Page 40 of The Crown of Moonlight
“Flora, please sit.”I make room for her beside me.
She shakes her head and refuses to meet my eyes.“I still have a hundred things to do before we leave.Iain and the women and children and livestock will need to stay in the hills, and I need flowers for the tomb—”
“Will you be strong enough to leave tonight?Be honest.”
Her chin lifts.“You’re the one with the gaping hole where your chest should be.”
“Which isn’t your fault.I asked too much—”
“I failed,” she whispers as if the words are too hard to say aloud.“I couldn’t pull all the poison out, and I couldn’t even mend the flesh—”
“Lack of perfection isn’t failure.”I need her to hear me.“It was the first time you tried to pull the celestial iron out with magic, and you did knit some of the flesh together.Your stitching will hold the rest.”
She stares at the wall, refusing to look at me.“What if it’s not enough?”
I take her hand and tug lightly until I have her focus back.“I’ve made peace with dying, Flora.As long as we can get to Muilean by Beltane and open the doorway, you’ll have given me more than I dared to hope for.”
The oathbands don’t like that answer, and it’s a battle to keep the pain from showing.
“If I get weaker on the journey there, you’ll be with me to help,” I add.“Now, be honest.Are you well enough to ride tonight?There’s only so much strength of will can do to compensate for exhaustion.”
“And there’s the bee scolding the wasp for stinging.”She forces a smile that doesn’t extend beyond her lips, every line of her body set with determination as she pushes her long braid back over her shoulder.The firelight behind her streaks her hair in every colour of flame and moonlight, and I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than she is in this moment.
“Let’s make a pact,” I say.“We won’t ask each other how we feel.But if we can’t go on, if we need to rest, we’ll admit it.No pretence.”
She nods.A small victory.Then she sets the bundle of clothing nearby and frowns down at me.I try to look innocent—something I haven’t been in four centuries, more or less.
Motioning for me to slide to the far end of the bench, she removes a long length of plaid fabric from the pile she set down and shakes it out with a flick of her wrists.Starting near the centre, she folds it into wide pleats lengthwise, then lays it atop a narrow belt crosswise on the bench.
“Watch how this is done,” she says.“I don’t intend to dress you every morning while we’re travelling.Hips go here so the kilt will hit above the knee.”
She helps me ease my body down, then she drapes the woollen cloth over my lap, first one side and then the other.I lie perfectly still.
Then she makes it worse.
Beneath the thicker wool plaid, I still have on the shorter, thinner fabric she fastened around me earlier.She reaches to remove the pin holding it in place, and her knuckles skim the bare skin at my hip.
“Raise your hips for me,” she says, her voice clinical.Soft.
But Father help me, my entire body tightens in response.
“Keep asking me that, and it will be dangerous.”I mean the words to come out lightly.They sound like a growl instead, dark-edged with hunger.
Flora freezes, and the air between us thickens.With one swift tug, she pulls the smaller kilt free, then takes up both ends of the narrow belt and fastens it atop the long plaid to hold it in place.
“You can sit up again,” she says.Her voice is gentle, but her hands still tremble as she picks up a shirt and a buff coat from the pile of clothing on the table.“These belonged to my brother Rory.Like Catriona, he was a good bit rounder than you are, but that should mean they’ll fit.Lift your arms.”
The coat is the sort many Highlanders wear in battle, a short doublet-style jacket of tanned ox hides thick enough to stop a knife or glancing sword blow.
At the moment, I would welcome a simple fight.I’d take on all seven of the remaining Riders and let them remind me not to forget the reason we are here.
She starts to tug the linen shirt over my head, but, pain or no pain, I have enough pride left to finish dressing on my own.The shirt and coat are snug, but not so tight that I won’t be able to swing a sword.
“Now, stand up, and I’ll show you how the rest of the kilt is fastened,” she says.
She feels dangerously close when I push myself to my feet.I hope she’ll step back, but she doesn’t, and the bench behind me blocks any retreat.She tucks the shirt inside the kilt for me, and my skin is alive as my magic responds to hers.The smaller kilt she’d left underneath falls to pool at my feet, and she stoops to pick it up.
I hold my breath, not daring to move, but her breath sifts warm through the shirt and bandage on my chest as she rises again.
