Louis-Cesare didn’t say anything else, and what he had said was stilted, unemotional. His body was likewise rigid, instead of the lean, muscular strength I was used to. He looked like a guy who would rather be anywhere else.
It hurt more than the
damned leg.
“And that’s it?” I said flatly. “You don’t have anything else to say to me?”
The blue eyes had been focused somewhere on my left shoulder, but now they slid to mine. And then abruptly wandered off again. “I am sorry,” he told me.
“You damned well ought to be!”
He flinched noticeably. “I don’t blame you for being furious,” he said quietly. “They put me in here, while I recover, but I told Claire that it might be best if I were not here when you awoke—”
“What?”
“But she seemed to think otherwise. And she was right.” He manned up, and met my eyes. “I understand how you feel. I would not blame you if you never wish to see me again.”
“What?”
“I took your leg.” His fingers touched it lightly, almost reverently. “If they had not been able to find it—”
“Well, yeah. But they did find it. And if they hadn’t, think of all the neat attachments I could have gotten.”
It was his turn to say: “What?”
“Think of it: a peg leg, especially a sharp wooden peg leg, for a dhampir? It would almost be worth—”
I broke off, because Louis-Cesare was having a small fit. I wasn’t sure of what kind, and I didn’t think he was, either, because his face tried out a couple dozen expressions before settling on one. It was incredulity.
“I maimed you!”
“You tried to maim me.” I flexed my leg at him. “And you only managed it because I was already hurt when you showed up. If I’d been at my best, I’d have kicked your—”
He shook me.
“What?” I said again.
“You are angry with me! You hate me! You possibly even fear me!”
I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. It had been a very long week. And the sudden ability just to let everything out caught me by surprise, and then sort of swept me away, until I was lying there, crying with laughter.
Louis-Caesar looked at me in growing concern. “I—I will go find Claire—”
“I don’t need Claire!” I rolled on top of him. The leg, I was glad to notice, responded to commands, although it bitched at me about them. That was okay; I got that a lot.
Including from my lover, I thought, judging by his expression.
“You think that’s what I want an apology for?” I asked him. “For the leg?”
“Yes!”
“And you’ve been lying here, blaming yourself and getting more and more worked up about it?”
“As I should do! I hurt you! I could have—” He broke off, but it was obvious what he meant.
“But you didn’t kill me. Alfhild ordered you to, but you didn’t. And when you thought you might, that there was even a chance, you tried to kill yourself instead. And that,” I added, before he could interrupt me, “is why I’m angry.”
He looked at me, and he’d found a new expression. It was bewilderment. But he didn’t say “What?” again. He said “Why?” instead.