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"The good news, of course, is that no one was killed in the fire," said Berenger's steward, a spare and balding man just as dully honest as Berenger himself. "Even the horses all survived, thanks to you, my lord. But the manor and stables are both a complete loss."
Ancel cleared his throat impatiently, nudging the steward aside so he could set down the heavy tray he carried. Berenger, pale and shadow-eyed in the bed, turned his bandaged head at the smell of soup. His appetite was improving; about time.
"I think you've worn him out with enough of your woeful tidings," Ancel said to the steward. "He's tired and he needs to eat. Shoo."
The steward drew himself up, affronted. "Lord Berenger and I still have much to discuss—"
"And much time to do it in. Later. Shoo." Ancel fluttered his hands at the tiresome man, who gave Berenger an indignant look, clearly expecting his master to call off his outrageous pet.
Berenger only smiled, if the weary, half-hearted lift of his lips could be called a smile, and waved a hand. "We can talk more tomorrow, old friend. You need your rest as well, I know you've taken little."
Mollified—perhaps by Berenger's concern, perhaps by his obvious fatigue—the steward shuffled off with a good many unwanted noises about the morrow.
"And with that out of the way," Ancel sniffed, "let me know if you think this soup is better than the overboiled pond water that cook tried to give you earlier."
"Please be polite to the cook," Berenger said fondly, letting Ancel spoon some soup into his mouth. "Our presence here is an unexpected imposition on her, and all the household."
The owner of this house—Ancel had already forgotten his name, he was no one important—was not actually at home. Knowing Berenger to be a friend of their master's, however, the servants had let them in when they showed up in the small hours of dawn, reeking of smoke and bearing only what they'd had in their hands when the fire broke out. Most of the servants had rested a day and then scattered to their own friends and family until Berenger could settle somewhere and send for them.
Of course there had been no talk of sending Ancel away from Berenger's side. His master, Ancel thought smugly, was not foolish enough to let his one remaining valuable out of his sight.
The tray held soup, bread, a cup of tea and a vial of medicine to mix into it, left by the physician on his visit this morning. Ancel wrinkled his nose at the smell of it but Berenger, of course, swallowed it without complaint. He hadn't complained about the bunching of the pillows at his back, either; Ancel fluffed them up, muttering imprecations against the nursemaid who couldn't seem to get the simplest things right.
"Of course she doesn't know how to keep me comfortable like you do, dearest," Berenger said, reaching to squeeze Ancel's hand as he straightened the coverlet.
"Damn right she doesn't," Ancel said. "Now, where were we? Bread." He tore off a bit and tipped it into Berenger's mouth. Hand-feeding his master was hardly new for Ancel, though a bit less sexy when said master was panting and shaky, not from desire, but because he'd burned half his face off rescuing a bunch of stupid horses.
"You have that look again," Berenger said. The bandages on his face and neck shifted as he swallowed the bread. "You're annoyed with me."
"For being a fool," Ancel said. "You could have been killed, and then what would the rest of us have done? You're a lord, it's hardly your place to go dashing about in—in darkness and dirt and—collapsing buildings! That's what underlings are for."
"As a lord, that is quite precisely my place," Berenger said in that quiet, firm voice that Ancel had learned it was fruitless to argue with. "Taking responsibility for those under my care."
"Shut up and finish your soup."
When the tray was empty but for cleaned-out dishes, Ancel lit a candle against the deepening dusk and began brushing his hair by its light. "Shall I call for music? Perhaps a reader?"
"Perhaps a scribe," Berenger said with a sigh. "I have a great deal to attend to in the coming days. I shall have to liquidate some investments, call in debts… The first thing is to see what may be salvaged from the ruins."
"My jewels ought to be unharmed," Ancel said, brightening at the thought.
"I hope so. It's going to be quite some time before I can afford more."
"I do hope you can afford some clothing for us, at least, the sooner the better." Ancel looked down at his borrowed garments—gray wool!—with distaste. "Neither of us has more than what we had on our backs, and as you recall, that was a good deal less for me than for you."
He managed to make that come out saucy and flirtatious, though there was nothing pleasant in the memory—he'd been in the bath when shouts and the smell of smoke reached him. Berenger had insisted he run outside instantly, without taking time to throw on more than a dressing gown and slippers. Oh, his silks, his velvets and linens, his fur-lined boots and purple jacket with gold thread! He ought to be wearing black now, not grey, in mourning.
"Say," Ancel said in sudden excitement, laying a hand on Berenger's arm, "you will let me pick out your new clothes, won't you?"
Berenger laughed softly, laying his hand over Ancel's. "I will let you do as much as you will, dearest, for… for as long you will it."
Ancel looked at the hand over his, at Berenger's pained and wistful expression. "What do you mean by that?"
"I know what you're accustomed to, Ancel. I know how important it is to you to have a certain… level of stability." His thumb drifted back and forth across the back of Ancel's hand. "I can't provide that at present. Your contract runs out in a month anyway."
And it would be madness to renew it under these circumstances. Ancel's stomach drew up into a knot. Some of the shenanigans he'd engaged in, as he moved up in the world, had earned him a reputation for running out on contracts—but no one in all of Vere would blame him for leaving Berenger now. It would be stupid not to.
But anger flamed in Ancel's chest, and he pulled his hand back, crossing his arms. "You think for one moment I would simply depart without a murmur, forgiving the debt you owe me?"
"The… what?"
"Your little incident has cost me a fortune in silks and velvets. My jewels may be recovered, but the metal settings have likely melted. That pretty wooden chest, my dancing ribbons—even that silly book you gave me, I'm sure it was worth a pretty penny. And you expect me to skip merrily away with nothing at all to my name? Certainly not. I am not letting you out of my sight until you restore me completely."
Berenger's smile was hesitant and watery. He touched the edge of one bandage. "Even if it means enduring the company of the scarred-up monster I am certain to be?"
Ancel sniffed. "Yet more insults. As I am the one tending you as you heal, I'll thank you to have more faith in my efforts. And if I fail, it's my own fault and my own penance. Anyway," in one smooth movement he climbed onto the bed and threw a leg over Berenger's body, straddling his hips, "your face never was your best feature. That part of you is happily unaffected by all this."
"Is it?" Berenger's voice was rough, but not with weariness now. He'd perked up considerably (in more ways than one, Ancel discovered with a grin), his hands curving up over Ancel's hips. As always when he got such a reaction from his master, Ancel felt a rush of triumph, as well as something quieter and sweeter, something more like joy or wonder. Berenger still didn't enjoy the ring, or any other public sexual performance—but he did enjoy Ancel.
"We should test it out, just to be sure," Ancel said, bending to kiss him. And if they stayed like that for quite a long time, just kissing—very gently and carefully, around Berenger's injuries—then it was no one's business but their own.