That ceased to matter as Marcus’s hand wrapped around mine, and he responded with a slight smile.
“Hey, there.”
“Hey yourself,” he returned, as he watched the warriors bustle around, prepping the camp. “What’re a couple of citizens like us doing out here in the wilderness with this lot?”
Bronwyn’s men were busy tying up the horses, putting up canvases between the trees, and collecting firewood. But then again, as I thought about it, I realised that they weren’t Bronwyn’s men… They were Gideon’s. It was Gideon they looked to for instruction. My assumption had been based on the way the group had followed her lead yesterday. But that could have been because she was the one who had picked up the trail or because, title-wise, she was the most senior, but she was most definitely in the company of the Mercians rather than in charge.
“I have no idea.” I smiled at Marcus. The Briton outfits supplied by Callum had been appropriate in the more refined collegiate parts of Oxford, but they did not help us blend into this group at all. They were the Celts that I had envisaged as a child come to life: large wild men with long hair and beards and tattoos liberally adorning arms and necks and, in some cases, faces. Even Bronwyn looked like she belonged with them with her long, wild black hair and cloak, striding about busily. Marcus and I stood apart. Always apart.
“How are you?”
Marcus looked taken aback at the question, which stung. Was it so hard to believe I was checking he was okay? That was unfair. For the first time really since we had left Londinium, both Marcus and I were not on the edge of exhaustion. The days trudging north in those awful boots had most definitely taken their toll on me, but dealing with the effects of that while still recovering from burnout had pretty much depleted whatever energy Marcus had left at the end of every day.
“Marcus.” I laid my hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. I’ve been so caught up in my own stuff. You’ve had… I’m sorry. Truly.”
“For what exactly?”
I looked at him, and around at the camp. I shrugged. What could I say? He hadn’t wanted any of this. He didn’t deserve it. He was a good person and all he wanted was to treat his patients and be left alone. Now, because of me, he was here amongst these Mercians who told us nothing and being hunted by those who I realised might actually be his allies. While Devyn and I couldn’t fall into Anglian hands for some specific, secret reason, Anglia was likely to be Marcus’s destination. His Plantagenet ancestor had been from the House of York.
I tried another tack. “Are you feeling better?”
It was his turn to shrug as he leaned against the trunk of the tree sheltering us from the never-ending rain.
“Yeah, mostly. Better than I was in Oxford.”
“But not well enough to deal with Devyn’s injury?” I asked.
He pushed himself away from the tree angrily.
“I might have known that this show of concern for me was really about him. It’s always about him.”
“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” I started. I honestly hadn’t, but I couldn’t deny that most of my day had been spent worrying about Devyn. I grabbed his hand as he made to stride off.
“Please wait, Marcus. I really was asking.” I stopped and tried again. “I mean, of course I’m worried about Devyn; we’re travelling hard and he is wounded.” Through no fault of his own, I added darkly in the privacy of my mind. Apparently it wasn’t so private as the look on Marcus’s face and his tug to get me to release him indicated that my thoughts were pretty evident on my face.
“Which is not my fault.”
“What? If you hadn’t gone off and—”
I pushed down my anger. There was a series of events that had led to Marcus storming out of that barn and we did not need to get into a full-blown argument here in full sight of the Britons, who already seemed far too interested in our conversation.
“Marcus,” I sighed. I had spent my life waiting to be with this man, had spent the summer getting to know him. We were friends, but the burn in our blood at this late stage of the handfast made it difficult because our tempers rose too quickly to the surface.
“I don’t think I’m jealous of you and her.” I spoke the thought unguardedly as the idea swirled in my brain. It was easy to dismiss the night he’d spent in the arms of another woman as Bronwyn made excessively clear she had no desire to repeat the experience.
“What?” Marcus struggled to follow the tangent in our conversation.
“I think the handfast is making us both a little crazy. We’re friends… or we were,” I amended, at the slightly sceptical light in Marcus’s eye. “I want you to be happy. I know things are all over the place right now, and my uh… interactions with Devyn haven’t helped. But we need to get through this by sticking together.”
Marcus paused before replying, contemplating what I was saying. His hand came up to cover mine where it still rested on his arm and his thumb rubbed thoughtfully along it.
“I really was just asking if… Are you okay?”
He nodded, looking down at me, his green eyes transparent and open.
“I know you’re worried about Devyn,” he said. “Truth be told, I am myself. I don’t know why I wasn’t able to do more to heal the wound. I felt pretty good the last few evenings when I was helping you. But your blisters were superficial; Devyn’s wound is deeper, and it just doesn’t seem to want to respond. I know that sounds odd, but it’s like it’s blocking me.”
He dropped his hand from mine, looking uneasily over to the camp.
“I’d better get my paws off you before he does more damage
