closed her eyes to feel the magic around him. Still there, and growing in strength. It lit the air around him with energy, invisible but alive, the touches of the other world that existed just beneath this one.
The kettle whistled, piercing her apprehension. She busied herself with making tea—an English pleasure she simply couldn’t forsake—for herself and Lesperance. Only when she readied to pour the water did she realize she had only one mug. Which would be worse? Drinking from the mug and then placing it to his mouth, or giving him the mug first and then having to place her mouth where his had been?
He was her patient, so his needs came before her own. She dribbled a bit of tea into his mouth. She felt a surge of gratification when he swallowed easily. He would be better soon. And that meant his departure.
Astrid desperately wanted some tea, but, as she considered the mug in her hands, she found she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t share the same cup as him. Altogether too much intimacy. So she left it on the table, to wash later.
After eating a small meal of bread and cheese, taken from her cool cupboard, and performing meaningless, mindless tidying around her already clean cabin, Astrid found herself with nothing to do. Ordinarily, she would spend her days hunting or cultivating the small garden behind the cabin, but she was loathe to leave this stranger in her home unattended. As much as she hated sharing the small space with him, her conscience wouldn’t allow her to stray far from his bedside. He might need something, might get worse, his injuries might demand attention. Right now he slept, seemingly at peace.
Wait, then, until he awoke.
She went to her bookcase and selected Scott’s Ivanhoe. She’d lost count how many times she’d read it, but she wanted to immerse herself in the familiar comforts of knights and ladies. She always identified more with the knights than the ladies, though, riding around, performing feats of heroism, rather than embroidering in the solar. Michael used to tease her because of this, calling her Sir Astrid. He didn’t laugh as much when she called him Lady Michael.
Yes, she told herself, think of him, and not the man in her bed now. She would get Lesperance well again and then send him packing. Whatever trouble he’d gotten himself into, magical or no, he must deal with it on his own. She was through with magic.
His groan, several hours later, brought her to his bedside. He was awake, struggling to sit up.
“Don’t aggravate your wounds,” she cautioned.
He glanced down at his bare torso, drawing her attention to the chiseled muscles there, the dark brown of his nipples. Like other Natives, he hadn’t any hair on his chest, only the faintest dark trail that began just below his navel and led downward, covered, thank heavens, by the blanket.
“What wounds?” he rasped.
Her gaze flew back up to where the worst of his injuries had been. She swore. The cuts were gone now, barely red lines crossing his skin. Same with the rope abrasions. And the bruises were a healing yellow.
Astrid swore under her breath.
He lifted up the blanket just enough to ascertain that he was completely naked. “You took my clothes.”
“You were naked when I found you. Do you remember what happened?”
Anger and confusion darkened his face. He sat up fully. “There were men,” he said, struggling to recall. “A group of men. Spoke with English accents.”
A flare of alarm, but she tamped down her fear. Englishmen filled Canada. “And these Englishmen, what did they want?”
“Hell if I know.” He scowled. “Tied me up like a damned dog. They took me from the trading post. Don’t know where.”
“How did you get free?”
His look turned even blacker as he grew more frustrated, his hands forming fists. “I can’t fucking remember.” He shot her a glance. “Sorry. Taught not to curse in front of ladies.”
Astrid eyed her clothes wryly. A man’s shirt, vest, trousers. Heavy boots. She wasn’t wearing her gun belt at the moment, but she was seldom far from it. “No such things as ladies out here.”
“You’ve got a lady’s accent.”
She ignored this comment. “Is there anything else you can remember? Anything those men said?”
He shook his head. “Little bits float in and out of my head, but nothing to grab onto. Damn frustrating. But…I kept hearing a falcon, screeching.”
Her fear sharpened. “Falcon,” she repeated.
Memories began to collect in his mind; she could see the growing clarity in his coal black eyes. “There was a falcon…at the trading post. I think it was the same one.”
“I didn’t see it,” she said quickly. “Flying above the post?”
“Showed up after you left. Not flying. It was with some men, some Englishmen.” His dark brows drew down as he fitted pieces of remembrance together. “They were looking for guides, said something insulting to me. Then the bird, the falcon. It got agitated. Started shrieking and flapping for no reason.”
“Were you standing near the falcon when it did this?” The words felt like ice in her mouth. She already knew his answer.
He frowned up at her. “Yes. How would you know?” A cold rage sparked in his eyes. “You working with them?” He swung his legs around so his feet were on the ground. Before he could rise and let the blankets fall away entirely, she held out her hands as if to hold him back.
“I’m not working with anyone,” she clipped.
“But you knew about the bird. How?” This was a demand, not a request. He grabbed her wrists.
There was no diminishment of sensation. If anything, it had intensified, so that they both jolted the moment he touched her. Around him, the aura of magical energy grew, so much so that it was a wonder it wasn’t visible. His skin was warm now, almost sultry to the touch. Not in the way of a fever. Something else heated him.
He drew in a hard breath, then grimaced. “Everything’s become so sharp. Clear. Sounds. Scents.” He locked eyes with her. “Touch.”
Molten awareness gathered. “Since when?”
The tropic intensity of his gaze could have incinerated the cabin around her. Even in this heightened state, she felt it again, the connection between them. If anything, it had grown stronger. A wounded wildness they shared. “Since yesterday, when I met you.” He drew her toward him, until she stood between his legs. His calves were leanly muscled, his feet long. “You’ve done something to me.” An accusation, rough, searching. “Some kind of drug. I’d say you put a spell on me, but there’s no such thing as magic.”
“Then you really don’t know,” she said softly, more to herself than him.
His glower was ferocious. “Don’t know what?”
Before she could think up an appropriate answer, he stiffened, tilting his head slightly to one side. “I hear someone coming. On horseback. They’ve got a pack mule, too.”
At
