Naamah's Kiss (24 page)

All I wanted was to clutch his hand against me and sleep. "Aye."

He took his hand away. "Good girl."

I woke to sunlight. I was lying in a strange bed. My head and my ribcage hurt and my memory was hazy. I fought down a surge of panic and made myself breathe slowly. When I'd regained a measure of calm, I levered myself upright.

There was a balcony opposite me, the doors open onto daylight and fresh air. Good. That meant I wasn't trapped. I looked down at myself. I was clad in a long-sleeved shift of the softest white linen I'd ever felt, trimmed in lace as delicate as foam.

My purse.

It was the first memory to surfacethe tug at my belt and the fleeing thief. I glanced around in alarm. My head spun and my stomach rebelled. For a mercy, there wasn't much in the latter. I gagged and coughed, but managed not to vomit.

The door opened. "Moirin?"

It was himthe tawny-haired man. Bits and pieces of memory came back to me. The street, the carriage. The marvelous warmth of his hands. He'd taken me home, he and his companion.

"Do you need the pail?" He moved swiftly across the room and picked up a shiny silver pail, holding it under my chin. "Go ahead if you need to be sick; there's no shame in it."

I swallowed. "I'm all right."

"You're sure?"

I nodded and licked my lips. They were very dry. "Thirsty."

"Ah." He smiled and set down the pail. "That's a good sign. Here."

He poured water from a porcelain ewer into a matching cup and handed it to me. "Sip it slowly." I did. It was almost as good as the water I'd drunk after I'd seen the Maghuin Dhonn Herself. The tawny-haired man pulled up a stool with a cushioned seat and sat beside my bed, watching me. "How do you feel?"

A vision of Cillian's dented skull flashed behind my eyes. I felt sick again, the cup shaking in my hands.

"Easy, child." He plucked the cup from my hands. "I'm going to examine you. All right?"

I nodded again.

His name surfaced in my memory: Raphael. It was familiar somehow.

Raphael rubbed his hands together as he'd done the day before. He felt delicately at a tender lump on the back of my skull. Warmth flowed from his touch. He cupped my face and turned my head gently from side to side, peering intently at me. "No bruising to the eye sockets nor blood in the ears." He gave me another smile. It was a very nice smile, brightening his storm-grey eyes. "That's a good sign, too, Moirin mac Fainche. It means you've not cracked your skull. You've a hard head, it seems."

"So I've been told," I murmured.

His hands skimmed my ribs. "Oh, indeed? Well, all's where it ought to be. May I listen to your lungs?"

"Why?" I asked.

"To determine if they're whole and uninjured." He whistled softly. "That's the sound we don't want to hear, my lady."

I shrugged. "Go on, then."

Raphael pressed his ear to my breast. "Breathe deep, as deep as you can."

I obeyed, acutely conscious of his nearness. He closed his eyes and listened intently. The sunlight picked out golden glints in his tawny hair. As confused and miserable as I felt, I yearned to run my fingers through it.

He sat upright and grinned. It made him look younger.

"No whistle?" I asked.

"No whistle," he confirmed. "I'll need to examine your urine. Do you think you might manage to use the chamberpot?"

" What? " I wondered if this was some unique breed of D'Angeline perversity.

"To make certain there's no blood in it," Raphael said in clarification. "A hard blow to the midsection such as you sustained may cause damage and bleeding to the organs, my lady. Since I cannot cut you open to see, an analysis of the vital humors is crucial."

I sighed. "All right, then."

"Do you need assistance?" he inquired.

I glowered at him. "No!"

He pulled a decorative chamberpot from beneath my bed and left me with a polite bow and a promise to return. I clambered out of bed with an effort, hiked up the skirt of my shift over my bare legs, and settled myself on the chamberpot.

There, I pissed.

For as much as the rest of me hurt, it felt good. I sighed with pleasure, relieved of a pressure I hadn't recognized. From my vantage point, I could see that while my purse was gone, my satchel rested near the bed, grimy and valuable due to the papers it held. And there, too, was my bow and quiver. All was not lost.

The stream of my piss rattled against the chamberpot. When I finished, I poured fresh water into the nearby basin and washed my hands and face, then I clambered back in bed.

"Moirin?" Raphael called.

"Aye?" I drew the sheets to my chin. I'd never been one for modesty, but I felt weak and vulnerable in this situation.

"Well done." He entered smiling, and to my everlasting chagrin, smelled at the pot, tilting it and studying my humors. "It looks good. Do you think you might be able to take some broth?"

I consulted my belly. The water seemed to have settled it. "I do."

He picked up a bell on a night-stand table and rang it. A manservant appeared in prompt response. When Raphael ordered him to empty the chamberpot and tell the cook to send up a bowl of simple broth, he bowed in assent.

"I don't want to trouble you, my lord," I murmured.

"It's no trouble." He sat back down on the footstool, studying me with those intent grey eyes. "But I must own, I'm curious. Surely, you've D'Angeline blood in you more recent than Alais de la Courcel's era."

"My father," I agreed.

"Truly?" Raphael raised his brows. "However would that come about?"

"Is it so hard to believe?" I asked, insulted.

"No, no." He raised his hands. "I didn't mean it thusly. It's only that I thought the Maghuin Dhonn were a let us say a singularly private and solitary folk."

"Say what you mean, my lord," I said with resignation. "Savage and barbaric? Sly and uncanny? Mysterious and dire?"

He touched my cheek. "Mysterious and uncanny, yes. At the moment, you don't appear particularly dire."

It drew a reluctant smile from me. "No?" I prodded the lump on the back of my skull. My hair was matted with dried blood. "To be sure, I'm feeling rather dire."

He laughed.

A maidservant arrived with a tray. She peered around Raphael with wide eyes when he went to take it from her. Despite my protests, he insisted on feeding me himself as though I were a babe too weak to hold a spoon. After the first few bites, my appetite returned and I finished almost the entire bowl. When I was done, I found myself sleepy and yawning. When I apologized to Raphael, he shook his head.

"Sleep's the best healer." He laid one hand on my brow and felt at the pulse in my wrist with the other. "You're young and strong and like to recover. Sleep, and I'll look in on you in a few hours. If you've need of aught, ring the bell and someone will come."

"All right." I settled my aching head against the pillows. As he made to draw away, I caught one of his hands and stroked it. Somewhere beneath the pain and weariness, desire waited, coiled inside me. I saw it reflected in his surprised gaze and smiled. "My lord, for all your kindness, you've not given me your name."

"Raphael," he said softly. "Raphael de Mereliot."

"Stone and sea!" I blinked. "You're the Queen's favorite courtier. The one who thinks the Academy ought to explore more than the philosophy of magic."

He stared. "How in Blessed Elua's name did you know that ?" "Oh, I had a long stagecoach ride." I yawned. "And you're quite the preferred topic of gossip, my lordyou and her majesty."

"Are we, now?" Raphael de Mereliot's tone was dry. He stood and gazed at me, his expression unreadable. "Wait until they get wind of you , Moirin mac Fainche."