Spellbinder
Page 18

The pain in her ruined hands remained raw and acute, a constant throbbing to remind her of her own stupidity. Her own temper had killed her as much as anyone else had. She had been warned Isabeau was dangerous, and she had disregarded that, allowing her own outrage at how she’d been treated to supersede common sense or self-preservation.
She had always known she had lived a privileged life. She’d had talent, which her parents had recognized when she was very young and had fostered before they had died. She had earned a lot of money in her career, and she’d enjoyed a certain amount of power that money brings.
She’d thought she hadn’t taken it for granted, but she had never conceived that one of the consequences of the life she had lived would be to refuse to accept when things didn’t go her way until it was too late for her to do anything about it.
How long would it take for her to quit breathing? Too long, too long. Through half-closed eyes, she watched the blackness come, then despite the cold and pain, she managed to fall into an uneasy doze.
Something roused her. She resented it even as she tried to identify what it had been. A sound? A movement? A new air current she hadn’t felt before?
Something touched her.
She jackknifed away and tried to scream, but her vocal chords were still raw and it came out as a hoarse croak.
Hands settled onto her shoulders. Large, strong hands. “Shh, quiet! I’m here to help.”
She barely registered the whispered words. Panicked, she fought against the hold. Blinding agony exploded as she tried to knock the hands away, and she cried out.
Then her consciousness snapped out of existence, and she knew nothing.
When she came awake again, she did so all at once, awareness rushing in, clean, sharp, and complete, as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water on her. She had been laid out on the stone, and a large, hard hand covered her mouth. A male hand.
Magic! While she couldn’t sense spells, she knew very well what magical anesthesia felt like. She chose it over physical drugs every time she had a dental procedure. Someone had put her under. What had he done to her?
She erupted into fighting again, doing everything she could to break the unknown assailant’s grip that held her pinned in place. She slapped and punched him with all her strength, but she couldn’t knock him away from her, although when she punched him in the ribs, he exhaled sharply as if she had done serious damage.
“Stop fighting. I’m not here to hurt you!” This time the words came out clenched as if whispered through gritted teeth.
The words barely registered as she realized what she was doing. Realized what had happened.
She had been slapping… punching…
With her hands.
With a sob, she clasped them together, feeling frantically at each precious finger and thumb, hardly noticing the hand that still covered her mouth and muffled the sounds she was making.
Her hands were pain free, whole, fully functional. She could barely take it in.
She fell apart, completely and utterly lost it. Uncontrollable sobs wracked her body, while she kept clasping and reclasping her hands. She could barely comprehend the barbarity of what had happened to her, let alone this miracle that had brought her back to life.
The man who bent over her swore softly. Shifting, he came down closer to her, so close she could feel his body heat. He whispered in her ear, “You don’t have telepathy.”
She shook her head as tears streamed out of the corners of her eyes and soaked her hair. Why did everybody care so much about the damn telepathy?
“You need to listen to me,” he said, so softly his words were barely a brush of air on her cheek. She scented mint on his breath. “Try to calm down. You must be quiet, do you hear? I am not supposed to be here, and you are not supposed to be healed. Now, I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth. Nod if you understand.”
She nodded, and the hand lifted away from her. After that he didn’t touch her in any way, but she could still feel his body heat. He was reclining along the floor beside her. Another sob shook through her, and she stuffed her own hands against her mouth in an attempt to muffle it.
Her own pain-free hands.
“Crying’s okay,” the male told her, again so quietly she had to control herself just to hear him. “That’s a sound they would expect, but you’re supposed to be alone in this cell. They mustn’t hear us talking, and they have exceptional hearing. Understood?”
With an effort, she managed to clench down on the floodgates enough to grit out, “Yes.”
“Good. Thankfully, I have exceptional hearing too, and I should hear if any of the guards come close.”
“You h-healed me,” she whispered thickly. Her body still shook, and the tears wouldn’t stop. “Who are you? I can’t thank you enough. You saved my life. I thought they had killed me. I can’t live without my hands.”
The darkness was so complete she couldn’t see a thing, yet the soft rustle of clothing told her he had begun to move. The rustle stopped, and for a moment the silence was so intense she almost doubted his reality, her own sanity, until she frantically felt down the length of each of her fingers again and found them whole. Pain free. Limber.
Warm fingers came down over hers and pressed. Turning her hands over, she gripped his hand tightly.
Everything else fell away. Nothing else existed—there was no light, no warmth at all, she didn’t know his name, what he looked like, or anything about him, but in that moment holding his hand felt like holding on to a lifeline.
He allowed it, then gently he disengaged. “Can you sit up?”
She nodded and immediately felt silly. “Yes.”
“I brought food and water. Not the swill they give prisoners. Clean, healthy supplies.”
“A prisoner.” She exhaled a bitter cough as she struggled up. It was much harder than she had expected. She was so shaky, she could barely sit upright. “I guess that’s what I am. Unless—unless—can you possibly help me escape?”
“No,” he said flatly.
The hope had barely been born, and yet that single-word reply felt so crushing she swayed. “But,” she whispered through trembling lips, “but you helped me. You got into this cell, which means you can get out again. Right? You have to leave. You can’t be here when the guard comes in the morning. Won’t you take me with you?”
“I didn’t say I won’t. I said I can’t. I am… constrained.”