“My bane. You draw it from me as poison from a wound and take it onto yourself.” Her eyes narrowed. “You aren’t immune as you say.”

His soft chuckle lacked any humor. “I didn’t say that, Imogen. You did.” He crossed his arms. “No, I’m not immune, only resistant and only by the Waters’ grace. I die a little more each time you touch me.”

“You bastard,” she whispered. “You would make me your redeemer.”

He’d likely been called names far fouler than “bastard” in his long life and in circumstances far more hostile, but he flinched for a moment at her insult, or maybe the betrayal in her voice. An echo of all the betrayals he participated in over the years.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Imogen,” he snapped. “No man, woman or god can redeem me now. Even if I’m to die, it will simply be to escape the prison of Tineroth. However, the wraiths who wait in twilight with me will find peace once I’m dead.”

Imogen rubbed her eyes and looked to where the mist hovered nearby. She remembered Niamh, the silent pleading in her eyes that Imogen end her suffering with a merciful yet fatal touch. Was this so different?

She stared at Cededa, a king immortal but not invincible. A flawed, weary man. A man she loved despite all she’d just learned. “I want to go to my rooms.” He stood and bowed as she passed. The weight of his gaze rested on her back long after she left him on the steps.

As usual, warm water and freshly laundered cloths awaited her. Imogen shed her skirt and tunic, bathed and slid naked beneath the bedcovers, almost numb with grief. She fell asleep, clutching the pillow Cededa had used the night before.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

In the darkest hours, the Undying King entered her room on silent feet and stood sentinel by her bed, admiring her beauty. The knowledge of his sins had aged her. Fine lines marred her brow, and she muttered in her sleep.

He wanted to reach out, draw her into his embrace and somehow force her to believe that Cededa the Butcher was as dead as Cededa the Fair. Only the ghosts remained to haunt him and remind him of a past evil for which he’d never receive absolution.

As if she sensed his regard, her eyes fluttered open and she rolled to her side to face him. They gazed at one another long moments before she lifted the covers away in wordless invitation.

Forgiveness. The gesture nearly sent Cededa to his knees. He stripped and slipped beneath the covers to gather Imogen’s warm body close. She spooned against him, still silent but pliant in his arms. He buried his face in her hair. The memory of her accusation echoed in his mind.

“You would make me your redeemer.”

How very wrong she was. “I would make you my wife,” he whispered in her ear. “My only wife. My beloved wife.”