Rafael returned well after dark. Breandán heard him approaching, long before he saw his silhouette at the edges of his vision. He said nothing, as Rafael lit the lamp and climbed into the wagon. The door closed.
Breandán let the fire die out and sat in the dark…which was not really darkness the way he remembered it to be. He could still see trees and rocks and bushes, far away, picked out in ghostly gray shapes, their details perfect. Another aspect of being one of the Blood, he presumed.
Rafael did not speak until mid-morning, the next day. If they had not needed to ford the river, then it was possible Rafael would not have spoken at all.
The wagon crested a low hill to reveal another wide, gently sloping dale.
At the lowest point in the dale, a slow, narrow river wound through a stony bed. More than half the river bed gleamed white and dry, for it had been a torrid and dry summer.
There was no bridge. The river was fordable, then. With luck, it would also be potable, and they could refill the water skins. Breandán did not share his thoughts with Rafael, though. He did not think they would be welcomed.
As they drew closer to the river, Breandán could see the white bed was chalky and soft. Most of the land was arid and poor, here.
“The river is rising,” Rafael said, startling him.
Breandán stared at the narrow ribbon of water. “How can you tell? It looks unchanged.”
“The edges of the water. See? They’re moving over dry ground.” Rafael glanced up the river as the mare reached the point where the stones of the road dipped down into the river bed and disappeared. She stepped onto the white bed and snorted.
Breandán slapped the rein on her back, to keep her moving.
Rafael threw off his cloak. “I don’t like this.”
“It is just water,” Breandán pointed out.
“I’ll guide her through,” Rafael said. He grabbed the mare’s head strap and moved her forward. He halted where the water lapped and peered down at it. Even as the pair of them examined the water, it rose, bathing Rafael’s toes. He looked up the river once more. “The storm last night…it must have moved to the north. Now the water is running downstream.”
Breandán dropped the reins. They were not needed with Rafael at the mare’s side. He jumped down and frowned at the softness of the chalky river bed. “I’ll help.” He grabbed the chest strap and tugged.
The mare didn’t like the touch of the water on her hooves and protested, straining backward. Between the two of them, they forced her into the water, until it was lapping at the top of her back hooves, and up to her knees at the front. The ribbon of water was wider than when they had first seen it, and Breandán realized it would be deeper, too.
The mare stepped gingerly through the water, lifting her knees. As they progressed, the river bed grew muddier, until the chalky stuff sucked at Breandán’s boots. With each step he took, he had to tug his foot free. The mare struggled to pull her hooves from the mud, too.
“Step on stones, if you can find them,” Rafael said. “Stay out of the mud on the bottom.”
Breandán searched blindly for stones to place his feet upon.
They reached the middle of the river, and the water sucked and pulled at Breandán’s waist. It swirled around the mare’s chest and she nickered and snorted unhappily. The water raced around the wagon wheels, sucking at the spokes, nudging the wagon sideways. Only the sludgy mud held the wheels in place.
“And up again,” Breandán said, getting a better grip on the mare’s chest strap.
She threw her head up in protest and pulled the strap out of Rafael’s hand. He cursed and jumped to grab it once more, splashing water and stumbling. He secured the strap again and shook his head. The thick locks of black hair sprayed droplets. “Again.”
Then he frowned and looked down at his feet, invisible below the water. His shoulders shifted. “I can’t move them,” he muttered. He lifted his chin to look at Breandán over the mare’s back. “I can’t shift my feet.” He sounded amused.
The running, chuckling sound of the river grew louder.
“Can you use your hands, to pull at your knees?” Breandán shifted his own feet, to check. It was difficult to raise them, but not impossible.
Rafael let go of the horse and reached under the water to grab at one knee and pull. He tugged, straining, his breath coming in gusts.
Then the other knee.
He put so much effort in to it that when his hands slipped, he was forced to pinwheel his arms to keep balanced upon his unmoving feet, for he could not step backward to stay upright.
Breandán said nothing. The water, which had been at his waist, was now lapping beneath his arms.
Rafael slapped at the racing water. “The bank is right there!” he shouted. “Ten steps and we’re out!” Fury tinged his voice.
Breandán could hear the fear, too, buried deep.
The sour, scared note in Rafael’s voice made his decision for him. Breandán let go of the horse. She wouldn’t move, now. He made his way up the side of the bed, around her nose, with a pat to assure her, and back to where Rafael stood chest high in the raging river.
“You want to drown with me, Celt?” Rafael snarled.
“You talk when talk isn’t needed,” Breandán growled. He slid his arms beneath Rafael’s and gripped his wrists behind Rafael’s back. Then he found a stone beneath his feet and rammed his boot up against it.
He hauled, keeping the pressure up. He understood that he was stronger than Rafael, than most humans. He didn’t know how strong he was. Would he be strong enough to do this?
Rafael curled his fingers over Breandán’s shoulders in a desperate grip. “I can’t even push,” he complained.
“Shut up,” Breandán growled. He searched for and found another large stone to use for leverage and put his left boot behind that one and hauled again.
Rafael’s feet came loose without warning and they both fell backward into the water. Rafael came up gasping and coughing. “I can’t swim,” he said, sounding annoyed.
Brendan grabbed the back of his dalmatic. “Don’t put your feet down again,” he warned him. He got his own boots planted, then pulled Rafael ashore.
It was twelve steps to the other bank. Rafael fell to the ground, breathing hard, his sodden clothing muddy and clinging to him. White mud caked his face and matted his hair.
But he was still alive.
The mare whinnied, panic building. Breandán waded back into the river and unhitched her from the wagon. By the time she was free, the water was at her shoulders. Breandán took a deep breath and bent to grab the strong chest strap. He found his footing and hauled again. He would pull until he needed a breath, then try again.
Only, the need for another breath did not arise. With a start, he realized that breathing wasn’t necessary for him anymore. He settled in to pull the mare to the bank, one slow step at a time, fighting both the mud and the powerful water.
The mare floundered, kicking in panic, trying to find footing. Breandán ignored her struggles and hauled until she flailed and struck stones with her hooves. She scrambled and jumped.
Breandán broke surface again.
“Christ above! You are alive!” Rafael exclaimed.
Breandán got behind the mare and pushed her up to the dry bank. She jumped and snorted. “Grab the reins,” he told Rafael curtly.
Rafael threw himself forward, squelching, and snagged the reins.
Breandán waded back into the river. Before he reached the middle, it was above his shoulders. He paddled, making for the wagon, which shifted and groaned under the force of the water.
A stout rope was tied to the back of the wagon. He unlooped it and fastened one end to the hitching bar and the other end around his waist. He swam toward the bank until his feet found the bottom and hauled himself up onto the edge.
Rafael was on his feet once more. The mare’s reins were wrapped around a rock. “You can’t haul it out by yourself. We must wait for the wat
er to drop.”
“The wagon will wash downriver if we wait. Stand aside.” Breandán put the rope over his shoulder and gripped it. Then he put his head and shoulders down and pulled.
For long moments, nothing seemed to happen. Breandán was at the point of admitting his new and greater strength was not up to this task, when the wagon lurched forward, the mud letting go of the wheels, which must have settled deep into its grip.
The wagon floated downriver, turning gently.
Breandán threw himself forward, taking up the slack once more. He hauled.
It took long, long minutes to pull the wagon through the raging water to where the front wheels bit into the river bed on the other side. Then more hard minutes laboring to roll the wagon up the stony bank and onto the land beyond. By then, the water had broken the banks of the river bed and was spreading beyond, flooding the land.
The wagon splashed through the water, with rivulets running from all four sides.
Breandán hauled until the wheels no longer squelched, then another dozen paces for good measure.
He dropped the rope, untied it from around his waist and looked back at the swirling waters beyond. His blood raced through his veins, fizzing in a pleasurable way.
Rafael came up to him. “Such strength. I had no idea…”
“Neither did I,” Breandán admitted. The first chuckle caught at his belly and chest, making his breath hitch. He laughed, letting it out.
Rafael’s lips parted in surprise, then he smiled, too.
Breandán threw his head back and roared with delight, with surprise…and with understanding.
They went no farther that day. Instead, they hitched the mare only long enough to draw the wagon over to the edge of the tree line, even though Breandán argued he could pull the wagon that far himself.
Then they made camp and set about cleaning out the wagon, drying their possessions and tallying the damage. Most of the food was ruined, except for a sack of oats tucked on the shelf above the bed.
“At least the horse will eat,” Rafael said, his tone sour.
“So will you,” Breandán told him. He nodded to the trees. “There is a boar in there. I can smell him. He would make a fine meal.”
“You can smell him?”
“Less than a mile from here. Pass me my knife.”
“Breandán, it’s a boar! You don’t know if you can—”
“I can,” Breandán said. “I know I can, just as you said I would. Relax. I’ll be back soon.”
The boar was dressed and trussed and a haunch roasting over the fire when the wagon was at last dry and clean, inside and out. The bedding and their clothes were hung by the fire to dry.
There was plenty of water for washing. They hauled it from the still-raging river and heated it in skins around the fire. Breandán found it easy to carry two skins in each hand, while Rafael struggled and panted, carrying just one skin in one hand.
It was while he was washing the mud from him that Breandán recognized the lightness in his soul. He realized he was smiling.
He looked over at Rafael and watched as he tipped a full skin of water over his head. The water cascaded down his body, which gleamed in the light from the dancing flames.
Rafael lowered the skin. His dark honey-colored eyes met Breandán’s.
The air about them shifted. Breandán’s heart strummed. Tension pulled at his chest…and lower than that. His belly tightened.
“Tell me I am not the only one to feel…this,” he said.
Rafael’s chest rose and fell. “You are not the only one.” He padded closer, his bare feet leaving damp prints and stopped before Breandán. “I will not take. Not this time. You have had a lifetime of being taken.”
Breandán drew in a slow breath, letting the jolt from Rafael’s words disperse. “That was a different life.”
Rafael rested his hand on Breandán’s shoulder. His fingers curled around his neck. “You have much to learn about pleasure, Breandán.”
Breandán nodded. “Teach me.”
Because he could magically heal from any wound, Breandán felt no fear. Rafael’s mouth was hot against his, his body even hotter, until Breandán lost control of his heart, and it beat as it had always done when he was human. Their bodies grew slick with effort and passion.
Rafael silently spread a blanket before the fire and pulled Breandán down upon it. Then he shocked him by pressing his lips not just to Breandán’s mouth, but all over him. His hands followed, exploring every inch.
Breandán’s shaft was rampantly erect, throbbing in time with his heart, when Rafael at last let his mouth hover over it.
This was not the way of it as Breandán knew it. The guards had never lingered to savor or explore. They had paused only long enough to pour oil upon their palms, to ease their way inside—and they only delayed long enough for that consideration in order to keep the slave whole and uninjured for future occasions.
Rafael was gentle, in comparison. Yet there was a force in his movements, adding tension and lust to his every touch. As his mouth closed over Breandán’s shaft and teased, Breandán cried out at the shock and pleasure of it. He had not dreamed it could be this way, that he could take pleasure for himself.
His excitement climbed, driving him. He was the stronger one. He knew that in his bones now. Breandán pulled Rafael to him and kissed him fully, letting himself explore, to experience every little nuance and delight. It was his turn to make Rafael writhe as he had done.
He put Rafael on his knees and settled behind him and reached for the oil. Rafael watched him, his gaze heated.
“I understand now,” Breandán told him. “No pain, not for either of us. Just pleasure, no matter who takes who.”
“Yes, you see it now,” Rafael said in agreement.
Breandán took him slowly, with care, watching Rafael’s reactions, measuring and learning what he liked, what made him make sounds which curled in Breandán’s belly and made his heart thud harder.
Then the mutual delight grew overwhelming. They strove together for the peak. Breandán’s climax tore through him, spearing him with the most exquisite, thrilling rush of sweetness, made better by Rafael’s deep, deep groan of satisfaction.
When Rafael’s trembling subsided, he sat up, gripped Breandán’s face and kissed him deeply. “My turn. Brace yourself, Breandán.”
He caught Rafael’s arm. “Brody.”
Rafael’s smile was warm and slow. “Brody.”
Their daily progress along the old Roman road became even slower, for they both sensed that this time would end, when they reached the place where their paths separated. Brody dreaded that time.
“Why can you not come with me to Britain? There is nothing for you in Iberia. Not even family, anymore.”
“I do not know for certain,” Rafael replied, as he stirred coals in the fire. “I must find out, first, before I can decide anything else.”
“Then I will come with you.”
Rafael shook his head. “Your destination is elsewhere, Brody.”
Brody hissed his frustration. “Beyond the horizon,” he muttered.
“Exactly.”
Brody scowled.
Rafael sighed and dropped the branch. “Don’t you understand? I am human. You are not. You have such…such great wonders ahead of you. You have the time to explore places which don’t exist on maps, places humans have never heard of before. You will meet people and see things undreamt of by man. You will see the future. Not just the days and weeks ahead, but years. Decades. Centuries.”
“You know that.”
“I can see how it will be for one like you,” Rafael replied. Yet there was a cautious note in his voice.
Brody sat up. “No, you know. I heard it in your voice. You know what I will see.”
Rafael hesitated. “The shape of it, yes. Not the details. It is dangerous to know too much about the future, so the details were not given to me. But yes, I know something of the places and times you will live to
see.” He grimaced. “I don’t have that time, Brody. I just have the horizon and no further.”
Brody grasped his wrist. “I could turn you.” His voice emerged low and earnest. “You said it could be done by anyone of the Blood. It was done to me. I could do it to you. Then you would have that time.”
Rafael pulled Brody’s fingers from his wrist. “No, Brody.”
His disappointment was so great, it hurt. Brody hung his head, breathing hard.
Rafael rested his hand on the back of Brody’s neck. His fingers stroked. “It is just the prospect of being alone which makes you say such things, that makes you feel this way.”
“Being without you, you mean,” Brody whispered.
Rafael lifted his chin. “You think this is of no consequence to me? I do not relish the moment we must part, either, Brody. But part we must.” He bent to peer into Brody’s eyes. “I am not the one who will complete your life, who will walk beside you for most of it and make you happy.”
“You don’t know that,” Brody said miserably.
“I do.” Rafael’s voice was low. Hoarse with emotion and undeniable knowledge.
Brody straightened, studying him. His heart thudded. “You have seen it…”
Rafael nodded.
Brody opened his lips, about to demand details, information, answers. Then he grimaced. “But you will not tell me.”
Rafael shook his head. “First, you must learn how to get along in this world. You must learn to look forward, to wonder what is over the horizon and crave to learn. Then you will be ready for them.”
Brody’s breath caught. “Them?”
Rafael frowned. Then he shrugged. “I say it that way so I do not give you even their gender to ponder upon.” He stretched and yawned. “I should sleep. It is late.”
Brody knew he would say no more. Rafael was a puny human, but his will was one of the strongest Brody had ever come across. Nothing would make him speak further about this mysterious someone in Brody’s future.
More Time Kissed Moments Page 17
