Gayle Eden by Illara's Champion Page A

to talk to you.”
    His eyes flickered to the book.
    She said swiftly, “I was not prying. They are my family also. I am your wife. I thought… I did not know why you have stayed away from me. I feared I had done something wrong, and I want… I want to speak with you.”
    “Get out,” he said it soft, rasping and a chill went down her spine.
    Illara stood cautiously, her eyes on him, and then she walked across to the door. Stopping where she could look up at him, she said with honest emotion, “I can’t feel what you feel. I cannot know it all in a real sense, because they are not my memories and my experiences. I cannot say that. But I can say that I understand the importance of purpose, and I understand why you exist and do what you choose to do.”
    His mouth was hard and body rigid, so she did not try to discern between anger or whatever emotion it was. She’d come here for a reason.
    “I’m not just the wife of the Lord of Dunnewicke. I am the bride of the beast of Northumberland. The Lady to the Black Knight, and the prize of Pagan de Chevel. I will be that, and proudly, with you—”
    “Nay.”
    ”Yes. I go with you, Pagan. When you leave, I leave, and when you return—”
    “Nay. I cannot—”
    “You will not have to worry about me. I can ride and see to myself. I do not mean to be treated as some fragile lady or distract you. I will not need taking care of. I do not want to be here waiting—I can do nothing here, be nothing, until you have finished what you must. I am no Lady of the castle until my husband is ready to see himself as Lord. Until then, I shall be as you are, and I will not care of the mockery and names—I will be with you.”
    Pagan closed his eyes and turned, striding out into the hall, and then he stopped. “I must bathe from this dirt. You will not be here when I return.”
    She followed him, all the way down the stairs, noticing Pagan had sweated through the leather shirt, and that his sleeve was sliced down from elbow to wrist.
    “I could bathe you.”
    “Illara.” Pagan stopped mid stairs and turned, falling as if weary against the wall and looking to where she stood two steps behind. “Go. Go and—”
    “— You are weary, tired, you’ve pushed yourself these last few days.”
    His teeth grit. “By all that is holy, leave.”
    She should. Pagan was short on tolerance and that was dangerous. Yet she wet her lips, swallowed, and drew courage again. “You once said, I had stealth. I will only follow, if you leave without me.”
    He raised his hand and covered his eyes in the mask. “Christ, woman.”
    “I will not make you sorry.”
    His hand dropped heavily. His voice was deep as Pagan grated, “I cannot do what I must. Travel swift and keep my mind to the task, with you to worry about.”
    “You will not worry about me. I am not reckless, nor stupid, and I can see to myself. I will not distract you.”
    He stared at her as if she were daft.
    She grimaced. “I promise.”
    Finally Pagan rolled his head, looking somewhere upwards. “I must bathe. Have food sent to me here.”
    As he started below again, she chanced, “Does that mean—”
    “— It means I’m filthy, tired, and hungry.” Pagan grouched.
    Illara wisely said no more. However, when he turned into the lower chamber, she headed out to fetch his food herself. It was not going to be easy to convince him. She had known that. Illara was prepared to suffer a bit until he saw the light. She was going with him.
    It took the assistance of two young men to tote the food to the tower. Once in the doorway, she thanked them. Then, called out, “It is I. I’ll bring your meal there.” She ignored the curses and heard the splashing going on.
    Illara was glad for a small bit of light Pagan left glowing when she carried in the trays and jugs. She caught a glimpse of him with his back to her, an uncovered back, as he sat in a smaller bathing pool than was in the keep. This one was likely deeper, it appeared more