"You always had a gift for stating the obvious, lad." Byrne rose and discarded the shattered glass, pulling off his soaked tunic on his way to the corner basin, where he washed the sticky dregs of the wine from his skin. He retrieved fresh garments from his armoire and began dressing as he tried to think of how to word his opinion. "I cannae deny that Rob is the best candidate any more than I can hide my discomfort with his bid."
Cyprien's brows rose. "What unsettles you about it?"
"I told him the day after I spoke with you. I dinnae know why; maybe I craved him to say my decision was wise." Byrne loosened the laces at the front of his shirt. "That he instead leaped at the chance to rule the Realm himself troubled me. Made me wonder if he ever was my friend."
"Did you make the right choice?" Cyprien asked.
"For the good of the men and the Realm, aye, I did." Byrne threaded his belt through his scabbard and buckled it over his hips. "You must choose as you will, Michael. My opinion matters not. Whoever replaces me will be your man, not mine."
A quick knock sounded at the chamber door before it opened and Jayr entered.
"Good evening, seigneur." She bowed to him. "Your lady would appreciate your presence in your chambers. She asked me to say that she needs your assistance with the hooks on her ball gown."
"She has not yet discarded it for faded denims and a Disney T-shirt? Incredible. Byrne, I will see you at the reception. My thanks, Jayr." Cyprien smiled at her and left.
Jayr glanced at the wine-soaked tunic on the floor before turning to him. "I see you are already dressed." She sounded slightly disappointed. "All is well, my lord?"
Byrne nodded and ran a hand through his thick hair. She had washed it for him last night, but he had neglected to brush it out. "Will you do something with this owl's nest, lass?" He picked up a stool and brought it over to the old mirror. His image scowled at him. "I should shave my head. I vow my hair grew another foot last night."
"It always grows thus during the waning moon." Jayr retrieved a comb, brush, and shears, and took a position behind his stool. "It is too beautiful to shave off, my lord. You would break the heart of every woman in the Realm."
"Our family priest disliked women, and made the first Bible story I memorized that of Samson and Delilah. I promised myself that I wouldnae cut my hair lest I lose my strength. I was so adamant that my mother took to trimming it while I slept." He stared at the reflection of his broad, tattooed face. "I dinnae know what you see, Jayr. No one could call me a beauty."
"No, for you are too fierce and manly," Jayr said as she draped a hand towel over his wide shoulders. "That is why God gifted you with this glorious mane."
Byrne sat still as she combed out the tangles that a restless sleep had tied in his hair. She then plied the shears, cautiously snipping away to restore his hair to its former length. She stepped back to view the cut and then brushed the trimmings from his shoulders before taking up the comb and the small ties she used to secure the ends of his braids.
Jayr remained silent, but Byrne could almost feel her pleasure as she wove his braids. She took prodigious interest and time in grooming him, a rather feminine penchant for a seneschal, but he enjoyed the attention and always sat in front of the glass so that he could watch her work. Had she not cut her hair so close to the scalp, he would have done the same for her.
She had not always worn her hair shorn short, Byrne remembered. The day she had saved him, her hair had twined around him as soft and binding as snares of midnight silk. His memories of that encounter were blurred, but he had the distinct impression that he had played with her hair…
"My lord?" Her gaze met his in the mirror. "Are you not pleased with the braiding?"
"No, 'tis cleverly done." He had never cared what she did, only that she did it. "Come around me, here." He guided her in front of him.
Jayr mistook his intent and knelt down. "Do you wish me to change your boots, my lord?"
"No." He worked his fingers through her short, dark locks, lifting them away from her head, searching for the memory of what he had done with it all those centuries before. It seemed shorter now than it had earlier in the day. "Why do you cut your hair so?"
"I do not… I mean, I have always kept it so."
"No, when you came to me you had hair down to your hips." As he sifted the dark strands through his fingertips they shimmered with tangerine light. "The first part of you that touched me was your hair, wasn't it? I mistook it for satin ribbons from your gown."
"I owned nothing made of satin, I assure you." Jayr's face lowered, hiding her expression. "The nuns intended to shear me and make me take my vows. My vanity gave me another reason to run away."
"I cannae criticize them, for they drove you to save me." Byrne slid his hand over the back of her neck to feel the fine, tiny hairs that grew there. "It still feels like satin, only a fringe instead of a ribbon." He tilted her chin up. "What happened to this defiant vanity, then?"
"It became besotted with another head of hair. One far more beautiful than its own." Her hand lifted and adjusted one of the narrow braids near his temple. "You look magnificent, my lord."
"Your hands work magic." Byrne smiled and bent to breathe in her scent. When she stiffened and tried to stand, he put his hands on her shoulders. "Let your hair grow long again, Jayr, and I will braid it for you."
Confusion chased the dismay in her eyes. "My lord, I cannot."
"Why?" He cupped her cheek with his hand. "Do you still fear your vanity?"
"The inconvenience. It would get in my way." Her throat moved as she swallowed. "I should go and change now if we are not to be late." She slipped out from under his hands and stood. "I will return shortly."
Byrne watched her flee from him, and almost gave chase. He didn't understand this new, primal hunger he felt, or why it clawed ferociously at his insides, but he wanted to run her down and drag her back to his chamber. He would bar the door, bind her wrists, whatever it took to keep her with him. Then… then… he would give her what she denied herself and him.
What saved him from abandoning himself to the madness and the pleasures it promised was how much it resembled his affliction. Who was to say it was any different?
"I am a thinking man," he bit out, almost doubling over as he fought for control. "Not… a raging… beast."
Her scent followed him as he escaped his chamber.
Jayr bolted the door and leaned back against it, her heart leaping beneath her breast. Her face burned hot and cold; invisible sand filled her mouth. Her chest wanted to collapse in on itself.
"Nothing is amiss," she said, unaware that she was speaking out loud as she pushed herself away from the door and went to retrieve her outfit for the ball. "It is the injection. The doctor said it might make me feel such things."
Only not so soon, or so she had assumed.
Jayr tore out of her damp tunic and trousers and went to her basin, filling it with warm water and sluicing off the sweat and the smell of heather from her skin. The water felt acutely wet and slick against her flesh; the towel she dried herself with created an almost pleasant abrasion. Between her legs a sluggish, glowing warmth intensified, but when she pressed the washcloth against it, an unseen lance of emptiness impaled her from her crotch to her throat.
Go back to him, the void whispered, snaking back and forth inside her. Let him put his hands on you. His mouth. His tongue.
"Sweet Christ." She nearly jumped out of her skin and flung the cloth away. "What has she done to me?"
Jayr yanked on the new garments, ignoring the sensual way the velvet slid over her limbs and taking pains to avoid touching the place between her legs. As soon as the ball was over she would see Alexandra Keller and have her stop the treatment. The formula given to Jema Shaw would serve as a counter-agent.
It had to. She could not be like this. Not around him.
By the time Jayr felt composed enough to return to Byrne's chamber, the sensations had for the most part subsided. She would be herself again, and he would be none the wiser. She felt the ache in her chest return when she saw his door left open and his rooms empty. From the scent of heather still lingering on the air, she knew he had left only a few minutes ago.
She had disgusted him. That was why he had not waited for her return.
A hand fell on her shoulder. "You look like a sprite of autumn."
Jayr spun around, her hand on her rondele, to stare into the astonished amethyst eyes of Robin of Locksley. "My lord."
"Jayr." His gaze fell to her hand. "Should I rethink my compliment?"
"Yes, No. I thank you." She jerked her hand from the hilt of her blade. "I beg your pardon, but you startled me." She looked down both sides of the hall, but didn't see her master. "Will you accompany me to the ball?"
"It would be my honor." Locksley took her arm and linked it with his. "I know you will not dance, so I am depending on you to applaud my efforts with the ladies."
"My clapping shall be the loudest." A trace of bergamot cleared her head. "Have you seen my lord?"
"I have not." He peered down at her. "Is this paint I see on your face?"
"No."
"You are terribly flushed." He pressed the back of his hand against her cheek and pulled it away to rest his palm against her brow. "God's bones, girl, you're burning hot." He checked her other cheek and the side of her throat. "What has done this to you? Are you ill?"
What would he believe? "Feeding," she blurted. "It always makes me grow very warm. It will soon subside."
"Chilled blood cannot warm you like this," he said, looking suspicious, "and there are no humans here to heat your veins."
"I went to town earlier," she lied. "I tire of bagged blood sometimes. Who do you favor to win at the ranges this season?"
