Page 39 of The Spy’s Song

He had just vowed to protect her, and now she was bleeding.

***

Rodrick slid his arm beneath her knees and lifted her.

"Put me down. I can walk," Louise said.

"I know." He adjusted her carefully against his chest. "I also know whose saber opened your arm."

Louise went quiet.

Rodrick kept his eyes on the path ahead. The words came harder than they should have. “I’m sorry, Lou.”

“It was nothing. I’m certain troopers injure themselves every day.”

They did.

They also died every day.

The thought tightened his hold around her before he could stop it. He spent the walk to the château registering every catch in her breath. His jaw was wired shut, the muscles along it tight enough to ache. He looked at the road south. If he started down the path now, how long until he reached Bayonne, the Pyrenees? The fucking ocean?

He lowered her onto his bed with more care than he had shown dying men, supporting her shoulders until they met the pillows. Blood had soaked through the sleeve of her shirt.

"I can manage," she whispered.

"Let me see it."

He helped her off the white blouse, gritting his teeth at her wince. Rodrick had undressed Louise in his imagination often enough that this could only be divine punishment.

The gash ran two inches along her arm. Clean edges. Shallow enough that it hadn't gone to the muscle. Deep enough that it needed closing.

He did this. He had marred her fair skin. He had stood in that field with years of cavalry training, and this was the result.

She exhaled. "I'll ask one of the women to—"

"No. Only I touch you." The growl came out of his own throat.

Louise's eyes widened.

Rodrick looked away. A splendid continuation of the afternoon. Cut the woman. Carry her to his bed. Announce proprietary rights over her body. At this rate, he would be dragging her into a cave and baring his teeth at anyone foolish enough to approach.

He crossed to the traveling trunk near the wardrobe. His medical case lay inside, where James had packed it because he had the foresight to assume that wherever Rodrick went, somebody would eventually need stitching. Usually Rodrick.

He assembled what he needed on the bedside table.

"Tell me why you are here," she asked.

"I will do what I promised. That's all you need to know."

He uncorked the brandy with his teeth and swallowed a mouthful. The burn traveled from his mouth to his chest, sharp and clarifying.

He held out the bottle. She took it. Drank. Coughed once, eyes watering.

"Another one," he said.

She swallowed deeply, licked her lips, and left the bottle on the bedside table.

He threaded the needle. When he looked up, her shoulders had drawn in, and her whole body contracted. She was afraid. Of course she was afraid. She was a dancer. Her instrument was her body, and her body had just been opened, and now there was a needle, and the man holding it had put the cut there in the first place.