distraught. She clutched her medicines to her breast with both hands.
"I won't be afraid. "I'm not . . . I'm not!" Her voice trembled on the knife edge of hysteria. Three times she attempted to reset the wards, then dropped her hands in despair.
"Only fools never fear," said Marric. "What happened, Stephana?" She sank on her knees and he reached out to her.
"You're trembling," he said. "Here, before you drop those jars, give them to me." He pried the unguents out of her fingers.
Stephana's eyes were wild with fear and with a remembered revulsion. One hand inched upward to her mouth; Marric caught the other one. When she jerked away, he began to understand.
Her light garment fell from one shoulder to her waist, exposing flesh reddened and scratched from breast to throat, as if someone had tried to tear her clothes from her and had clutched her breast so hard he left finger marks on her skin.
"Who hurt you?" Marric asked in a soft growl. From the way she held her head low and shook it—did she fear for him? Or was she ashamed? Only Sutekh the overseer would be rash enough to lay violent hands on the mistress' favorite maid.
"How else did he harm you?" Marric made his voice gentle.
"He . . . no, not this time. This time I got away." Stephana's voice was dull with humiliation. She brought up her hand to rub the scratches on her body.
Marric reached for the ointments. "Come here, Stephana. We'll use some of these on you." As he inched closer, he sensed that she feared nearness to him, and bent to draw his blanket over his loins.
"You helped me. Let me help you," he urged. He unstoppered a glass tube with one hand. With the other he pried gently but relentlessly at her fingers.
Why had her magic not spared her this? Anger blazed up in him, and Stephana winced and backed away, moaning at her own helplessness.
Though she had fought Sutekh bravely, now, as reaction to the struggle set in, she had no more fight left in her. Marric laid his arm around her shoulders. He only wanted to draw her close and comfort her before he tended her scratches, but she went rigid.
"Steady now," he murmured. "You saved my life. Do you really think I would try to rape you."
What was it about this woman that tore so at his heart? An invisible cord seemed to draw them together. The sight of her panic, her fear of him and of his touch, made him ache. What a terrible life for a gentle woman: most nights a different master or strangers, and most of them brutal. "I'm not afraid," she had declared so proudly. But she did fear now, and Marric wanted to help her.
He laid a hand on her shoulder again and tipped her face up with his other hand. "I am going to smear some of this balm on those scratches," he said.
"I don't need it."
He shook his head at her.
"Enough talk on the subject. This way I will not worry that you go untended. Come closer." Marric remembered what an old army surgeon had once told him: better tend a wagonload of wounded men than one battered woman.
"Look, you can put your hand on top of mine if you don't trust me . . . and to make sure I do this right," he added. "Come, Stephana. Who is being the coward now?
She let her head droop. Marric reached for linen, wet it, and began delicately to dab her shoulder near her throat. Nails had bit into her flesh and raked downward. As Marric worked, Stephana's unsteady breathing, still too much like sobs, fanned his temple. He thought he would more quickly forgive the overseer for his own beating than for abusing Stephana. Damn the man, he had enjoyed it. Now for the nard. Marric took a generous fingerful and began to work it in. Stephana's skin was very soft. It warmed as the salve sank in. Though her hand hovered protectively close to his own, she relaxed somewhat.
But Marric's injuries were healing, and his body let him know it. Rose scent clung to Stephana's hair, and made him dizzy. His breath grew more rapid. He tried to keep the motion of his fingers, smoothing down her
"I won't be afraid. "I'm not . . . I'm not!" Her voice trembled on the knife edge of hysteria. Three times she attempted to reset the wards, then dropped her hands in despair.
"Only fools never fear," said Marric. "What happened, Stephana?" She sank on her knees and he reached out to her.
"You're trembling," he said. "Here, before you drop those jars, give them to me." He pried the unguents out of her fingers.
Stephana's eyes were wild with fear and with a remembered revulsion. One hand inched upward to her mouth; Marric caught the other one. When she jerked away, he began to understand.
Her light garment fell from one shoulder to her waist, exposing flesh reddened and scratched from breast to throat, as if someone had tried to tear her clothes from her and had clutched her breast so hard he left finger marks on her skin.
"Who hurt you?" Marric asked in a soft growl. From the way she held her head low and shook it—did she fear for him? Or was she ashamed? Only Sutekh the overseer would be rash enough to lay violent hands on the mistress' favorite maid.
"How else did he harm you?" Marric made his voice gentle.
"He . . . no, not this time. This time I got away." Stephana's voice was dull with humiliation. She brought up her hand to rub the scratches on her body.
Marric reached for the ointments. "Come here, Stephana. We'll use some of these on you." As he inched closer, he sensed that she feared nearness to him, and bent to draw his blanket over his loins.
"You helped me. Let me help you," he urged. He unstoppered a glass tube with one hand. With the other he pried gently but relentlessly at her fingers.
Why had her magic not spared her this? Anger blazed up in him, and Stephana winced and backed away, moaning at her own helplessness.
Though she had fought Sutekh bravely, now, as reaction to the struggle set in, she had no more fight left in her. Marric laid his arm around her shoulders. He only wanted to draw her close and comfort her before he tended her scratches, but she went rigid.
"Steady now," he murmured. "You saved my life. Do you really think I would try to rape you."
What was it about this woman that tore so at his heart? An invisible cord seemed to draw them together. The sight of her panic, her fear of him and of his touch, made him ache. What a terrible life for a gentle woman: most nights a different master or strangers, and most of them brutal. "I'm not afraid," she had declared so proudly. But she did fear now, and Marric wanted to help her.
He laid a hand on her shoulder again and tipped her face up with his other hand. "I am going to smear some of this balm on those scratches," he said.
"I don't need it."
He shook his head at her.
"Enough talk on the subject. This way I will not worry that you go untended. Come closer." Marric remembered what an old army surgeon had once told him: better tend a wagonload of wounded men than one battered woman.
"Look, you can put your hand on top of mine if you don't trust me . . . and to make sure I do this right," he added. "Come, Stephana. Who is being the coward now?
She let her head droop. Marric reached for linen, wet it, and began delicately to dab her shoulder near her throat. Nails had bit into her flesh and raked downward. As Marric worked, Stephana's unsteady breathing, still too much like sobs, fanned his temple. He thought he would more quickly forgive the overseer for his own beating than for abusing Stephana. Damn the man, he had enjoyed it. Now for the nard. Marric took a generous fingerful and began to work it in. Stephana's skin was very soft. It warmed as the salve sank in. Though her hand hovered protectively close to his own, she relaxed somewhat.
But Marric's injuries were healing, and his body let him know it. Rose scent clung to Stephana's hair, and made him dizzy. His breath grew more rapid. He tried to keep the motion of his fingers, smoothing down her
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