Page 15 of Paladin's Faith

Wren snorted. Marguerite watched Shane take her mare’s reins and lead her back. How the hell did he do that anyway? He sounded like a different person! He sounded like…like…

Damn it all.

The paladin always sounded so diffident. He prefaced things with apologies, if he spoke at all. She couldn’t believe that low, soothing, trustworthy voice came from the same man.

And then, like a bolt from the blue, she remembered Beartongue saying, “He can do the voice really well.”

Was that the voice? Is that what she meant? Gods above and below. If Grace could bottle that, we could make a fortune.

Shane brought the mare to her and dropped to one knee in front of her. Marguerite bit back a curse. If he’s going to go all knightly at me, this is going to be a really long trip. Then she saw that his hands were clasped to make a stirrup.

“Oh,” she said. “Thanks. It’s hard without a mounting block.” Shane nodded, staring at the ground. When she stepped into his hand, he didn’t yield an inch.

He’s either angry at me or at himself or both of us. Damn, damn, damn. You were wrong, Grace, I may not be able to charm this one after all.

When Marguerite had fallen from the saddle, time had slowed to a crawl. Shane had seen her fall, known that he could not possibly reach her in time, and everything had gone silent, except for the little voice that said, Failed already. It was only a matter of time, but this was quick even for you. You might as well just have kicked her down the stairs on the first day and saved everyone the ride back.

He was on the ground and throwing the reins to Foster before she had even stopped rolling. When he went to his knees beside her and saw that she was still breathing, it felt as if his heart had started beating again. Had he been granted a reprieve?

Oh good, a longer ride back for everyone when you inevitably fail to protect her. Do you think you can hit the exact midpoint of the journey next time?

He’d touched her then. He hadn’t meant anything by it, truly, beyond the fear that she had broken her neck. He’d used the paladin’s voice, because if she had injured herself, any sudden movement could make it worse. He’d seen it before, in the temple. Demons did not understand the fragility of human spines, and after one was exorcised, sometimes they left such injuries behind.

Fortunately the voice was the one thing that still came easily to him. You reached down into some deep internal well, and out it came, the voice of a brother, a confidant, a reliable friend. A voice that anyone would trust. You needed to project authority but also kindness. When a civilian staggered up to you, hollow-eyed and exhausted, and gasped out that there were demons in the fields, that was the voice that they needed to hear.

It was not until he was sliding his hands up Marguerite’s thigh that the reality of the situation had struck him suddenly, that she was lying there and he had his hands on her body in a position of incredible intimacy.

He fought it down at once. It was unworthy to even think such a thing, and certainly unworthy to notice the muscle of her legs, or to think of how those legs might feel wrapped around his waist, or—

The direction of his own thoughts shocked him. He would have sworn that he had left such thoughts behind. But even now, an hour later, riding close beside her, he could not keep his thoughts from drifting back.

No matter how strong he was, lust was always waiting in the wings, watching for a moment of weakness. It was why the paladins of the Dreaming God tended to be promiscuous. A demon could hardly tempt you with something that you were freely and frequently given.

But you are not a paladin of the Dreaming God, and never were. You are a failure and she was injured and all you can think of now is the feel of her flesh under your fingers. That is revolting and you should be ashamed.

No, even more ashamed than that.

Shane wondered if there was a term for feeling guilty about not feeling sufficiently guilty. It seemed like a useful word to have. If he was still at the Temple, he would have asked one of the scholars. Not that knowing the name would help much.

Perhaps there would be a temple in the town they stayed at tonight. Somewhere that he could pray alone, surrounded by holiness. Even a little roadside shrine would serve in a pinch. Do penance. Clear my head.

Rub one out somewhere in private, feel guilty, and do even more penance.

God, Beartongue was right, he was predictable.

His horse was crowding Marguerite’s mare. She gave him an annoyed glance and drew her mount further out of the way. Shane reined his back a little, fighting back the urge to close the gap. He had been given a reprieve, however unearned. He had a second chance not to fail, if he could just keep her safe.

Assuming that she doesn’t decide to send you back as soon as we stop for the night, both for failing to protect her, and then for running your hands over her like that.

There is no chance that I will be that lucky.

His punishment was to continue on and to try desperately to avert the inevitable, while the voice in his head sang like the chorus of an ancient tragedy, predicting ruin.

Perhaps it was no more than he deserved.

EIGHT

Shane insisted on going ahead of them into the bedroom that night, presumably to check for assassins hiding under the bed. Given that the fashion in this part of the world was for very low beds, they would have to be remarkably flat assassins, but he checked anyway. Marguerite and Wren exchanged looks behind his back. And I thought I was becoming paranoid.