Had he given her pleasure? He frowned. He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember if he'd given her release. Perfect. He couldn't heal her, couldn't do anything for her like this, in this . . . mutation. That cursed seawitch.
Jonah found himself back out on the deck, staring out at a turbulent ocean. The day had become overcast, with a promise of more rain. In fact, a soft patter of drops had already started to speckle the sand rolling away to the beach from the front of the cottage. It drew his eye to a flash of red among the beach grass. One of the hardy wildflowers that could make it in a dune environment. Red petals, large brown center. The petals soft, the inside bristling.
Slowly, his fists unclenched. Why didn't you just let me die? The seawitch, Anna. Both of them were blamed in these irrational bursts of anger he couldn't seem to control, like a child.
The Lady had once said that flowers contained all the wisdom that She could ever offer, Her very favorite creation. Like many things, She hadn't elaborated on why, but the wisdom was there, waiting for him to push past his self-pity and see it.
He wasn't a child. If he'd reacted like one, the answer was not to continue doing so now. He fought back the feelings of anger, treating them as any other enemy. Repel; contain if you can't destroy. Then see to the wounded.
He removed the flower, scooping out the root ball. Finding a cup in her small kitchen, he put the flower in there and carried the mug back up the stairs. She didn't hear him come in. She was standing at her closet, clutching a dress of light fabric in her hands, her head tilted down as if thinking.
Though he winced anew at the sight of her back, he put down the mug and went to her. Her head lifted as she sensed his approach, but before she could turn, he laid his hands on an unmarked expanse of skin at the top of her shoulders, stilling her.
He used one hand to gather her hair, lift it away from her back where she'd hastily shaken it when she did note his presence. He twisted it into a tail, laid it over one shoulder. The froth of curls, like the unfurling of an ocean wave, tumbled over one breast, the tips tickling the soft vee of her mons.
"You won't hide your pain from me," he said. "Give me the dress."
It was a worn, soft cotton he knew would still feel like sandpaper. But he recognized easily enough that she was feeling vulnerable, flayed by his anger, and was seeking shielding.
"What happened?" She said the words almost as two separate sentences, as if the energy to form one was too much.
He laid the dress to the side, turned her. She was studying the center of his chest so hard he was sure she could drill a hole there. Was there anything that made a male feel so chastised as a female's refusal to look at him?
Tilting her chin up, he lightly, lightly brushed his lips over hers. Then her eyes. Her nose. The set of her chin. "I was being a complete bastard. How can I give you comfort? Tell me how I can ease your pain until nightfall, when I get my healing ability back."
"I'm fine. I--"
"Anna." His grip increased. "I didn't ask. I've been a commander for a very long time. My men will tell you my mouth does not open unless I am about to issue an order."
She pressed her lips together, revealing her own streak of stubbornness. "I am not part of your army, my lord."
He arched a brow. "I am bigger, stronger and determined to have my way. And I will spank you if you don't listen to me."
Her gaze flew up to him then. But he couldn't hold out against the emotions surging in her eyes. "By the Lady, let me help, Anna. I can't bear your pain any more than you can bear mine, though I hope by now you realize mine is far more deserved."
Amazingly, again without having done the slightest bit to earn it, he won a small curve of her lips, despite the tremor of her hands which told him the pain she was suffering.
"That's the second time you have threatened to spank me, my lord. Your threats are going to lack weight if you continue to issue them without following through."
"Very well, then." He made as if to turn her over his knee, gently, and she pulled away, emitting a short giggle. She put her hand over her mouth, shifted. He gave her a level look and she sighed.
"Cool fresh water, my lord. That is likely the best thing."
He nodded, squeezed her hand and went to her bathroom, which also had a large tub. Bending over, he turned the spigots, getting the water started. He turned, seeing her watching him with a bemused look on her face. She looked away, coloring, and he came back to her, took her hand. It made him curse himself anew, for close to her like this it was enhanced, how much bigger and stronger he really was. At least physically. As she tilted her head up, the clearness of her gaze so pure, he felt she could decimate him with nothing more than a tear or frown. "I can carry you," he said.
Her eyes sparkled, a quick trace of humor. "I am sure my legs are functioning properly, my lord. Let's test them out."
Helping her to the tub, he let her sit on the edge until it finished filling. He leaned in the doorway and watched her bend forward now, the ends of her hair dipping in. Her hand drifted on the water's surface. He could imagine her sitting on a rock in the sun, sailors happily dashing themselves on that rock to get close to her.
When she was ready, he held her hand as she stepped into the tub, steadied her as she sat down. Before she could reach for the sponge, he took it, saturated it in the water and then began to squeeze it over the top of her back, watching her shiver as the water made first contact, the skin sensitive enough to feel the drops as a much heavier impact. He brought the sponge closer so the drops fell more gently and then started to do that in a continuous motion to make it more of a flow than a rainfall. The slight flinching ceased, and she closed her eyes.
Smooth curve of spine, her bottom a heart, the curves flattened where they pressed into the porcelain. It reminded him of the give of the flesh under his fingers when he squeezed them. Pale, soft. As opposed to the red, blistered skin above, his doing.
"I'm sorry, Anna. For all of it."
He had his other hand on the edge of the tub and she covered it without even opening her eyes. "Already forgiven, my lord." Her fingers tightened as her mouth firmed and he could tell she needed to say more. Things he didn't want to hear.
"The Joining Magic, my lord. You need--"
His stomach made that terrible gurgling noise again, only far more pronounced this time. Her eyes opened, going to the affected area, then up to his face. "You're . . . hungry."
"Apparently. Though I've no idea what exactly a human eats. I've never paid much attention."
Her eyes were dancing with that irrepressible amusement again. She really wasn't angry with him, wasn't holding a grudge at all. It was amazing, how it diluted some of the heaviness in his own chest, made him want to smile with her.
"I know just the place. It's on our way."
"On our way to what?"
The humor banked somewhat, but she continued on in a light note, as if she didn't realize he could read every slight shift, every nuance of her expressions. "To begin our journey, my lord."
Ten
DESPITE his attempt to delay the inevitable, citing the pain in her back, Anna wouldn't let herself be dissuaded. Fortunately, he chose not to be too stubborn about it. She put two changes of clothes for each of them and a few other essentials in a backpack, while he prowled around.
It would be too easy to give in, stay in the protective comfort of her cottage, where she didn't know for a fact that every step they took toward Nevada and the shaman was a step closer to Jonah healing, leaving. If she was successful.
He wasn't hers. Not remotely, not ever. And if she hadn't known something was terribly wrong earlier, she'd have known it after his violent rejection of the Joining Magic that morning. When it had happened, she had felt something more than Jonah shove her offering away. Something dark and frightening, which disturbed her to consider even now.