In the Veins of the Drowning(51)

Theodore scowled and gave them a curt nod, but before he could do anything else, the handsome one looked up at me where I sat upon my horse. He crossed to my side with a widening smile. “Need a hand?”

“Lay a hand on my wife and you’ll lose it.” Theodore gripped the hilt of the dagger.

The man’s eyes went round as platters; his arms rose in surrender. “I was just trying to help.”

I shot Theodore a scolding look, but he ignored it. Stormy and inexorable, he stole to my side and reached up to guide me off the horse. With pinched faces and muttered words, the men retreated to a little clearing behind the cottage, where a pit for a fire sat.

“What the hell was that?” I scolded. “They’re not going to share that fire with us now.”

“Pretend you like me.” He reached up for the waterskin at my horse’s side and pulled it open so I could drink. “Act like we’re happily married—a stretch, I know.”

I took an angry gulp of water. “Why? What’s wrong?”

Theodore’s brow buckled. He set a hand to his stomach, over the bond. “I don’t know them, and the thought of him touching you—” He shook his head and took a drink of the water. “It’s that Godsdamned bond. Just do this for me, please? Keep beside me. If they think you are anything other than my wife, then you’re not safe.”

“You’re jealous.” I gaped at him as he rummaged through the saddlebag. “You thought my reaction during those contract negotiations was ridiculous, but this is exactly the same.”

He shook his head. “That was different. That was the Empress of Obelia—”

“See the handsome one?” Theodore frowned at him over his shoulder. “When you’re asleep tonight, he and I are going to sneak away into the grapevines to make love, and then over breakfast tomorrow, you can listen as we discuss the fate of our future children.”

He glared at me.

“Doesn’t feel good, does it?”

“No,” he conceded in a grumble. “It doesn’t.”

We troughed the horses, and all the while Theodore stewed. With a small bowl and a rag pulled from a saddlebag in hand, he led me to the little well. He rounded its stone wall, so his back was to the men around the fire, then sat upon its ledge. He scooped some water into the little bowl, set the rag into it. He spread his legs wide. Then tugged me by the hand, so I stood between them.

I stared for a moment—at the dark fan of his lashes, the slant of his nose, the bow of his lips. “What are you doing?”

“Acting like you’re my wife.” His eyes were level with my chin. He raised his hands and slowly, devastatingly gently, swept aside the stray hairs that had escaped from my braid. His fingers tickled at my ears, my temples, as he caressed the curls back. I held my breath as he reached around for my braid. He gripped it, wrapped it once around his fist, and gave it the softest tug. It tipped my chin up, baring my neck to him.

He made a throaty, approving sound as he looked from my lips to my neck and down further. Water droplets sprayed as he wrung the rag out with his free hand. Slowly, he dragged it across my cheek. Down the column of my neck.

I bit back a moan. “You don’t have to—”

He dipped the rag again and brought it back to my flushed skin. “You’re covered in dust and sweat,” he said quietly, “and a good husband would see you cleaned up before feeding you and putting you to bed, wouldn’t he?”

“That’s not what you’re doing.” The rag traveled down farther, to my collarbone, where the shirt I wore—his shirt—was pulled slightly open. My eyes fluttered shut. I didn’t doubt he could see the color rising on my cheeks. That he could see my breaths coming quicker, growing shallow. “You’re getting back at me for what I said earlier. You’re teasing me.”

He shook his head. “I promise, I’m not trying to.” The words were a hot caress over my skin. “But I’ll admit, I wish I didn’t care what you thought of me.”

“Two days,” I said. He swiped a bead of water from my chin with his finger, tugging my bottom lip down with the motion. “The bond will be severed. Then you won’t care at all.”

Our gazes locked and when he smiled at me, wry and full, my heart folded over on itself. “Let’s hope.” None of the heat left his eyes as he leaned back and let my braid slip from his hold. He held the rag up between us.

We’d reached a line, and now we toed it. I thought of Lachlan’s and Agatha’s pleas to let myself be cared for, to care for him. Despite the tumult of the past week, Agatha thought something more had woven and bloomed between us, like one of Theodore’s flowering vines. It was desire—attraction—but nothing more. Nothing sturdy could grow under such conditions, and on the odd chance that something had sprouted, bolstered by our blood bond, we were two days away from ripping it out at the root.

I emptied the bowl and filled it with clean water. Dipped and wrung out the rag. My saddle-weary legs ached as I perched on his knee. “So we’ve established that you were once—and still can be—lusty and potent.” He laughed and I couldn’t keep from smiling at the sound of it. “But I have always been afraid.”

Some of the heat in his eyes banked. I scooted closer to his chest, set my hand to his chin, and tipped it up. As I swiped at the strong column of his neck, he brought up his hand and rested it on the round of my hip. “Of what?”