Healer's Touch (27 page)

“Llew!”

Llew turned to see Alvaro approaching.

“Hi, Al. I thought you were away for the afternoon. You didn’t see Jonas come this way, did you?”

“I just got back.” A shadow passed across his face and was gone. “Yeah, I saw him head into the stables. His usual happy self.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I wanted to ask you . . . ” He took a deep breath.

“Ask me what?” She looked past him to the stable. “I’m kind of busy.”

Again, the flick of annoyance was gone in an instant and Alvaro pulled himself together. “If you wanted to go to the dance with me.”

“Of course I’m going.”

“No, I meant with me. As partners.”

“Um.” Llew’s brain fizzed. If she was going to go with anyone in particular she would have wanted it to be Jonas. But for now at least it seemed he wasn’t going to go, unless she could somehow convince him to. And she didn’t think begging to be his dance partner would work. She may as well go with Al. It didn’t mean she would have to dance with him and only him
all
night, did it? “Um, sure. I’ll, I’ll see you later.” She have him a quick smile and ran to the stable, slowing to a walk as she approached the building so as not to scare the horses – or Jonas for that matter.

Jonas stood at his paint gelding’s stall, the animal nuzzling him as he leaned on the half-door. He seemed relaxed in the presence of the horse.

“Have you had him long?”

He looked startled to hear her voice.

“Sorry. I followed you.”

He shrugged and turned back to the horse.

“He’s Quaven military, too. We’ve been through a bit together.”

Llew stood beside him and reached out to pat the big gentle head. As she lifted her arm, her hand brushed against Jonas’ bone-handled knife by his waist, and an idea formed in her mind. Old habits and skills switched into action, in particular her keen awareness of exactly where his attention was focused, and absolute control over every muscle in her body.

“He is very beautiful.”
Keep patting him. Just keep looking at those lovely horse eyes.

“Aris just doesn’t get it,” said Jonas and Llew tensed. Patience.

“When Braph and I were separated – I was ten, him fifteen – we swapped our most treasured possessions. His was the wooden gryphon. Mine was my knife.” He pulled it from its sheath and held it, leaning his arms on the stall door. Llew cursed silently, then plastered an understanding smile on her face when he looked from the knife to her. “When Aris took me in, he was real pissed. I mean, one of the last Syakara givin’ his knife to a mere Karan?” He laughed, turning back to the blade. “I was a stupid kid. It was mine by birthright, but it should have been Braph’s. He was older. I knew he wanted it. And I loved him so much . . . ” He sneered at his own weakness.

Llew placed a hand on his arm, but didn’t know what to say.
Put it back so I can take it
.
Again
. She almost gave up right then. How could she do that to him? She’d already stolen the knife in Cheer and already insulted him, several times. What kind of friend was she?

The kind that would carry his burden for him, that’s what kind.

“There ain’t a day goes by I don’t wish I’d given him somethin’ else.” Jonas swallowed his rising emotion, his lips twisting and his jaw clenching. “If I’d had it, she might’ve had a fightin’ chance. Or maybe it just would’ve played out differently . . . ”

She could tell him it wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t have known, that if Braph hadn’t had that knife it would have been another one – that one wasn’t designed for killing Syakara, after all. But she knew he didn’t want to hear any of that. He wanted to feel. He wanted to know that his need to protect the knife was justified. She squeezed his arm, hoping it would be enough to let him know she understood.

He looked at her, past her, barely seeming to see her for a while. Then his eyes focused and he smiled his thanks. He slid the knife home and rubbed a hand up and down his horse’s face.

Llew moved swiftly.

Damn!
A dress didn’t have all the handy places to put things that a shirt and trousers offered. She bunched the knife into the folds and, holding it securely, backed away from him.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your thinking, then.”

Jonas grunted.

Once she was a few paces out of the stable she ran back to the guest wing, ignoring the startled looks of everyone she passed, with her hand still clasping the side of her dress.

“Llewella?”

Approaching her room, Llew looked up when someone called her name. “Hisham?” The soldier was loitering by her door.

“That’s the one.” He beamed at her, and held out a hand. “Aris sent me to keep an eye on you.”

“Ah.” Llew faltered. Her right hand was still clutching the folds of her skirt around Jonas’ knife. She held out her left hand and he swapped hands to shake it. “Caught my skirt on a nail. Big hole,” she blustered. “Very embarrassing. Must get ready for tonight’s dance.” She backed through her door, smiling at him.

Inside, she clicked the door closed and leaned against it to catch her breath. She freed the knife from the folds of the skirt and held it in front of her. Well, she’d done it. Keeping the knife out of the wrong hands was no longer Jonas’ immediate concern.

A bath had been placed in her room and soon someone would come to fill it with steaming water. The dress she was to wear hung from the door of her wardrobe. She crossed the room and slid the knife under her pillow.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Llew pressed the softest, most luxurious towel she had ever touched to her skin, dabbing the water away. Somehow scrubbing didn’t seem appropriate with something so masterfully woven, cleansed and dried.

She crossed the room to her bed and brushed the sheets with her fingers; they were smooth and soft and inviting. She almost wished there wasn’t a ball that evening – she couldn’t wait to curl up and sleep in those blankets.

She jumped at a knock on her door.

“Just a minute,” she called, pulling the towel around her and crossing the room.

“Where is it?” Her heart nearly stopped at Jonas’ hostile tone. She had known he would notice the knife’s absence, and she had known he would know who took it. She had been preparing for this, but still she wasn’t prepared.

“What?”

“You know what. Open the door.”

She secured the towel about her, turned the lock, and skipped out of the door’s sweep as soon as the latch clicked.

“Where is it?” he said, striding into the room.

“You won’t find it and I’m not giving it back to you tonight. So you might as well go to the dance. I’ll keep it safe.”

“Is that what this is about?” He almost laughed. “You want me to go to a dance? You stupid girl.” He started rummaging through her drawers. They were mostly empty, only containing the few items Lord Tovias’ staff had supplied his guests – hair brushes, undergarments, towels.

“You won’t find it.”

He turned to her, eyes narrowed, and then walked to the bed and threw back the blankets. The pillows were flung aside. He growled in frustration and came across to her.

“What did you do with it?” He leaned towards her. She could feel his breath on her skin.

“I said I wasn’t giving it back to you. Let it be my problem tonight,” Llew replied as calmly as possible. “Now I would like to finish drying off. I have a social engagement to prepare for. Please leave.” She pointed toward the door. Her hand barely shook.

His hard expression faltered at her commanding tone, and his eyes swept down to her bare shoulders and the towel clasped around her. He swallowed, and Llew saw in him the same hunger she’d seen in other men. But in Jonas it was mixed with a nervousness or fear she’d never seen before. Of all people, this man had all the power needed to make her do what she didn’t want to do. But now she did want to. When she’d been with men previously, they’d taken what they wanted. But Jonas wouldn’t take; he would ask. But he looked too scared even to do that.

And suddenly everything she had complained about to Anya fell away. There would be no writhing. Not in a bad way, anyway.

She lifted her chin and relaxed her hold on her towel, revealing the plump curve of a breast pressed up by the hand beneath. He swallowed again, his eyes searching hers. She let the towel slip a little more, flicking her eyes down to direct his gaze, with her breathing becoming shallow and quickening. He looked down, back up, and then stepped close to her, his hands cupping her jaw. Her hands gripped his shirt, pulling him into her. Their lips pressed together.

In the hall, Hisham cleared his throat.

Jonas kicked the door closed and pressed her back toward the bed, while she pushed open his leather vest and began work on his shirt buttons. With her hands otherwise occupied, the towel fell to the floor. As soon as his shirt came open, she pushed it from his shoulders. Lean though he was, muscles rippled under the skin as he reached to pull her face to his again. Her hands roved his hard back, feeling the little raised patches of skin that she knew were scars. This man kissing her with the same combination of hunger and tenderness that she felt for him had seen combat unlike anything that had happened on the shores of her country. She let her eyes follow the line of his shoulder to his biceps, where he had been injured in Stelt. The wound was knitting well. It would soon join the ranks of the other scars over his body. She wished she could fix it for him. She wished she could fix them all.

But then he was pulling back.
No. Stop!
Don’t
stop!
Her hands clasped his head and she tried to pull him back to her. He shook his head.

“What– Why?”

“I know Al told you about me, and what I do, what I did, for Aris, for Quaver.” He pried her fingers from the back of his head, the self-loathing settling back in place.

Llew shook her head. “It’s just sex. Aris would never let me have you, anyway. And I know you don’t like me that way. It’s okay. The last boy I slept with sent me to the hangman.” She was talking too much, and it wasn’t working. “It’s only sex.”

Jonas studied her face for several moments.

“I wonder what you were like.”

“When?”

“Before you learned to hate men.”

“I don’t–” Llew’s reply caught in the back of her throat. He was right. Well, maybe not hated them, but she sure as hell didn’t trust them.

He straightened, stepping back from her.

“I don’t hate you.” She gathered his hands in her own. She guided one, then the other to her waist, stepping close to him, tracing the lines of his tattoo with a finger. He took a shuddering breath under her touch and when she looked up at him he was watching her, a sparkle in his eye. Right or wrong, he wanted it, too. He kissed her lips briefly.

“I don’t hate you, either,” he said, pulling back only far enough that his lips tickled hers as he spoke.

He kissed her again, and then descended down her neck, and her fingers found his belt and began work on the buckle until it fell loose. She made short work of his trouser buttons. He hoisted her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her the last few feet, placing her gently on the bed. His hand cupped her breast, her hip, pulled a thigh up beside him, as though he wanted to touch her everywhere at the same time but was hindered by a lack of limbs.

She gasped at the thrill that started in her belly and sent aftershocks throughout her being. Her nights with Kynas had led her to believe she was numb, a damaged person. Clearly, that was not so. They barely had to move. Every tremor of his body met with a quiver of her own.

Then Jonas stopped, clinging to her.

“Don’t move.” His breath tickled her ear.

She tensed, listening.

He pulled his head up, watching her with his eyes free of their usual simmering anger. Tasting his breath, her body trembled around him. Jonas cursed and clung to her, his head on her shoulder while he fought to control his own body.

“I said, don’t move.”

“It was your fault.”

His head came up again, an eyebrow raised. She smiled at him, and he laughed and then cursed again as involuntary convulsions took over. Waves of pleasure filled Llew, but she couldn’t stop laughing.

* * *

Llewella rested her head against Jonas’ shoulder and her fingers traced the curving lines of his tattoo. He was watching her, his face grim.

“Why does it make you sad?” she asked, rising up on an elbow and leaning in to kiss his cheek. He frowned again, looking as though he was about to speak, and then he rolled his shoulder out from under her hand to sit on the edge of the bed. She admired the taut, muscular back, and reached out to touch his biceps.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “I wasn’t home when Braph killed them. I was . . . ” His face pinched at the memory. “ . . . getting it finished.”

At a loss for anything to say, she squeezed his arm, trying to give comfort.