THREE

That night, Gideon spent the night staring at the canopy of his sumptuous bed and dredging from his memory a different bed, smaller and lumpier than his pallet in camps or the one in his castle, of a wooden ceiling and the house filled with the scent of books, ink and pungent herbs. . .

He felt hot and then cold. Pain and then blessed nothingness. But during his dreams and the few times he resurfaced with enough lucidity, he could remember small warm hands tenderly soothing his fevered skin, murmuring words and telling stories. Where was he? He thought as his eyes saw wooden ceiling. As his eyes were accustomed to the room, he saw, with the filtering light of dawn, a woman sleeping at his side, her head on the bed while her body was on the floor. He saw her relieved but wan features. He recoiled when she immediately moved to touch him. She stopped and slowly touched his brows. Fingertips hardened by callouses smoothed his messy hair and checked his pulse. "Oh, you're awake. How's your head?" Her voice was soft with a hint of accent he could not place.

"F-Fine," he croaked and reached for the glass of water he spotted from the bedside. As he drank water, he discreetly regarded his savior. She was, upon closer inspection was singular, not beautiful by conventional standards but has a certain prettiness with her dark eyes, pert nose, dark sooty lashes, olive skin and thick curling hair barely tamed into a bun. She looked like a vagabond angel.

"Where am I? Who are you?" It was difficult to sound imperious and commanding from the sick bed. However, he could not let down his guard. Look where it landed him.

"I am Artemis." Was she humoring him? He did not like her chummy tone. Women in his country knew their place and were always in awe of men. Besides, women choose their words, act coy around him and not in this straightforward manner. "You're in my home. I found you unconscious on the road. Apparently, you had been mobbed judging from the array of bruises and cuts you've suffered." Her tone irritated him somehow. He was not a village idiot but he was no wild animal but her tone suggested otherwise. "Your fever's gone and your wound is healing nicely. I had already flushed out most of the poison so it will take days before you fully recover."

He looked down under the shirt to see his chest wrapped in bandages. Then he could smell the pungent paste. It has a leafy smell and frankly, putrid. What on earth did she put into these? Was she one of the witches the locales warned him about?

As if answering his unasked question, she said sheepishly, "Trust me, it's more effective than the conventional ones. Besides, you don't want to know what's in there." She went out of the room and he heard the sounds of her rummaging the kitchen. She began piling food on the plate. When she put it on his lap he eyed the simple fare of nuts, fruits and vegetables and some slices of ham warily. He took the meat between his fingers and asked, "Don't you have something more substantial?" He offered the plate back to her.

"No." She said and deftly pushed the sliced apple into his mouth.

He scowled at her but continued chewing. He would deal with her insubordination later.

"What's your name?" She asked conversationally, as if he was not angry at her impertinence.

"Hunter." It was the name that they called him in Catalania. Surely, he was famous enough for her to know him, the young king who won the bloody war. He wanted to see the excited gleam in her eyes knowing that she was basking in his exalted presence. He looked up to see . . . no recognition on her face.

His male pride was not pleased.

She was looking expectantly at him and the food. Having no choice but to finish the fare, he methodically demolished the food on his plate. He ignored the smirk on her face as he handed the now-empty plate. As she stood up to put away the remains of his meal, he observed that she was not wearing a skirt but a long shirt that ended on her knees and she was wearing loose-fitting trousers. No woman of his acquaintance would be caught dead in those clothes. Even the peasants in his kingdom dressed better than her. Did she even have money? He made a quick survey of the place and found it simple and austere, devoid of knickknacks and laces her contemporaries seemed to appreciate. The only spot of color in the room were her curtains but even they were too simple by a commoner's standards.

"How much will I pay you?" He demanded when she returned.

She merely cocked her head to one side. She was starting to get on his nerves. Did this woman have no sense of propriety? Why was she not self-conscious in front of him?

"You can pay me?" She asked him with raised brows. "Where would you get the money?" He did not know whether he was glad that she was a woman. If she was a man, he would have called her out.

His male pride was now demanding justice.

A few moments of silence, his male pride evolved into an insensible beast forcing the words from his uncooperative mouth, "How about I work for you?"

"No," She said to him brightly. "Just go, after this."

He was speechless for a moment. This woman. . . Why was she not scared of him? He could break her and tear her apart. Why was she so damn glib?! His male pride was bewildered, facing an unknown creature before him.

She shrugged. "I don't have anything of value. And you don't have anything worth stealing." She assessed him with a frank gaze and said, "Well, maybe your life is. . . but I don't think that it would be beneficial to me."

He felt red climb his cheeks.

His male pride just got burned.

As if sensing this, she gave him an apologetic smile and said, "I'm sorry. You looked a little lost and so adorable." She made a face, scrunching her face and lowering her voice. "Who are you? What are you doing woman? Don't you know me?" Then she let out a laugh. He knew his face further darkened. Adorable? Lost?

She collected herself, wiping the tears that leaked from her eyes. "You should be recuperating. I'll try to hunt for some food." When she left, he stood up and winced as he felt the pull of the drying wounds against his skin. The pain was even worse when he tried to shrug out of the worn shirt but he had to see the extent of his injuries. When he managed to remove his shirt, he saw that most of his bruises healed. His bloody stepmother tried to have him killed and nearly succeeded. The single-minded determination of his assailants coupled with their fleet and their lethal gracefulness had all the marks of his stepmother. He was able to kill the three assailants but one of them managed to stab him. All he felt was a sharp pain on his side, the warmth of blood and the sudden fire radiating from the wound. Further surveying the damage, he peeled the bandages. He sucked in a breath when he saw on his torso an angry-looking wound. It was starting to crust and form scabs. With a sigh, he clumsily put back the bandage. The paste she had put on him was sickly green and the smell more pungent. He wrinkled his nose and clumsily re-wrapped himself. The woman might change her mind and decide to kill him after all.

He decided to explore the house. When he went out of the room, he was unpleasantly surprised. He could feel red burn his cheeks as he realized that beyond the room was the kitchen and beside it was the door leading outside the house. He covered every inch and found no other bed. He just found a pallet folded and squeezed into a corner. He berated his male pride for being an unchivalrous lump. Even his departed mother would have skinned him if he had treated a woman callously. Or so what he would like to believe. His mother was dead long before he could remember. He looked around to see if he could do anything but the woman was surprisingly organized and clean. She looked too self-sufficient. He sighed. He went out and saw her garden. Maybe he could cheer her up with that beautiful yellow flower. He brightened at the thought.

When she returned from her hunt around noon, he proudly shoved into her hands the flowers he had handpicked himself. He had also washed himself using with the water from the artesian well and was feeling decidedly human. He waited for her to smile or give him a kiss on the cheek. He gazed at her expectantly. However, instead of a blossoming smile, her frozen features morphed into a scowl and said in an anguished tone, "What have you done?!"

"I picked them for you." Was this woman so unromantic that she would not even receive flowers nor understand the sweet gesture?

"You murderer!" She accused him. She raised her fist to pound his chest but stopped herself, probably remembering that he was the injured party here. Nevertheless, it did not stop the rest of her words. "Those sunflowers! I planted them these last months and you killed them!" She glared at him and dumped the contents of her bag on the kitchen table. "I thought that you're adorable. I take them all back!" He could hear her muttering. She gripped the neck of the rabbit tightly. He gulped. He had the impression that it was his neck she was wringing with such intensity.

"I take it you can cook?" She brandished the knife with murderous intent. He inwardly shuddered at the fanatical glint in her eyes. He quickly nodded, just to appease the murderer in her.

For the next few days, they established a truce. He continued to sleep on the bed until his wounds were closed. Any overtures on his part to switch places were met with instant rejection. The few times he tried to do heavy work, she poured down his throat bitter-tasting concoctions that she swore would help his recovery. He did not believe her since he found himself spending the mornings dumping the contents of his gut to the latrine and the afternoons dozing in the bed. When he accused her of revenge, she merely shrugged and did not bother denying the accusation. His male pride was battered under these dire circumstances. He was brought low by the fates.

However, as days passed, he was graciously allowed to do the menial tasks and the cooking while she spent her time in her garden. It was a good thing that she allowed him near her plants again. He did not bother understanding her words. He was too surprised and fascinated with the way she said the words, her voice warm, her eyes bright. Even her lips looked inviting as she formed the words. When she caught him staring at her, she started to redden. No, nothing gentle like a blush or pink cheeks resembling the petals of flower. She went red, red as a tomato. He grinned at her. She clammed up. His male pride showed signs of revival. That night, they settled in a tense atmosphere. He decided to strike while the iron was hot, with him taking the pallet and her reclaiming her bed. Taking over the heavier chores was a war for another day. However, nothing could wipe off the satisfaction he felt now that she was aware that he was a man.

He was starting to wish that she would not notice his wounds starting to heal nicely.

When she informed him that he was fit for travel, she cheerily waved him off from the city gates. But upon knowing her the past few days, he saw the guarded eyes and the stiff, almost mimetic muscles.

He stood in front of her, ignoring the gazes some of the interested passers-by shot them. Since she was shorter, he had to stoop down and then he gripped her shoulders. Without warning, he dipped his head and kissed her lips. He could feel and taste the surprise on her soft and warm lips. He nearly groaned when she moved her lips against his and opened her mouth for his caresses. He tasted her mouth and tasted this sweet and tart woman. He deepened the kiss, wanting to brand her as his. When they were both breathless, he gave her a cheeky grin and noted with satisfaction that her lips were red and her eyes passion-glazed. "I'll come back to see you." She might think of it as a lark but he put his word and honor in that oath.

It turned out that upon his return, Tristan was already waiting for his return.

"I heard that you were injured. What happened?" Tristan asked.

"My stepmother tried to send assassins after me. They nearly succeeded," he could feel the throb of the wound, the way the scab pulled on skin whenever he exerted himself, "but fortunately, a woman at the edge of the forest found me and healed me."

"Woman? Give me her name so that I can reward her. In the meantime, I'll have you checked by the Royal Physician. She just came back from a trip. I'm sure she could check you up now. Frankly, I already trusted the other physicians but my wife insists."

He gestured to one of the servants to open the doors and a woman strode towards them, her dark hair piled on top of her head with a single wooden hairpin with a small jade bead and wearing a white robe with black silk lining the sleeves. She stopped at the foot of the throne, bowed and raised her head.

His breath stopped when he recognized the dark brown eyes.

"This is Artemis Garland," Tristan nattered on. He tried to compose his features and his excitement upon seeing her again. He wanted to go back to her place but the onslaught of people and parties made it impossible. Besides, he did not want to draw unwanted attention towards her. She was his secret to keep. ". . . She comes highly recommended." He turned to speak to Artemis, "Artemis, this is Gideon Rivers, King of Catalania." Artemis raised her eyes and as if confirming her worst suspicions, she quickly bowed her head and said quietly, "If you'll allow me, Your Highness." It was as if she was choking on the words and methodically probed him. Her hands were ice but her movements trained and clinical. Coldly informing them of her observations, she quickly exited.

Damn! This was not how he imagined seeing her again!

Gideon woke up the next day with uncharacteristic lightness and went to find Tristan. Sandoval, his advisor and friend did not even bother to hide his surprise as he pointed the whereabouts of Tristan. He found him in the study, poring on some charts. The huge windows filtered the morning light and shed light over the scattered parchment and vellum on the table and some that spilled on the floor. The smell of coffee permeated the room, along with the smell of ink and paper. Tristan looked up when he cleared his throat. He saw the dark circles under his friend's eyes and he knew that his next words would further intensify their color.

"I want Royal Physician Artemis to come with me."

"Why?" Tristan growled. His friend was not a morning person, he was coming to realize. Another thought popped in his head. Why was he suspicious? Was he planning to make her his mistress? The thought made him uncharacteristically angry. Ignoring his scowl, Gideon pushed through, "She would be in charge of my health until I recuperated."

Tristan raised a skeptical brow. "My wife would not be open to that suggestion." Tristan stood from the chair and rested his hip on the table. He levelled him a stare.

"It's not a suggestion. It is a fact." He said coldly.

Exasperated, he said, "I could give you another physician."

"I want her. Besides, I am her patient."

"You look hale and hearty to me."

"You are no physician, Tristan," Gideon said coldly.

"And you are not sick. Leave Artemis alone." Tristan said in a belligerent tone.

"No." The words were clear and direct. His tone brook no argument.

Tristan met his eyes. "Gideon Rivers." One word.

Gideon merely raised a brow. Unperturbed by the opposition.

"You have a lot of willing woman. Believe me, Artemis would not like to be one of your hothouse flowers."

Irritated for some reason, the words left his mouth before he could take them back. "Are you lovers?"

Tristan's expression was priceless. It was not every day that he could send the smooth-talking Prince Tristan into this dumbfounded state. "NO!" He said with healthy disgust.

"Tristan—she's mine."

"She's not an object, Gideon." Tristan said as if tired from the argument.

Gideon regarded his friend with resolute gaze. "I had never sullied an unwilling woman and I won't start now." He stood up and walked towards his friend. Each step deliberate, made to intimidate the other man. "To question my motives meant questioning my honor. Are you questioning my honor?"

"Those are your words, not mine." He saw Tristan took a deep breath. "It has to be on her own volition. She is our friend and I won't let you hurt someone like her." He ignored the sting of the words, our friend. What did he amount in Artemis' eyes? His male pride did not let him further question himself.

Tristan went to the bell pull. After a few tugs, a servant entered.

"Call Physician Artemis."