With his gelding waiting behind him, Banek had paused beside Yvenne. A blade flashed in his hand.
The back of Maddek’s neck tightened, but the older warrior’s posture was not tensed for attack, and his voice was pitched low as he told her, “My lady, let me help you.”
Carefully the warrior slipped the dagger beneath her bound hands. Long strands of coarse hair floated to the forest floor.
The horse’s mane. More strands were caught between her fingers—glued by dried blood and Maddek’s seed—but she still had not uncurled her fists.
Even in the firelight, Maddek could see how her face paled when Banek gently pried her cramped fingers open.
Carefully the old warrior picked away clumps of mane from her palms and fingers. “Can you walk, my lady? It will help ease the stiffness.”
Her reply was tight, so strained it was barely more than a whisper. “I will try.”
Yvenne did not look over at Maddek’s approach, but Banek did. As did the other warriors.
For the first time in Maddek’s life, he saw reproach and censure in the warriors’ eyes. He could almost hear it upon their tongues.
He probably would hear it upon their tongues when they had a moment alone. Or more damning—they would give him their silence.
Yvenne had spoken true. His people would think poorly of him if he visited his wrath upon her where they might see. Although his warriors also yearned for vengeance against her father and brothers, they had taken her word as truth. Perhaps they only believed her because Maddek had not killed her. Or perhaps they had recognized something in her he could not.
But queen or not, bride or not, she was a woman under his protection whom he had not protected.
Maddek could not treat her as a bride in front of his warriors and as a dog while alone, however. He could not pretend in that way. It would be as if speaking lies through every action.
So a choice needed to be made. Either he would take Yvenne at her word and accept that she had not plotted to kill his parents—or he would kill her for her part in that plot now.
Maddek could not force aside doubt—and he could not believe her claim that his mother had chosen her to be his wife. But if he would have his vengeance, then she must be his bride. So until she gave him reason to believe otherwise, he would also accept that she had only sent a message to his parents in hopes of forming an alliance.
And Temra be merciful if he ever discovered that she had spoken false, because Maddek would not be.
His gaze upon her pinched face, he told Banek, “I will tend to her. Our mounts—”
“Will be mine to care for this night, Ran Maddek.” Respect returned to the older man’s voice as his blade slipped through a dark cloth tied around Yvenne’s waist.
Her veil, Maddek realized. At some point during the ride, she had fastened herself to the horse’s chest harness by the leather strap that passed over the withers.
That would not have saved her if she’d slipped from its back. Better to fall clear than to slide beneath the horse’s belly to be dragged or trampled by its hooves.
As soon as she was cut free of the horse, Maddek sliced through the bindings around her wrists and tossed the blood-stiffened ropes to the ground. His hands circled her narrow waist. She truly weighed a feather, the points of her hips softened only by the thin silk of her robes.
Cradling her slender form against his chest, he carried her upstream of the horses, to the very edge of the circle of light cast by the torches. Her body shook against his, though the night was warm. It must be fatigue and pain that made her tremble.
They could not travel at a slower pace. But Maddek could not let this happen again.
Beside the stream bed, he set her upon a flat stone. After rinsing his hands in the icy water, he cupped his palm and carried a handful to her lips.
She drank eagerly, her tongue flicking out to catch the last drops clinging to the side of his hand.
Licking those drops as she had earlier licked his seed and her brother’s blood from her fingers. But there was no challenge burning within her moonstone eyes now. No arousal. Only exhaustion.
He ignored the hardening of his cock and brought her another palmful to drink, then wet the rags of her veil and began cleaning her hands.
Maddek could feel her gaze upon his face as he wiped away the blood and seed and hair. “The only remedy for a new rider’s pain is to move the muscles that have stiffened. No matter if it hurts all the more when you do.”
Fatigue thickened her voice. “I will bear it. I daresay the pain of freedom is far more tolerable than the comfort of prison in my tower chamber.”
So it must be. “It will be worse when you awaken, so it is best to stretch the muscles now. The stiffness will pass after a few days of riding.”
Chin sinking low against her chest, she nodded. But despite her agreement, there would be no walking or stretching. Even as Maddek watched she fell asleep, slumping sideways upon the stone seat.
After wetting the rags again, he slid his arms beneath her legs and shoulders and carried her to camp. The horses were staked together near a large clump of trees, eating grain from their bags of feed. Maddek’s warriors had laid out his furs beside the shelter of the large boulders. With Yvenne in his arms, he sank down upon them.
“We will leave at sunrise.” At his announcement, he saw their surprise—and their approval. Usually they would set out at first light, long before the sun rose above the horizon. But one look at the woman in his arms told them why he allowed the extra time. “Take your own rest,” he added. “I will keep watch.”
For Maddek would not sleep. Vengeance blinded men. Tonight his eyes needed to remain open.
So he kept them open as he finished washing her hands. He still had doubts, but not everything she had spoken was a lie. She’d said her father had locked her away, and indeed her brown skin was as sallow as if she’d never seen the sun. She had also said her fingers were severed after killing her eldest brother, so that she could not draw a bowstring again.
Battle always left a mark. So it did here, when he looked with open eyes. The skin over the stumps of her missing fingers seemed thin and pink, as if only recently healed over. The remaining fingers were soft, but for a slight thickening at the tip of her third finger. A callus common to archers, though hers was not as rough or as hardened as a warrior’s. Newer.
By the light of the torch, he unwrapped the bloodstained linens from her left wrist to elbow. Pale lines marked the thin skin at the inside of her forearm. He and every other Parsathean warrior wore leather vambraces to guard their forearms, yet he still recognized those stripes. They were from a bowstring snapping against the skin like the lash of a whip, and signaled a new archer who had not yet mastered her technique. By the appearance of her scars, the string had struck hard enough to break skin—and by the number of them, had made her bleed over and over. They indicated that she had recently learned to use a bow with a hard taskmaster to push her.