I stared at myself in the mirror, and even my face was empty. My eyes held that dull startled look that had more to do with shock than anything else. The last time I'd seen this look on my face had been after the last duel, when I knew finally that the duels would never stop until I was dead. The night I'd made my decision to run, to hide.
The invitation to return to faerie was only hours old, and already I looked like a shell-shock victim. I raised my arms again and stared at the claw marks. In a way I'd paid the price for my return to faerie. I'd paid in blood, flesh, pain: the coin of the Unseelie Court. The queen had invited me back and given me her promise of safety, but I knew her. She'd still want to punish me for running, for hiding, for defeating her best efforts at hunting me down. To say that my aunt is not a graceful loser is an understatement of universe-shattering proportions.
There was a knock on the bathroom door. "May I come out?" Doyle asked.
"I'm trying to decide that now," I said.
"Excuse me?" he asked.
"Fine, come out," I said.
Doyle had draped the straps of the sword sheath over his bare chest. The hilt rode upside down,
slightly to one side of his ribs, like a gun in a shoulder holster. The straps seemed loose, as if he'd taken off something that had been helping hold it in place.
I'd never seen Doyle when he wasn't covered from neck to ankle. Even at high summer he rarely wore short sleeves, just lighter cloth. He had a silver ring in his left nipple. It was a startling thing against the utter blackness of his skin. The wound rode above the swell of his left pectoral muscle. The scarlet of the wound looked almost decorative against his chest, like some elaborate makeup meant to tease the eye.
"How badly are you hurt?" he asked.
"I could ask you the same thing."
"I carry no mortal blood, Princess. I will heal. I ask you again how badly are you injured?"
"I'm wondering if I need stitches on the arm, and..." I started to raise the nightshirt on the puncture wound, but stopped in midmotion. The sidhe are comfortable around nudity, but I'd always tried to be more circumspect around the guards.
"The puncture wound on my thigh, I'm wondering how deep it is." I let the purple silk fall back into place without pointing out the wound. It was very high up on my thigh and I was still not wearing underwear. I often didn't to bed. Habit. Now I wished I had put some on. Even though Doyle couldn't tell what I was or wasn't wearing under the nightshirt, I felt suddenly underdressed.
I'd have teased Jeremy, but I wouldn't have teased Uther, and I wouldn't tease Doyle, for very similar reasons. They were both cut off from that part of themselves. Uther because he'd been exiled and there were no women of his stature. Doyle on the whim of his queen.
He picked up the sleeping bags and laid them on the floor between the bed and the wall, then he sat on the end of the bed. "May I see the wound, Princess?"
I sat down on the edge of the bed beside him, smoothing the nightshirt down around me. I held my left arm out to him.
He used both his hands to raise the arm up, bending it at the elbow, so he could see the wound better. His fingers felt larger than they should have, more intimate than they were. "It is deep; some of the muscles are torn. It must hurt." He looked at me when he said the last.
"I can't seem to feel much of anything right now," I said.
He laid his hand on my forehead. His hand felt so warm, it was almost hot. "You are cool to the touch, Princess." He shook his head. "I should have noticed earlier. You are in shock. Not severe, but it was careless of me not to notice. You need healing and warmth."
I took my hand back from him. The feel of his fingers sliding along my skin as I drew away from him made me look away so he wouldn't see it in my face. "Since neither of us can heal by touch, I think I'll have to settle for some bandages and the warmth."
"I can heal by magic," he said.
I looked at him. His face was very careful, unreadable. "I've never seen you do it at court."
"It is a more... intimate method than the touch of hands. At court there are healers much more powerful than I. My own small abilities in the area of healing are not needed." He held his hands out toward me. "I can heal you, Princess, or would you prefer a trip to the emergency room and stitches? Either way the bleeding must be stopped."
Stitches are not my favorite thing. I laid my hand in his. He bent the arm at the elbow again, clasping his hand in my hand, entwining our fingers. My skin looked shockingly white against his darkness, like polished jet next to mother-of-pearl. He placed his other hand just in back of my elbow. My arm was held gently but firmly in place. I realized that I couldn't move away from him and I didn't know how his healing worked.
"Will it hurt?"
He looked at me around the edge of my arm. "It may, a little." He began to bend toward my arm as if to lay a kiss on the wound.
I put my free hand on his shoulder, stopping his forward movement. His skin was like warm silk. "Wait-how exactly are you going to heal me?"
He gave that small smile. "If you would wait but moments you would see."
"I don't like surprises," I said, hand still on his shoulder.
He smiled and shook his head. "Very well." But his hands stayed at my hand and arm. I was still being held, as if he were going to heal me whether I agreed or not. "Sholto told you that one of my names is Baron Sweet-tongue."
"I remember," I said.
"He implied that it was sexual, but it is not. I can heal your wound, but not with my hands."
I stared at him for a few heartbeats. "Are you saying you're going to lick the wound closed?"