Dreams Made Flesh
His temper had eased back from true anger to just being pissed off again, but that comment came close to snapping the leash. He hauled her to her feet, certain her back and leg muscles were now tight enough that she couldn’t have gotten up by herself, and pulled her toward the eyrie.
Her emotions battered at him—fear that he was going to punish her for doing something without his permission, fear of what a man of his temper and power would do to her as punishment. The fact that she expected punishment told him more about the males who had been part of her life than he wanted to know.
“If you wanted a kitchen garden, you could have spent the past two days figuring out where you wanted it and what you wanted in it,” he said, keeping his voice as level as he could manage. “I could have cleared the ground for you when I got back. Did it even occur to you to ask me?”
“No,” Marian said in a small voice.
No. Well, that was a kick in the balls. Even the coven knew better than that. Blood males served. That was something so deeply ingrained in the males even the cruelty in Terreille couldn’t extinguish it completely. In Kaeleer, where the Blood still lived by the Old Ways, males considered it their right and privilege to serve—and got pretty testy when a witch they knew personally denied them an opportunity to be helpful.
If Marian didn’t know that yet, it was something she’d better figure out. Fast.
He pulled her into the eyrie, through the laundry room, and wound his way through curving corridors until he reached the pool Andulvar had built long ago as a place for a warrior to sit back in heated water and ease tired muscles.
She hadn’t openly fought him in an attempt to get away, but from the first step, she’d been silently resisting like some stubborn puppy tethered to a leash. That was fine since he had the rhythm of this little dance and knew how to use it.
Treat her like the coven, Saetan had said. Well, he knew exactly what he’d have done to Jaenelle or any of her friends if they’d upset him over something like this.
When he got near the edge of the pool, he propelled Marian forward. Her automatic step back gave him time to switch hands so that one now gripped her arm and the other held a fistful of her tunic. A hard shove forward, a swinging lift up, and—
“No!” Marian yelled. “My boo—”
—splash.
He used Craft to control her drop so she wouldn’t slip and damage a wing. Now she stood in heated water up to her waist, with a look on her face that was closer to grumpy than fearful.
Grumpy was fine. Grumpy was good. He wondered just how grumpy he could make her.
“Boots,” he said. He’d vanished them off her feet just before she hit the water. Now he called them in, dangling them over her head before he vanished them again. “Which you’ll get back if you do what you’re told.”
She stared up at him. “If I do what I’m told?”
Pointing at her, he said sternly, “You’re going to sit your ass down and let that hot water soak out some of the soreness in your muscles. And you’re going to stay there until I come back and fetch you.” He turned and walked to the entrance.
He turned back. “No, you’re female. And I don’t think it’s wise to discuss your brains right now.”
He walked out of the room, stopped as soon as he was out of sight, and listened.
Mutters. Then the slap of wet cloth on stone.
Lucivar grinned. So there was a little temper under that quiet disposition. He’d have to work on that. Shouldn’t be too difficult. He excelled at getting witches riled up.
When he got back to the side doorway, Tassle was waiting for him.
*I tried, Yas, but she wouldn’t listen.*
“No, she wouldn’t have.”
Tassle hung his head. *Because I am kindred.*
“Nope. Because you have a cock instead of breasts. She probably patted you on the head and promised to stop soon.”
*She did.* Tassle looked at Lucivar with interest. *Did she pat your head?*
“No, she didn’t.” If she’d been capable of lifting another rock, she would have tried to brain him, but patting any male wasn’t exactly on her mind at the moment.
The daylight was almost gone, so he couldn’t see the full extent of what she’d done in the past two days, but what he could see was enough to make him shake his head.
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. The woman was insane.
That was the only explanation he had for Marian trying to clear close to half an acre of land in order to plant a few vegetables, herbs, and flowers. Of course, being a hearth witch meant having a tidy streak that went down to the marrow, so she’d never be content with seeing weeds beyond her little beds. Which meant she’d be out here working too hard every time he turned his back.
He understood her wanting the garden. Besides the practical reasons of growing some of their own food, it would be hers. Her work, her accomplishment, her . . . claim.
He looked at the land again, turning that thought over. Everyone needed something to call their own. She lived in it and took care of it, but she thought of the eyrie as his place. But the garden . . . Something of her own, apart from him. Something she would want to see change with the seasons. Which meant she intended to stay, even if she didn’t realize it yet.
She’d never be able to clear all of this and have the pleasure of seeing vegetables ripen and flowers bloom this year. And if he tried to help her now, she might see it as his way of reminding her that the land didn’t really belong to her.
Moving away from the eyrie, Lucivar stopped when he reached a place where he could look down at Riada—and smiled. He had a way he could prepare the ground for her. Now he just needed a reason to get her away from Ebon Rih for a couple of days—and a little help doing it.
“My fingers are shriveled,” Marian complained, clutching the towel she’d wrapped around herself.
“But you can almost stand up straight,” Lucivar replied as he led her to her bedroom. “All right. On your belly.”
“What?”
A slash of fear.
Gritting his teeth, he gave her a little push toward the bed. “The soak was the first part of the treatment. A rubdown is the second.”
“No, that’s all right. I can—”
He didn’t say anything, he didn’t touch her. He just looked at her. The coven never argued with him when they were on the receiving end of that look. Marian didn’t either. She stretched out on the bed.
After flipping the sheet up to her waist, he straddled her. She jerked up when he vanished the towel. Her shriek of protest turned into a different kind of shriek when he called in a bottle of liniment and poured some on her back without using a warming spell on it first. Leaving the bottle of liniment floating on air freed both hands to push her down and rub her tight muscles.
“It stinks,” Marian said.
“It’s supposed to smell like that,” Lucivar replied. “It’s a reminder not to do stupid things that make you need it.”
She didn’t answer him. Just as well.
When he finally worked most of the stiffness out of her shoulders, she said, “You had a visitor.”
“Who was it?” He poured more liniment into his hand and used a warming spell on it since she wasn’t resisting the rubdown anymore.
Lucivar stiffened. After a moment, he smoothed the warm liniment over Marian’s back, giving the area around her wings special attention. “Probably Roxie. Did you let her in?”
“No. Didn’t like her.” Marian’s eyes were closed. Her voice had the slur of someone half asleep. “That’s why you have locks on the doors.”
“That’s exactly why.”
“Thought so.” She took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh. “I made stew.”
He stopped kneading her muscles and leaned over far enough to see her face. “Are we still talking about Roxie?”
“No. Dinner. Stew. You can eat some.”
“All right.”
Her messages delivered, Marian fell asleep.
After studying her for a long moment, Lucivar decided nothing short of dragging her into the bathroom and holding her under a stream of cold water would wake her. So he finished her back, then pulled down the sheet and rubbed liniment on her legs. When he was done, he vanished the bottle of liniment, pulled up the bedcovers, and put a warming spell on them to keep her from getting chilled during the night.
He ate a bowl of quickly warmed stew, told Tassle to keep watch, and flew to the Keep, where he’d left Jaenelle a couple of hours ago.
She closed her book and studied him. “What brings you back here tonight, Brother?”
Her knowing he was there as her brother and not as a Warlord Prince who served in her court made this a lot easier. “I need a favor, and I don’t want to explain why.”
TEN
Tarl, the head gardener at SaDiablo Hall, was the first man to arrive that morning.
Which figured, Lucivar thought as he raised a hand in welcome. Tarl had probably come in the Hall’s small private Coach and stayed out of sight until the driver caught the Winds and guided the Coach to the next destination—with Jaenelle and a flustered Marian inside it.