of his bloodscent—just barely oozing—still lingering, her gums began to contract and her breathing roughened. Her glance went briefly toward the maidservant and she considered the possibility of enthralling the girl so she could feed, but when she felt Woodmore’s eyes on her, she discarded that idea.
If he was like any other man, he’d enjoy the erotic sight of two women in such an intimate arrangement, and then she’d have another problem on her hands if he wanted to participate. The last thing she wanted or needed was another man trying to control her—or to have her bloodlust take over. Woodmore might be a mortal, but he was a legendary one in her world. He wouldn’t be easily denied.
She turned her attention away from him and back to the fact that she would have to find a way to feed. She’d never actually had to arrange it for herself; Cezar had always, as part of her captivity, provided a servant—a male as often as a female—or other mortal for feeding.
But this was a problem she welcomed.
A fire now blazing in the grate, the maid stood and gave a short bow, then left the chamber.
Woodmore had taken a few swigs of ale, and was selecting a piece of cheese when he looked up at Narcise. He didn’t speak, although he seemed to be searching for something to say…and then he returned his attention to the tray. She realized she was trying not to breathe, for the chamber—especially the bed—reeked of coitus and perspiration, and over it all was Chas Woodmore’s scent. His blood.
Narcise suddenly felt awkward and out of place. And, all at once, exhausted. Her knees wobbled and as her head spun, she reached blindly for the chair and eased herself into it.
But she was free. A smile erupted, happiness welled inside her so much that her Mark twinged again…and suddenly, tears flooded her eyes. The tears rolled down her cheeks, catching her by surprise—she hadn’t even realized she still knew how to cry—but all at once, she was sobbing uncontrollably.
A handkerchief was thrust into her face, and she took it blindly, gratefully—and at the same time, ashamedly. She’d been through so much…why, now when she was happy, did she have to show such weakness?
The cloth smelled like Woodmore, of course, but dense and thick—rough with blood and sweat and pain and the pleasant smell of his skin and hair, too. She dried her eyes and lifted her face to find him watching her with a detached expression. “Thank you.”
“I have three sisters,” he replied with a shrug. “Sobbing females don’t unsettle me in the least. And I suspect you have more of a reason to cry than Angelica did when her favorite yellow gown was stained with ink.”
Narcise gave him a wavery smile and wiped her nose again. “I cannot remember the last time I cried,” she told him.
Another knock came at the door, and Woodmore answered it this time. She noticed the way his feet scuffled a bit when he went to open it, as if he could hardly lift them. He held on to the door while a half-full tub was brought in, followed by five huge pails of steaming water, and she suspected that he was doing so in order to keep his own knees from collapsing. There was a drawn tightness in his face and around his eyes.
But now that she’d become fully aware of his scent, Narcise found herself noticing his bare torso, half illuminated by the glow of the lamp. He was tall and the skin of his chest and ridged belly was as dark as that of his hands and face. He had dark hair trailing down his stomach, into the sagging waistline of his breeches, and up to a full expanse of it over his chest. His arms were rounded with muscle, scarred and marked, but powerful nevertheless.
Her eyes started to heat when she thought about the texture of his skin and the essence of his lifeblood, and she had to look away. It was a reaction she couldn’t completely control, but she could hide it, for it didn’t mean anything.
After the water came the maidservant who’d brought the food, and this time she was carrying a pile of cloth and a small pot of unguent. These she left near the bath, and Narcise realized it was for Woodmore’s injuries.
When the door was closed once more, and they were alone, Woodmore turned to her. He seemed even more unsteady, and she thought he actually swayed on his feet. “I don’t expect you have delicate sensibilities, but if you do, you’ll either have to leave or close your eyes.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” she said quietly.
He gave her an inscrutable look and turned away. And then all of a sudden, he made a sort of half turn, as if to grab for the chair, and he began to sink.
She heard him groan a low curse just before he hit the floor with a dull thud.
Narcise rushed over to kneel next to him on the ground. “Woodmore?” she said, and went to shake him by the shoulders…but stopped when she realized that would mean closing her fingers over two ugly burns.
She saw the red oozing from his arms and the sides of his torso, recognizing Cezar’s handiwork with the metal spikes, and wondered how he’d managed to do what he’d done—fight her, carry her, run and slay and even pick a pocket—with these sorts of injuries.
At the same time, she felt a wave of remorse that she hadn’t noticed how badly he was hurt during their fencing match. Of course, she had been a bit distracted…but she should have at least gauged his weakness as her rival if nothing else.
“Woodmore!” she said more urgently, still hesitant to touch him. But when he still didn’t move, she had to, and was shocked to find his skin flaming hot. He moaned, rolling his head to the side as her fingers brushed over his shoulders.
He couldn’t remain on the floor. Narcise picked him up awkwardly—he was long and loose-limbed, and heavy even for her—and got him to the bed. And then she began examining him in detail.
She’d had enough injuries of her own, inflicted by Cezar or any number of his friends, to recognize all of the different manifestations of burns, piercings, cuts and bruises. She’d also had some experience in caring for them, although she wasn’t certain whether washing and cleaning injuries on mortals would even help, since they could die from injury and she, of course, wouldn’t.
But she did the best she could, using the warm water and the dubiously clean cloths that had been brought in with the unguent to wash away blood, sweat and grime. Narcise even immodestly stripped away his breeches, leaving him fully naked, so that she could examine him for other wounds. A particularly nasty one, which had been hidden by the trousers near his right hip, had her sucking in her breath in alarm.
Even in the faulty light, she could see that whatever had gone through his skin, and out the other side, had taken the fabric of his breeches with it like a needle and thread. The injury was rough and dark, and little frayed threads and pieces of cloth decorated the opening.
And it smelled. They all smelled of course, but this one had a wrong scent to it. An ugly, thick, roiling sort of stench that was so unpleasant it didn’t arouse her bloodlust, even as undernourished as she was, and succeeded in masking some of the other enticing scents as well. She cleaned it carefully, probing to get the remnants of thread and wool from inside, and knew she was doing a good job when he flinched and moaned in his fever. But the injury would bear watching, for it might not heal at all.
The rest of them, ugly as they were, evil and dark, were painful but should heal. This one on his hip… perhaps not.
By the time she finished, the sun was rising and casting yellow beams through the window. Dangerous to Narcise, but at the same time, she hadn’t seen the sun for more than a decade.
So she stood at the window, carefully to the side, and watched as the golden glow painted the rooftops and buildings clustered around this dingy little public house—so crude and dirty and simple compared to her previous residence, but so welcome.
She couldn’t see much aside of the walls across the street and down the alley, for the buildings were close, but just the glint of yellow made her chest expand with pleasure.
No, she couldn’t walk out into it, she couldn’t bathe herself in its rays nor pick flowers on the mountainside as she’d done with Rivrik…but at least now she could
And perhaps…if she were brave…she could walk out into it with a cloak over her head and shoulders, thus allowing the rays to seep through and warm her through the shield.
She watched from the window for a long while, simply observing the way the shadows changed, shortening and then disappearing, and then beginning to fall toward the east…how the light changed the scene of busy Paris, the carriages and barouches, the merchant carts and the shops’ awnings from dull shades of gray to every color
