She became paler, as if she’d been chastised severely. Damn it all. Gripping her shoulders from his kneeling position, a fairly easy thing given his height, he gave her a little shake. “Can you tell stories? Sing a bit?”
“I’m trained in all the cultural arts. Yes.”
“Guid. It’s a long flight, muirnín. Perhaps ye could tell me a story or two to put us down for a nap, so the jet lag willnae catch us. It’s not an order,” he added gently. “Just an idea to keep us both busy. I know this is bloody awkward for you. If you’d rather read a book or be silent as a stone, that’s fine.”
“It would be my pleasure to tell you stories.”
Apparently giving her something to do settled her. Poor lass was a duck out of water and trying to paddle her way through sand.
“All right, then. If ye run out of tales to tell, I ha’ drinking songs from every country Evan and I have visited. And I bray like a mule. They’re bawdy songs, mostly about beautiful, big-breasted women and their highly unlikely encounters with sweaty sailors. The pilot will crash the plane to shut me up.”
Not a hint of a smile in her sad eyes. Niall wondered if Evan had made a decision out of his depth, but she’d stilled under his touch, called him Master. He had that unexpected way about him, Evan did, though Niall didn’t spend a lot of time dwelling on it. He also remembered how Alanna had looked up at him. Even in her delirium, Niall had seen fire, need, courage. Yearning.
He’d wager good money she hadn’t flinched from his touch because of some bullshit InhServ rule. She’d remembered the infirmary, how she had responded to their touch, and had been startled to feel that same reaction now.
Testing it, he put a firm hand to the small of her back as he guided her out the door. Another ripple went through her lovely body, warming his palm against her.
Nothing for it. First a plane trip, then they’d see where the day took them.
When she’d told him she was “trained in the cultural arts,” he hadn’t realized what that meant. After he settled them into the private plane and told her he’d have his story now, it was like putting a quarter into a mannequin. She flipped from detached silence into a vivid tale of the Otherworld travels of Thomas, the famous Scottish bard who reputedly became a favorite of the Fae queen.
Complete with voices and expressive gestures, Alanna gave him an excellent version of one of Thomas’s adventures in the monarch’s service. Her mesmerizing narration, coupled with the lass’s exceptional beauty, had him damn near speechless. Even their flight attendant was a wide-eyed listening child, her hands resting motionless on the beverage tray she’d been organizing when Alanna started.
Yet when Alanna was done, the lass settled back into her seat and folded her hands, unresponsive to the appreciation he and the attendant expressed. “Do you wish another?” she asked. His quarter paid for the story, no more, no less. Though he should listen to Evan’s advice and let the lass be, leaving her stewing in her own head didn’t sit well.
“How about I do one instead, give your throat a rest?”
He’d noticed her getting hoarse, was merely being courteous, but when a muscle jumped next to her right eye he realized he’d reminded her of the human limitations a third mark didn’t have.
“Don’t fret, muirnín. Having Evan’s second mark might boost your strength.”
“Dinnae fash myself?”
He smiled. “You remember that, do ye?”
She seemed flustered by his pleasure. “Your accent isn’t that thick all the time.”
“No. After all these years, I can put it on or off like a bauchle.” He winked. “Old shoe. Though Evan claims I’ll pull it out of my arse and speak full Scottish when I get crabbit. Which, since he’s usually the cause of my ill temper, is his own fault if he can’t understand what I’m saying.”
“You . . . get angry at your Master?” Her eyes widened, a charming effect with the long lashes. He wondered if she realized how enchanting she was to watch.
“Well, he’s a right git sometime.” He wanted her to smile back at him, but so far that was a lost cause. He’d keep trying, though, because he expected a smile on that face would make a lad’s heart stop. “More a Sassenach than a Scot term, but that’s the advantage of being a world traveler. You can mash the languages together. All right, then, no more putting it off. Since you gave me such a pretty tale, I’m going tae give you a romantic one. Brace yourself, because I’m going tae sing it.”
She probably had the wisdom to object, but before she could, he’d already put his own quarter in, so to speak. Instead of the bawdy song he’d promised, he sang her the ballad of Tam Lin. Because his singing voice actually did make a bear’s indigestion sound like birdsong, he gave her and the flight attendant respites, adding his own commentary in between the verses.
“‘Why pu’s thou the rose, Janet, And why breaks thou the wand? Or why comes thou to Carterhaugh, Withoutten my command?’“And being a saucy wench with her own mind,” he added, “because aren’t they all? She replies . . .
“‘Carterhaugh, it is my ain, My daddie gave it me; I’ll come and gang by Carterhaugh, And ask no leave at thee.’”
The attractive flight attendant gave him a smile. Another time, he’d have taken advantage of it, but his first duty was to his charge. Plus, Alanna was intriguing enough to have his full attention. She noted the woman’s interest, though, and cataloged his response. Most servants didn’t miss such details, part self-preservation, part anticipation of their vampire’s need for intel, but it was obvious to him that she took it to a higher level, her attention honed razor sharp.
According to Brian, her dedication to her training was what had saved her. Stephen had expected resistance to his invasion, and she hadn’t obliged him. She’d fought to stay alive, but she hadn’t fought what he was doing to her, and that had preserved her mind, like wheatgrass bending down before a storm wind. But it had taken a hard battering, as if she’d been hanging onto a cliff edge, stoically enduring a maniac stomping on her fingers, refusing to let go as he crushed her bones with steel-toed boots.
She’d obeyed the laws of pure servitude, believing that her Master had the right to do as he would with her, except that a higher power—in the form of the Council—had trumped his claim on the one issue of her staying alive. It showed a remarkable will, for a lass who claimed to have none of her own.
When he finished the ballad, her lips curved politely. “Thank you. I need to take my medication now. Will you excuse me?”
“Would you like me to do the injection? I’ve a gentle hand for it.”
She paused, already half rising. It was clear she wanted an escape from scrutiny, but her face went back to that mask. “You don’t need to trouble yourself. I can do it.”
“No trouble for me. But if you prefer to do it, that’s fine.”
Sitting back down, she opened the case Lord Brian had given to her and proferred it to him in that same distantly courteous manner. She didn’t in fact prefer him to do it; she was erring on the side of what his desires might be.
Leaning forward in his seat, splaying his knees to accommodate her closed ones, Niall put his hands on hers on the case, closed and latched it again. “Muirnín, take a little time without me gawping at you. There’s a small sitting area beyond the lavatory, a couch. Have a nap or whatever ye desire. It’s fine by me.”
Her eyes frosted, but she rose like a wooden mannequin. Swearing softly, he caught her waist and rose. “Okay, now I’ve insulted ye. You’re going to have to tell me what it is I’ve done wrong so I dinnae keep doing it.”
“It’s nothing you’re doing wrong.” Frustration crossed her face. “My actions are making you think I need . . . comfort. Care. Reassurance. That’s something an Inherited Servant never requires.”
“So what’s making you so mad? That you’re makin’ me think that, or that ye do need those things?”
She paled, even as she became more rigid. “I serve your Master now, Niall. Is this a question he requires answered?”
She’d gone to being pissy. Was that an improvement? Niall wasn’t sure if they were in range of Evan’s mind, but that question was quickly answered.
Are you children already fighting? Tell her I want her to do as you instructed. She’s not required to engage you further.
I didnae . . .
Niall, if you tapped her with a pencil, she’d shatter into a thousand pieces. You’re fucking with her paradigm, and she’s not yet strong enough for that. Leave her be.
I think she’s stronger than you think.
Steel is strong once it’s tempered. Put pressure on it before then and you’ll ruin it.
Alanna’s brown eyes lifted to Niall’s in question. “He says he wants you to take your injection and rest in the back until we land,” Niall said grudgingly. “That’s all.”
“It’s my pleasure to obey.” Sliding her hand from Niall’s grasp, she disappeared behind the curtain with her case.
He should listen to Evan. If he didn’t, the vampire would take a strip out of his hide, but it wouldn’t be the first time. His hide was pretty tough, all in all. After ten minutes, Niall followed her. She was sitting by a window, but until she placed her fingertips on the glass, he wasn’t sure if she was seeing any of the view. She made a circular motion as if following a bird winging its way through the sky, or tracing the clouds chasing them. Her lips moved, words without sound.
Servants weren’t like made vampires. If third-marked before age thirty, they didn’t stay the age of their marking, but matured until they reached thirty. The aging process stopped there, give or take a few years. He knew she’d become a servant at sixteen and was only twenty-nine years old now. However, at the moment, her brown eyes looked ten times that age.