Chapter 3

Bette finished her morning jobs half in a daze. She couldn't stop thinking about Elmont, and about how he was right – she did still think of him as a little boy, and it wasn't fair on him.

She also couldn't believe she'd laughed at him last night when he'd said they could have been married if her parents had wanted it. Turning it over in her head, and the way he had turned away from her... she was sure she had hurt him. It was a cruel thing to do. Sometimes, however, she couldn't help it - it was easier to think of him as he'd first known her, before either of them had heard the words 'Duchess of Hillsbrad', and before she'd had to fight to stop herself from caring too much.

Apprehensive, she made her way to the stables to meet him after lunch. He'd had a squire get their horses ready – hers, a small white mare, and his, a big brown gelding – and they were ready to go as soon as she arrived. The squire gave her a leg up and they made their way to the meadow with little more than a smile exchanged.

Elmont rushed straight into the lesson. Maybe he was embarrassed by how she'd clung to him last night - maybe he just wanted to forget it had happened.

"You have to remember, the only thing she cares about is food. That's why she wants to turn home."

"But I can't let her." Bette fumbled with the reins, tugging the mare's head around for the hundredth time.

"That's right. You must be more determined than she is."

"I don't suppose there's any nicer horses to learn on?"

John laughed from where he sat comfortably on his own horse. "She's the nicest we have. And it's important to learn this."

Bette laughed, and said wearily, "Well, I'm certainly becoming an expert at going in circles!"

Eventually, John gave in, and urged his own mount forward. He came up on Bette's left side, so close their legs pressed together, and his taller gelding hazed the white mare into the right direction.

Bette looked up at his face, less than a foot away.

He smiled down at her, with his silly little mustache and his hair that had never sat flat, even as a child.

"Thanks," she said, and he brushed the comment aside, reaching out to pat her mare's neck. Bette put her hand on his arm. "I mean, thanks for last night, as well. You should have just told me to get out – you must have slept terribly."

Elmont laughed and shook his head. "I didn't want to disturb you. I can sleep anywhere – don't worry about me." He moved his mount away from hers. "Now, we're going to trot to that marker," he directed, pointing. "Kick her up!"

She struggled along with her awful rising trot until she could feel her lunch returning to her. As they reached the marker, a rabbit shot out of the grass just ahead of Elmont's mount. The gelding jerked into half a rear, and scared her mare so much she shied sideways, but Bette didn't go with her. She hit the ground flat on her back, the wind knocked out of her. Elmont was there in a second.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, looking over her with wide eyes.

"Winded," she gasped out.

"Try to breathe slowly," he said. "It will pass soon."
"I'm – the healer here," she wheezed.

"Always," he said gently, smiling. He rested on one knee beside her while she got her breathing under control again.

She put her hands over her face and groaned. "I can't believe I've fallen off already. I'm terrible."

Elmont's hands closed over hers, bringing them down from her face. "I've fallen off seventeen times. Usually in a more embarrassing way than that; one time my foot got caught and I was dragged halfway across the yard before the horse stopped."

She couldn't resist smiling at the way he said it, so rueful. He reached out and brushed some hair away from her cheek. His eyes were locked on hers. For a moment, she found it hard to breathe again – but it wasn't from being winded.

Abruptly, he sat back, and held his hand out to pull her to her feet. He steadied her with his hands on her shoulders for a moment.
"Okay?" He asked, mischievous. "I can lend you my walking stick if you like."

Bette frowned. "You still have that thing?"

He shrugged. "Every time I go to get rid of it, it seems like bad luck. I always think, if I get rid of it, I'll surely break my leg, or something, and need it again. I do like to be prepared for everything."

She snorted. "How practical."

"Yes, that comes with my manliness."

Bette raised her eyebrows. "I suppose I wouldn't know – after all, I've never met a real man before."

Elmont was groaning and trying to cut her off before she even finished the sentence. "Alright, alright – I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

She tried to remain serious, but couldn't help laughing. "Yes, you did."

"Are you ever going to stop torturing me about that?" he asked, helpless.

"You haven't apologised enough times yet."

To her surprise, he dropped to one knee, her hand clasped between his, looking up at her with big eyes. "Lilibet, I'm sorry," he said sincerely. Then he added, "Actually, I've said I'm sorry approximately a thousand times. And I would also like to point out that it happened years ago, when I was a stupid teenager, which, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not anymore."

He stood to prove his point, demonstrating his height advantage.

"Yes; you keep saying that. One of these days I suppose I'll have to accept it."

"Good," he grinned. "I'll go catch your horse. We should start back if we want to be home before dark."

Elmont couldn't deny to himself that with any other student, he would make them ride their own horse home. With Bette, he couldn't resist.

"Want a lift?" he asked, holding his hand out to pull her up behind him on his own horse. She settled in, with her thighs encircling him, her small arms wrapped around his stomach, her chest pressing against his back. For a moment, he felt a little dizzy, and he suppressed a shiver. Perhaps he should have worn his armour after all.

They rode home with the mare's lead rope tied to his saddle, and the rocking motion of his mount's walk made things a little bit tight beneath his belt. He hoped she couldn't hear his breath hitching every now and then when she shifted against him; he was glad he hadn't sat her in front. Still, the way she clung tightly to him warmed his heart, and made him think that maybe he did stand a chance to win her, somehow. He knew she cared for him, even when they were younger, after he'd said those horrible things to her – their shared childhood gave them a link that wasn't so easily broken.

Meanwhile, Bette's thoughts were caught up in his mention of that walking stick. Elmont and her brother had been gone almost four years in the war, and when they'd returned, he had looked much older than his twenty-four years. In the meantime, she had moved up to the rank of Adept in the Order, and had been sent to live at the chapter attached to the Guardians. When he returned, she had been assigned to oversee his long-term recovery.

It had taken the better part of six months. Every day, she would walk with him around the castle grounds, or the woods. They went a little further each day. For a long time he used the walking stick, and she always carried an extra blanket to sit over his shoulders when he caught chill. He got cold very easily, especially early on – he had returned painfully thin as a result of fever.

"I can't lift my sword."

He said it suddenly, while they were sitting at the edge of the lake. He had been home a month, and he spoke so little she had started to become used to silence.

She turned to him, but his gaze remained fixed out across the water. "The fever deteriorated your muscles," she said gently. "It will take time, but you will regain your strength. You'll be as strong as you used to be…"

He was shaking his head, so she trailed off, waiting for him to speak again.

"It's not that." His voice was rougher, older than it had been before he left. "Every time I try, all I see is blood."

Bette put her hand on his knee, still bony, but better than it had been at first. She digested his words for a few minutes. She knew straight away she would have to change her official recommendation on the length of time he would need to recover. That kind of wound was much more difficult to heal.

Finally, she clicked her tongue. "What are you doing trying to lift a sword, anyway? I told you not to do any heavy lifting. You must follow my instructions."

He turned to look at her, the ghost of a smile glancing across his face. "Yes, Captain."

She wagged a finger at him in mock threat. "Do exactly as I say, and you'll be fine. I promise."

He turned back to the water, and she figured he'd expended his words for one day, but he spoke again. "I heard Sir Elric Hamon has petitioned the Mother-Superior for the right to court you."

She watched his face carefully, but couldn't read any hint of his feelings about this. His expression was neutral, stone cold, like it always was these days.

"Yes… she probably won't grant it. Usually only Adept's over twenty-five are allowed to court."

"You shouldn't encourage him. He's a cad."

"I see."

He didn't speak again. She wondered if she would have preferred if it was him making the petition. The problem was, she could still remember what he'd said that night when she first met him as an adult, and she still wasn't sure if she'd forgiven him. However, there certainly seemed to be no trace of that foolish young man anymore.