Part 7 (2/2)
”There's much to be done.”
”I find myself jealous of a ten-year-old boy.”
”Nearly twelve is Phelan. He's small for his age.”
”Regardless, you didn't sit and feed me broth or kiss my brow when I was well enough to sit up on my own.”
”You were not so sweet-natured a patient.”
”I would be now.” He kissed her, surprised that she didn't flush and flutter as females were wont to do. Instead she answered his lips with a reckless pa.s.sion that stirred his appet.i.te. ”Put me to bed, and I'll show you.”
She laughed and nudged him back. ”That will have to wait. I have duties.”
”I'll help you.”
Her face softened. ”You have helped me already. But come. I'll give you work.”
Chapter 8
There was no lack of work. The prince of Mrydon found himself tending goats and chickens. Shoveling manure, hauling endless buckets of snow to a low fire, carting precious wood to a communal pile.
The first day he labored he tired so quickly that it scored his pride. On the second, muscles that had gone unused during his recovery ached continually. But the discomfort had the benefit of Deirdre rubbing him everywhere with one of her balms. And made the ensuing loving both merry and slippery.
She was a joy in bed, and he saw none of the sadness in her eyes there.
Her laughter, the sound he'd longed to hear, came often.
He grew to know her people and was surprised and impressed by the lack of bitterness in them. He thought them more like a family, and though some were lazy, some grim, they shouldered together. They knew, he realized, that the survival of the whole depended on each.
That, he thought, was another of Deirdre's gifts. Her people held the will to go on, day after day, because their lady did. He couldn't imagine his own soldiers bearing the hards.h.i.+ps and the tedium with half as much courage.
He came upon her in her garden. Though the planting and maintenance there was divided, as all ch.o.r.es were in Rose Castle, he knew she often chose to work or walk there alone.
She did so now, carefully watering her plantings with snowmelt.
”Your goat herd has increased by one.” He glanced down at his stained tunic. ”It's the first such birthing I've attended.”
Deirdre straightened, eased her back. ”The kid and the she-goat are well?”
”Well and fine, yes.”
”Why wasn't I called?”
”There was no need. Here, let me.” He took the spouted bucket from her.
”Your people work hard, Deirdre, but none as hard as their queen.”
”The garden is a pleasure to me.”
”So I've seen.” He glanced up at the wide dome. ”A clever device.”
”My grandfather's doing.” Since he was watering, she knelt and began to harvest turnips. ”He inherited a love for gardening from his mother, I'm told. It was she who designed and planted the rose garden. I'm named for her. When he was a young man, he traveled, and he studied with engineers and scientists and learned much. I think he was a great man.”
”I've heard of him, though I thought it all legend.” Kylar looked back at her as she placed turnips in a sack. ”It's said he was a sorcerer.”
Her lips curved a little. ”Perhaps. Magic may come through the blood. I don't know. I do know he gathered many of the books in the library, and built this dome for his mother when she was very old. Here she could start seedlings before the planting time and grow the flowers she loved, even in the cold. It must have given her great pleasure to work here when her roses and other flowers were dormant with winter.”
She sat back on her heels, looked over her rows and beyond to the sad and spindly daisies she prized like rubies. ”I wonder if somehow he knew that his gift to his mother would one day save his people from starvation.”
”You run low on fuel.”
”Yes. The men will cut another tree in a few days.” It always pained her to order it. For each tree cut meant one fewer left. Though the forest was thick and vast, without new growth there would someday be no more.
”Deirdre, how long can you go on this way?”
”As long as we must.”
”It's not enough.” Temper that he hadn't realized was building inside him burst out. He cast the bucket aside and grabbed her hands.
She'd been waiting for this. Through the joy, through the sweetness, she'd known the storm would come. The storm that would end the time out of time. He was healed now, and a warrior prince, so healed, could not abide monotony.
”It's enough,” she said calmly, ”because it's what we have.”
”For how much longer?” he demanded. ”Ten years? Fifty?”
”For as long as there is.”
Though she tried to pull away, he turned her hands over. ”You work them raw, haul buckets like a milkmaid.”
”Should I sit on my throne with soft white hands folded and let my people work?”
”There are other choices.”
”Not for me.”
”Come with me.” He gripped her arms now, tight, firm, as if he held his own life.
Oh, she'd dreamed of it, in her most secret heart. Riding off with him, flying through the forest and away to beyond. Toward the sun, the green, the flowers. Into summer.
”I can't. You know I can't.”
”We'll find the way out. When we're home, I'll gather men, horses, provisions. I'll come back for your people. I swear it to you.”
<script>