Someone shouted in the distance and Illian frowned, willing her disobedient muscles to turn her head and look.
"Illian!"
That voice—Illian raised her head. Eomund's face loomed over her, swaying in her vision. How…?
"Here, I've got him."
Illian instinctively clutched the boy, her whole body shaking.
"Illi, let me have him."
She blinked at the sharp note of command and loosened her grip. Eomund slid the child out from beneath her, moving him from her line of vision. Illian struggled to stand.
"The boy…?"
"Railf has him."
Illian felt herself sinking into the snow. Eomund's strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her up, and then her world drifted to the black of the night around her.
Illian felt she was rising out of a fog to the murmur of voices at a distance. She made a feeble effort to sit up, not yet able to open her eyes, but was prevented by a weight across her chest and stomach.
"Lay still…"
The murmur startled Illian and she forced her eyes open. She sat in a corner of the great hall filled with quiet activity as healers moved among the patients lining the floor.
Illian slowly became aware that Eomund sat with his back against the wall behind her, the weight of his arms locked around her preventing her from standing. She felt a flush rising. What should she do? Was he awake?
Illian twisted slightly to glimpse his face. His tawny hair fell in his closed eyes and his head rested against the brick wall of the fireplace. He looked exhausted.
She closed her eyes, resting her stiff body against him. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to stay in this comforting warmth, to sleep…
She sat up quickly, shaking her head in self-disgust. This was Eomund, for heaven's sake. How could she have permitted herself—
His arms tightened and he shifted. "Be still."
"Eomund." She lowered her voice to a soft hiss. "Let go."
"Still..."
Illian grimaced at his muttered words. "Eomund!"
He jerked upright, his arms moving to brace himself. He looked down at her, eyes confused, then drew a hand down his face. "Sorry, Illi."
Illian slid away, stood, and brushed the straw from her dress. What should she say? This wasn't how she expected to see him again after his absence. She'd been counting down the days until his return—she might as well admit it—but now that he was back she found herself at a loss.
"Missed one." Eomund rose, smiling, and removed a stalk from her disheveled braid.
"Thanks." Illian pulled her hair over her shoulder and grimaced. She must look a sight. She couldn't remember the last time she even brushed her hair.
"I bet I look worse."
Illian glanced up, raised an eyebrow. "What are you saying, sir?"
"Well…" Eomund looked down with a teasing grin, which faded as he studied her face. She frowned, not recognizing his expression.
"No," he said softly. His eyes flicked away, then rested back on her. "No, Illi, you always look beautiful."
She stared at him, unable to help herself. What was he trying to do? "Perhaps your cold journey has interfered with your eyesight, milord."
The odd expression fled and he gave her a wry smile. "Perhaps. But I doubt it."
Illian stooped to pick up her cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. "Perhaps the cold has interfered with both our senses, that we should stand here gabbing."
"Aye, perhaps that as well." Eomund's blue eyes twinkled at her.
She felt a stab of irritation that he could manage to be so cheerful and natural. He was so much better at pretending. It put her out of sorts. He acted like everything was fine. Like things between them were as they'd always been.
Illian felt warmth rush up her neck as a memory rose, unbidden, in her mind, of a deep voice and gentle hands and a soft kiss on her cheek.
This is absurd. She shook herself and picked up the heavy pail of water waiting to be dispensed to the rows of patients on pallets, ignoring Eomund's quizzical glance.
"I can take that." The deadweight bearing down on her shoulder vanished as Eomund lifted the pail in her hand. "Where does it need to go?"
Why did he have to make this so difficult? Illian did not release the handle, glaring up at him. "I can manage. Don't you have very important kingly duties you need to attend to?"
He dropped the pail and she gasped at the sudden burden, her stomach quivering as she caught real anger flaring in his eyes.
"Illian—" A muscle jerked in his stubbled jaw and his powerful frame tensed, the blank mask dropping once again over his features.
Her heart dropped into her stomach, quailing in anticipation of his cutting words—words which, in truth, she knew she deserved—but Eomund took in a deep breath and turned away without speaking.
Illian hefted the pail and started down the rows of sick villagers, pretending not to notice that he stopped to speak quietly to Fania as he passed the harried woman. His kindness made the whole unbearable situation that much harder to bear.
No more feeling sorry for yourself. Illian sighed and knelt next to a lumpy straw pallet. The hollow-eyed woman looked up at her with a blank stare.
"Well, now…" Illian took the woman's hand in hers and pressed a wet cloth to the woman's forehead. "How are you feeling this morning?"