He held it out for her again with a smile. Less amused, more genuine this time. “You should drink. Shock makes people do the weirdest things.” A low chuckle followed his words.
Gandrett took it with her free hand and led it to her lips, aware that most of the other men were now staring in their direction, apparently bored having inspected the slain wolf for several minutes.
“If I offered you a hand,” he rose back to his feet, “would you take it and let me help you up, milady—” He cocked his head. “I still don’t know your name.”
“Gandrett,” she said and looked at him from under her lashes the way Mckenzie had shown her. The way that had made Brax pause while he spoke. “Gandrett Starhaeven.”
Armand held out a hand, face tense as he bit his lower lip while he waited.
For a moment, Gandrett considered ignoring the gesture and simply staggering to her feet on her own. But this was not about what she felt like doing.
So she managed her temper and tucked Armand’s handkerchief into her sleeve before she placed her calloused hand into his gloved one.
He responded with a gallant bow. “It’s an honor to meet you, Lady Starhaeven.” He pulled her up with a powerful tug on her hand, making her half-tumble into him.
“The pleasure is all mine.” Gandrett stifled a groan as she balanced her weighed and failed, sagging into him, and his arms caught her around the waist before she could hit the ground again.
She fashioned an apologetic look, hoping to web some mystery into her gaze as she glanced up at him, his head towering above her as he stabilized her.
He just continued smiling. “I was going to ask you which direction to take you to the edges of the forest so you can make your way home, but—” He tried to set her back on her feet.
This time, Gandrett purposely let her knees buckle. No. He couldn’t send her off. Then all would have been in vain.
“But it seems you need more than an escort back to the road.” Something in his face informed her he was pleased about it.
“I think I need a healer,” was what Gandrett said in response, attempting to sound ladylike and not like she wanted to hit him over the head with her spare arrows. For her family, she reminded herself. She was doing this for her family. A deep breath, as deep as was possible in the tight bodice, helped her stomach his answering smirk.
“We have the best healers in all of Sives at the castle.”
There it was. Her ticket in. And she swayed again, trying to ignore the tightening of Armand’s arm around her.
The gray crow perched on Nehelon’s shoulder sang of Gandrett’s success.
He had stayed behind, listening, hidden in the treetops, far away from where any of the hunting party could spot them. Far enough that not even his Fae sense could make out if Gandrett was all right.
So he had summoned the bird, asked it to bring him the news of the girl with the depthless eyes and the heart of iron. A heart that would destroy him eventually.
And when the bird whispered to him that Gandrett was riding with him, that they were on their way to Eedwood, he pictured Armand Denderlain’s smirking face and how entertaining it would be to plant his flat hand on his fine-boned nose.
Nehelon’s fists tightened at his sides. This was what he had wanted. What he had promised Lord Tyrem. That he would find a way to bring back Joshua. And Gandrett was that way.
And what a stupid fool he was. He couldn’t have just made sure the wolf didn’t kill her; he needed to let those strange sensations take over. Who was she but a mortal—?
He rested his head against the tree trunk, closed his eyes, and dismissed the bird with a wave of his hand.
Chapter Twenty-Six
When Addie made it to the top of the tower this time, the sun was painting the courtyard in fiery orange. She had taken the water to Lady Linniue and made sure the lady had all she needed before she left to her sanctuary high up in the quiet north tower. Just a couple of minutes of peace and quiet.
She blinked into the sunset from the highest window of the stairwell until the clattering of hooves disturbed her moment of silent rest.
The shouts of men carried up, bouncing off the rugged stone walls, words incomprehensible but urgency obvious. Addie shielded her eyes against the sun and leaned closer to the window, trying to spy what was going on.
Servants were emerging from the castle, running to meet the hunting party halfway into the yard.
“Careful,” someone barked.
Not someone. He. The young lord on his chestnut horse, his voice like a thread of silver.
Addie spotted him at the center of the party, right next to Lord Hamyn, who cleared his path out of the group, and on the other side, a female shape on a bay horse, half-collapsing from the saddle as one of the servants helped her down.
“Bring her to the west tower,” the young lord snarled at the man who gently lifted the woman. “And get a healer.”
Addie watched the cluster of business disperse as he jumped off his horse, the image of spring, and handed the reins of his horse to one of the stable boys now buzzing between the riders.
The young lord was already following the injured woman inside when he called over his shoulder. “Make sure to get the pelt of that beast in one piece.”
Addie’s gaze followed the direction he was speaking and found, perched on a wagon at the back of the party that had hardly made it inside the gates, the lifeless shape of a massive gray wolf.
So they had been successful hunting.
Addie turned back to watch the young lord dash inside, the doors of the west tower bouncing closed behind him.
There was a lot of whispering when Gandrett regained consciousness. Several voices, some upset, some confused, some concerned judging by the sound of it.
“Ahh, there you are,” a wheezy, female voice greeted before she could open her eyes.
The whispering went silent.
“She’s awake,” the voice spoke to whoever had been conversing beside her.
“She doesn’t look awake.” That voice, Gandrett knew. It was the same that had been speaking to her all the way back to Eedwood. And she could hardly remember a word other than the reassuring phrases he had thrown in between cocky comments. The voice of the man who had ridden beside her until she had blacked out.
Hands touched her head in professional assessment. “She is lucky to be alive,” the wheezy voice stated and pushed something cold against the throbbing wound on the side of Gandrett’s head.
Gandrett flinched, taking in her surroundings with adjusting eyes. Someone must have carried her to a bedchamber while she was unconscious she concluded from the deep blue curtains that folded around a four-poster bed at the other end of the room. Fading sunlight that filtered in through the narrow windows made the gold embroidery on the fabric lines of pale flame.
“See?” the woman said. “I told you she is awake.”
Gandrett grimaced and opened her eyes. Heavy. Her eyelids were so heavy.
Perched atop the crimson armrest of a sofa at Gandrett’s feet, Armand Denderlain was grinning in welcome. “I can’t make up my mind whether I like you better asleep or awake,” he said, grin broadening.
Gandrett frowned. It slipped onto her features before she could help it.