Naamah's Kiss - Jacqueline Carey [60]
"Aye, my lord," a third voice said.
"Right." He turned back to me, then closed his eyes and rubbed the palms of his hands together, murmuring a prayer. When he opened his eyes, they were more intent than ever. "Relax as best you can and keep still."
He put his hands on me.
Warmth radiated from them. It felt like golden sunlight spilling over my skin. Even through the pain, I could feel pleasure in it. He felt along my ribcage, pressing first with his fingertips, then with the heel of one hand, slow and steady.
Something inside me moved.
Of a sudden, the pain in my chest diminished and I could breathe. I took a deep, relieved gasp, then another and another. Air had never tasted so sweet.
The tawny-haired man smiled. "Better?"
I nodded, which was a bad idea. My stomach lurched and a scalding tide of sickness rose in my throat. I turned my head and retched.
"Oh, hells!" the man Denis swore. "You owe me a new pair of breeches, Raphael."
"My lord?" The coach-driver's voice, high and strained. "I found her bag. You're going to want to see this, my lord."
"Stay with her, Denis," the tawny-haired man advised. "If you're inclined to chivalry, I'd suggest you put your doublet beneath her head, and I'll stand you the cost of a whole new outfit."
"You're being almighty solicitous of some half-breed street urchin," Denis grumbled, although he obeyed.
The doublet was soft beneath my aching head. I closed my eyes and focused on breathing, fearful I'd vomit a second time. I heard the tawny-haired man—Raphael, the other had called him—utter a startled oath, then confer with his driver in hushed tones. The world went in and out around me. When I opened my eyes, he was leaning over me.
"Moirin?" he asked.
I gave a faint nod.
"Moirin mac Fainche of the Maghuin Dhonn?" His voice was low and steady. "Descended from Alais de la Courcel and Conor mac Grainne?"
"Aye," I whispered.
"Blessed Elua bugger me!" Denis exclaimed. "Are you jesting?"
The man Raphael ignored him. He laid a gentle hand against my cheek, that wonderful warmth still radiating from it. "You've taken a hard blow to the head, my lady, and I'm worried that rib could have punctured a lung. As you've seen, I'm a physician trained in the healing arts. With your permission, I'd like to take you to my home to recuperate. I promise, you'll be treated with the utmost of solicitousness. Is that suitable to you?"
All I wanted was to clutch his hand against me and sleep. "Aye."
He took his hand away. "Good girl."
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY
I woke to sunlight. I was lying in a strange bed. My head and my ribcage hurt and my memory was hazy. I fought down a surge of panic and made myself breathe slowly. When I'd regained a measure of calm, I levered myself upright.
There was a balcony opposite me, the doors open onto daylight and fresh air. Good. That meant I wasn't trapped. I looked down at myself. I was clad in a long-sleeved shift of the softest white linen I'd ever felt, trimmed in lace as delicate as foam.
My purse.
It was the first memory to surface—the tug at my belt and the fleeing thief. I glanced around in alarm. My head spun and my stomach rebelled. For a mercy, there wasn't much in the latter. I gagged and coughed, but managed not to vomit.
The door opened. "Moirin?"
It was him—the tawny-haired man. Bits and pieces of memory came back to me. The street, the carriage. The marvelous warmth of his hands. He'd taken me home, he and his companion.
"Do you need the pail?" He moved swiftly across the room and picked up a shiny silver pail, holding it under my chin. "Go ahead if you need to be sick; there's no shame in it."
I swallowed. "I'm all right."
"You're sure?"
I nodded and licked my lips. They were very dry. "Thirsty."
"Ah." He smiled and set down the pail. "That's a good sign. Here."
He poured water from a porcelain ewer into a matching cup and handed it to me. "Sip it slowly." I did. It was almost as good as the water I'd drunk after I'd seen the Maghuin Dhonn Herself. The tawny-haired man pulled up a stool with a cushioned