Spellbinder
Page 30

“This time I got smart about it,” she told him. “I slept for the first part of the day and waited until this evening to jog my five thousand, one hundred steps.”
He cocked his head. “Why five thousand, one hundred steps? Why not just five thousand?”
“According to my running stride, five thousand and one hundred steps is three miles,” she told him drily. “And God forbid that I do anything else, like five thousand and ninety-nine. Jogging in the evening, I had less time to wait for the water.”
“Good thinking.” He smiled.
Despite her musical brilliance, in many ways she was just a normal human. She was completely out of her depth here, like any normal human would be, but she was still using her mind, still thinking of ways to make the precarious situation work for her. She was stronger than she thought, and smarter than she realized.
This time, too, she was not quite as desperate for food, and she chose to clean up first. He hadn’t wanted her to feel uncomfortable about undressing in front of someone she didn’t know, so while he hadn’t exactly lied to her—not exactly—he could see rather more in the dark than he had led her to think.
Leaning back against the cool stone wall, he enjoyed watching the play of shadow on shadow, which suggested rather than revealed her lithe, slim form. He was walking a fine line between baser instincts and his better self. If he had been able to see anything more, he would have been forced by his own conscience to either warn her or look away.
When she had finished, she sat cross-legged beside him on the cot. Then he pulled out the foods he had brought—meat and potato pies, more fruit, boiled eggs, and a plain baked potato to leave with her, and sticky pieces of maple-pecan candy.
“I haven’t eaten supper yet,” he told her. “I hope you don’t mind if I join you.”
Her voice warmed. “No, of course not.”
For a while they ate in silence, and he focused on enjoying the food. There were plenty of pies to satisfy even his appetite, and they were still slightly warm from the oven. The outside crust was buttery and flaky, while inside, a filling of rich, fragrant gravy coated the meat and potatoes.
Odd, he thought. Despite the fact they were each in a terrible situation, Sidonie caught in her trap and he in his, as they sat together and shared a meal, the silence was almost companionable. Enjoyable.
He didn’t have friends anymore. All his friends were long dead. Mostly now he had a smorgasbord of enemies, from those in the Light Court who looked on him in fear, to Isabeau and Modred themselves, whom he loathed with an undying passion.
Then there were the members of Oberon’s Dark Court, who all hated and feared him, and with good reason, and a smattering of unfortunate people all over the world who had learned, through him, what it meant to get on Isabeau’s bad side.
A couple of Isabeau’s Hounds had been decent men before she had ordered him to change them as she had taken and changed Morgan. But more often than not, her Hounds had been bad men and mean fighters, and turning them into lycanthropes had exacerbated both qualities.
As their captain, Morgan often had to command through force. It was his responsibility to make sure they obeyed orders, and he’d had to put Hounds down when they refused to learn how to control their beasts. The dynamic didn’t make for cozy relationships.
He had gone without for so long, he had forgotten some time ago to notice his lack of friends until this very moment. Carefully he brushed the crumbs off his fingers after finishing his last pie.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He sighed. “It’s my pleasure. You don’t have to thank me after every meal, Sidonie.”
“You can call me Sid. Most people do.”
Sid. He liked that. It was quirky. He liked her full name too. It sounded like her, feminine and elegant.
When he nudged her to take a candy, she did and popped it in her mouth. After a moment, she stirred. “You still haven’t told me why you’re helping me.”
He didn’t take a candy. Instead, he whispered levelly, “Remember what I did tell you.”
She gestured impatiently. “Yes, I know. It’s too dangerous for you to tell me anything. I’m not supposed to know who you are. Only I don’t buy it.”
He murmured, “I was just thinking how smart you were. Don’t prove me wrong.”
Her shadowed face lifted to his. “I’m not asking you to tell me your identity. I’m asking you for something more personal than a label or a name. I’m just asking why. Why are you helping me? Being down here has got to bring back bad memories for you. You could be anywhere else right now. Why are you here, sitting and eating with me in this awful place?”
Chapter Eight
It was a fair question, but he didn’t want to answer it.
The other alternative was to leave, yet he found himself reluctant to go. That would leave her alone for almost an entire day, and he hated the idea of her sitting alone in this cell. Propping his elbow on an upraised knee, he rubbed his forehead as he grappled with unruly emotions.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, very low. “You shouldn’t know anything about Avalon, you shouldn’t be imprisoned, and you should never have been tortured. You should never have met Modred or Isabeau, or me either, for that matter. You should be free, living a totally oblivious life. Playing your music, falling in love with someone clever, kind, and educated, sightseeing all the beauty in the world. Your music is passionate and wildly brilliant. It’s some of the best I’ve heard in generations. Everything about you shines with bright colors, and yet look where you are right now. It is an abomination.”
As he spoke her hand stole onto his knee.
At her touch, the words backed up in his throat, and it took him a moment before he could speak again, through clenched teeth. “Your presence here offends me. It goes against everything inside me to have to walk away every time I leave and to know I’m leaving you behind. To know I can’t do anything to break you free from this. Robin did his work all too well.”
“What did you do to him?”
The breath left him in an angry exhalation. Bitterness laced his reply. “I did everything I was ordered to do.”
“Everything,” she repeated blankly. Then, in the barest thread of sound, she asked, “Did you torture him?”