There, that was it! "What. .. now ..." She murmured, then buried her face in the crook of her arm and wept.
She could feel the wave of Gregory's distress wash over her. "Damsel... be not so saddened. You are well, you are alive—and free!"
"And homeless," she sobbed. "My village will not take me back for fear of the bandits. 1 have no family, no husband, no home, no wealth. Where shall I go now?"
Gregory was silent a moment, then said hesitantly, "Travel with me. You shall not be alone, you shall not want for food or drink. Travel with me until we can find you shelter!"
Yes, such as the Royal Coven, she thought with her old cynicism. If he had pierced her disguise, he might quite easily and amicably take her to imprisonment, for surely the royal witches would know her for what she was!
But he sounded so shy and so timid that there was a chance he might be sincere, might not know her for who she was—or might not care. She felt a thrill of victory and promptly quashed it out of caution; she would need proof before she let herself take a higher hand with him. She kept those thoughts internal and unvoiced, let only her distress and a wild thread of hope escape to be read—but it seemed that Gregory read her thoughts anyway, for he spoke a little more boldly. "You need not fear to be alone with me. I seek a witch named Moraga who was supposed to travel under my protection. If we encounter her again, we shall journey as a threesome."
Too auspicious, too appropriately said! But if he thought she believed his charade, his guard would be down a little. Peregrine sat up, wiping her eyes on her sleeve and sniffling—and realizing that she was playing a game of bluffs and hidden knowledge, of "He didn't know that she knew he knew what she knew ..." And on and on in a circle, till one of them took action and the other revealed what he or she truly did know! But the game was worth the candle, so she said in a choked voice, "I thank you, sir. If you do not mind being encumbered, I shall gladly travel with you."
"Encumbered? I shall rejoice in your company!" Then, quickly, as though he had revealed too much, "The road grows lonely, after all, and a companion is much to be prized."
"I shall certainly find it so," she said softly, head bowed, looking up at him through her lashes.
He reached down to help her rise; she took his hand and stood, stumbling to lean against him. He braced her a moment and she clung to make it last, alarmed that the stumble had been real—how long had she lain unconscious, anyway? But she might as well turn the accident to good effect, so she turned to press against him—and my, he seemed to be much more substantial than he had been! Perhaps she had been so intent on slaying him that she had not noticed—though that was very much unlike her....
With an effort, she pulled her thoughts back to her masquerade, saying, "Your pardon, sir. I seem to be still weakened."
She looked up at him, eyes wide and innocent, and heard his muffled gasp with vindictive satisfaction. He stared down into her eyes, amazed, so she lowered them and pushed away, tottering a little, then standing firmly. "There now, I seem to be recovered. I can walk." She took an unsteady step.
"You shall not have to." Gregory guided her to a horse, a palfrey who turned to watch her with gentle eyes. Beyond it stood his own mount.
He had managed to hold on to their horses! Or to call them again. Now that Finister thought of it, that shouldn't have been hard for a telepath. She wondered why she hadn't considered it herself.
"You have only to cling tightly enough so that you shall not fall off," Gregory assured her, "and I shall ride closely enough so that I may catch you if you grow faint."
With any other man, his motives would have been suspect, but Finister was all too much afraid that Gregory meant what he said—so she was shocked when his hands closed about her waist, more surprised to find that they actually met. "Sir!"
"Your pardon, damsel," Gregory said, his face turning impassive. "Are you ready to mount?"
That impassivity was surely cloaking a thrill of pleasure at touching her. Again Finister suppressed a smile of triumph and said faintly, "As ... as you wish, sir. But I have not ridden much."
"You have only to hook one knee over the sidehorn. Ready? Up you go!"
She did indeed, seeming to float through the air to land gently on the saddle. She stared down at him, amazed that so bookish a man had such strength. Then she blushed becomingly and looked away, hooking her knee over the sidehorn, spreading her skirts to cover it, and taking up the reins. "I—I think I can ride, sir."
"I shall be beside you in seconds," Gregory promised and turned away to mount. He brought his horse around beside hers, saying, "Let us be off!"
They rode away into the forest along the northward trail. Finister consoled herself with the thought that she still had several hundred miles to work on him.
She was quite surprised to find that Gregory, so taciturn earlier, had become quite the conversationalist. When she had asked questions before, he had either answered in very few words or had given her lectures, always managing to avoid talking about himself and switching the topic to science or philosophy. Now, though, he replied with tales from his own experience, then asked a question of her in turn. At first she was quite pleased to find him opening up, even a little, but soon began to grow suspicious, even though his questions were about her opinions or tastes or village life versus city life, and not about her politics or her past. Several times she had to bite back a revealing comment and decided that he had only resolved on a different and more effective method of learning her criminal history. She never did quite realize that they had reversed positions, she talking about impersonal topics and he becoming quite convivial.
When they camped for the night, she resolved to see if his attitudes toward physical intimacy had changed, too, though she doubted it—he might have decided to work at being more human and better company, but she was sure he had his limits.
Sure enough, when they had scoured their plates and stored them, he gave her a friendly smile and said, "Sleep well, maiden. You need not trouble yourself about keeping watch; I shall hold vigil."
As always, Finister thought, but as Peregrine, she said anxiously, "Are you certain, my lord? Surely you shall grow weary, if not tonight, then tomorrow!"
"My vigil will refresh me as much as your sleep," Gregory assured her.
How well Finister knew that! But the day had given her such hopes of actually generating interest in herself as a woman that she was loathe to give up the golden hope of persuading Gregory to hold her while she slept, whereupon Nature might actually take its course—so she protested, "Surely there is no need for you to forgo your rest, good sir! The bandits are schooled; I am sure they will not trouble us further." Being their boss, she was sure of it indeed. "Without their threat, this is not a very dangerous area—there is no wild beast larger than a fox nor any lesser outlaws, since all who were not of that robber band fled for fear of them. Stretch your length on the greensward, do!"
"The bandits might rally and seek to recover their pride by attacking me," Gregory explained, "and one never knows when a bear or wolf may wander into a new part of the forest. I thank you for your concern, damsel, but I must stay on guard."
"You must sleep some time!" Peregrine protested.
"Perhaps, in a week or so," Gregory said judiciously, "but certainly not in a day. My vigil is meditation and renews my body as much as ten hours' sleep."
Finister did indeed know the restorative powers of Gregory's trances—and how impregnable they were! Still, she had never made any but the most casual effort to distract him. Why not give it a good, solid try? Accordingly she sighed and said, "Good night to you then, sir—but if you grow weary, do wake me for my turn!"