least, should he start in with his suggestive ravings, whatever he said would remain between the pair of them.

This would never do. She shifted, slipping her shoulder from beneath him, and inched one arm behind his neck. Pressing forward, she eased him back against the pillows and brought the cup to his lips. Carefully. Just enough to moisten.

He muttered, and she yanked the infusion away—just in time, for he shook his head. “Nasty.”

“I know it's bitter, but you must drink this. Otherwise I'll be forced to bathe you in cold water to bring down your fever.”

His eyes fluttered open. “I should rather have the bath if you're to be the one who gives it.”

And why should he sound so lucid at a time like this, when his flesh still burned and his eyes remained glazed with illness?

She pressed her lips together. “My method involves a great deal less trouble and mess.”

“Getting messy with someone when it involves no clothes…Hmm…” Somewhere he found the energy for a wicked grin. “You ought to give it a try sometime.”

“Not when you're sick.”

“Does that mean you're willing to try once I'm well?” Damn it, he sounded more coherent by the moment. “I'll have some of that, please.”

She proffered the cup. He raised a hand to take it from her, but she preferred to keep control. She wouldn't put it past him to spill the contents all over the bed—thus requiring not only a change of sheets, but a bath as well. And she'd just sent Tamsin off.

“Easy. Just a sip.”

Holding her gaze as if she were feeding him wine and sweetmeats, he obeyed. “That stuff would be a sight better if you put it in something other than water. I'd wager ale would disguise the taste.”

“I don't know how ale would affect the healing properties.”

“You could try it and see if it worked. Stuff's undrinkable as it stands.”

“You'll need to finish this if it's to do you any good.”

“You healers, all alike. Why you can't invent potions and tinctures and what all that actually taste pleasant? You'd think the worse something tastes the more beneficial it is.”

She pressed the cup on him again. “I need you to get better. For my father's sake.”

He took another swallow, a larger one, and grimaced. “I need me to get better for my own sake. And yours.”

“Why do you insist on wedding me?” Although she thought she knew. If he wished to provoke Magnus, stealing a bride out from under him was an excellent choice.

He placed his hand over hers, his fingers curling about the contour of the cup. “Are you so set on your current betrothal, then?”

“If I told you yes, would you relent?”

The beginnings of a smile faded from his lips. “No. I never relent. But if you would resolve yourself to this match it would go easier on you.”

“Resolve,” she echoed. Her mother wanted her to hold him off, but when he pronounced the word with such intensity…He said he wouldn't relent, and she believed him.

“I've never yet forced a woman, and I do not intend to begin with you. But I
will
have my heir.” Just as he would have his castle—he'd marched in and taken it. His very confidence made something inside her quiver dangerously.