by Headlee, Kim
“Later.” He clasped her hands. They felt refreshingly cool. He marveled that there didn’t seem to be any task she couldn’t do. “Thank you, Gyanhumara.” He drew her up to sit beside him on the bed.
“Please—just Gyan.” His near-nakedness made her shy. To stave it off, she forced herself to speak. “And thank you. For winning. It was an excellent fight.” Frowning, she considered the darker implications. “Except for sparing him.”
Arthur recalled Cai’s quip about dead men being unable to attack and wondered if he had indeed made a mistake. He regarded Gyan earnestly. “It would have given me tremendous pleasure to drive that sword through his throat. But at present, he is more valuable to me alive.”
“He would have killed you.” The grim image of a different outcome flashed across her mind, and she couldn’t suppress a shudder.
“I know, Gyan.” He hugged her close, kissing her neck, immensely thankful for this opportunity. Urien had come closer to winning that fight than Arthur cared to admit, especially to her. “I know.”
“So who is to take his place here?”
“You.”
“What? Me?” She pulled away to search his face for signs of the jest but found only solemn sincerity. “Arthur, you can’t be serious.”
“Of course I am.”
“There must be others who are much better qualified.”
“In terms of combat experience, yes.” A dozen names, in fact, occurred to him, capable leaders all. “But they will have opportunities for advancement soon enough.” He ran slow fingers through her hair, reveling in its silkiness. “You have proven that you can live and train and fight alongside your former enemies without holding that past against them. If my—” He grinned; with Gyan at his side, he’d have to get accustomed to a whole new way of thinking. “If our Brytoni-Caledonian force is to become truly unified, I will need your help. On Maun. And I believe you’ll do just fine, Gyan.”
“Perhaps.” As he leaned to kiss her, she put a hand against his chest. The heat of his flesh sparked a burst of nervousness, but she mentally shook it off. “I don’t understand why you can’t leave Urien here and take me with you instead. I could do just as much good at your headquarters.”
He shook his head. “I want him where I can watch him. As far away from you as possible. And I do trust you to do a good job for me here.”
“We’ll be apart for so long, Arthur. Now that I have you, I don’t want to lose you.”
“Nor I you.” He raised her hand to kiss the backs of the fingers lingeringly, unlike that first time, on the eve of her departure for Maun. And unlike that first time, the smile that spread across her face was one of boundless joy. “But my decision is made. Besides, it will only be until summer’s end.”
Smile fading, she lowered her gaze. “It may as well be forever.”
He grasped her chin but didn’t have to exert much force to make her look at him. “It doesn’t have to be.”
He was right, she realized.
They kissed as he removed her belt. It clattered to the floor. His hands slipped under her tunic. Her nipples grew taut and tingled beneath his feather-light touch. She tilted her head and braced her hands against the bed, panting softly. He kissed her throat, and she arched toward him. Her breathing deepened and slowed.
As he maintained his sweet siege of her neck and nipples, an ache throbbed in her banasròn, framing a rush of wet warmth. She tensed.
The training specific to this obligation of her rank had dealt with the selection of a proper consort. No one had prepared her for what would happen once she was ready to finalize her choice.
But she knew enough to realize that trust was essential to a strong marriage union…and the trust had to begin here.
After tugging off her boots, she let him remove her tunic and breastband. She settled back on the furs. Staying off his bandaged leg and wearing only the linen that bound his loins, he eased down beside her. She felt her muscles relax as he massaged her shoulders. Her eyes drifted shut, and she uttered a long sigh.
Arthur recognized her tension for what it was and silently vowed to curb his urgency for her sake. Slowly, with lips as well as fingers, he explored the rest of her body, delighting in its contrasts: firm in most places yet yielding in all the right ones.
Through the thin linen of her trews, he caressed the source of her ache, encircling it, widening it, prolonging it, building it to exquisite heights. Her hips began their dance, demurely—at first. He guided her hand to discover the source of his ache, and she felt a swell of satisfaction to learn that she possessed the power to coax his eyes to close and his lips to part and his breathing to quicken and his hips to hitch to the rhythm of his tongue dancing entwined with hers.
More intensely than anything in her life, she craved to feel him against her, inside her. She clawed at the linen that blocked her way. Grinning, he obeyed her unspoken command. The fabric around his loins came free and whispered to the floor. After a brief, doomed struggle, her trews and loincloth followed.
He had intended to lengthen her ecstasy and teach her more about how to do the same for him, but the siren call of her bewitching body was singing too alluringly. He shifted between her legs, drew a deep breath, and plunged into her slick, tight depths.
Her short gasp sounded sharp with pain.
Alarmed, he started to pull away. Arching closer, she clasped her hands behind his head and brought his face down to hers. She matched his pace and kissed him, hard. He responded with equal force. Her gasps adopted the tone and timbre of a woman balanced on the precipice, not quite ready to fall. He quickened his rhythm, and she answered with more speed, more force, and more throaty gasps that thrilled his soul and drove him toward his peak. Their dance raced to frenzied proportions until he could no longer tell who led and who followed. And it no longer mattered.
By ancient Caledonach law, the Àrd-Banoigin of Clan Argyll accepted the Pendragon of Brydein as àrd-ceoigin. There was no rage to release, this time, and no frustration, for either of them. Together—one in body, heart, and soul—they stepped off the precipice, and fell.
Chapter 30
SHE WOKE TO Arthur’s questing fingers, lying on her shield side, facing away from him. Dawn had begun infiltrating the chamber. His soft, spiraling touch on her buttocks awakened her desire. She turned onto her back, twined one hand around his neck, and sent her other hand on its own quest. It did not take long to find the reward.
He slid closer. His indrawn breath hissed through clenched teeth.
“Your leg?” she asked as he settled onto his sword side and started caressing her inner thigh with those same light, circling strokes.
“I will live.” On each upsweep, he teased her banasròn, making her tingle and crave more. “How is your arm?”
“It’s still attached.” With that hand, she stoked his craving. “I thought you had to be furious with me, first,” she whispered with a grin.
“I don’t know.” She barely heard the response between his husky breaths. His fingers delved deeper, enticing her to gasp and arch against him. “Let’s find out.”
They never did.
A muffled but urgent pounding sounded like it was coming from outside the anteroom door. Their hands and bodies stilled. Gyan could feel Arthur tense beside her, even as her own senses sharpened to the possibility of a threat. She sent up a silent, thankful prayer that she had bolted both doors.
The pounding stopped. The silence stretched for several seconds. Just as she was beginning to believe the intruder had given up, she heard the Caledonaiche shout: “Gyan! Gyan, wake up!” The words were as muffled as the knocks, which had resumed, but the visitor’s identity was unmistakable.
“What the devil can he want?” Arthur muttered, moving away from her to sit up.
Gyan caught his hand. “Let me talk to him.” In the strengthening light, she cast a nod toward his slashed and bloody tunic and leggings, and the undertunic he had sacrificed for bandage material. “You’re not ex
actly prepared to be seen outside this chamber.”
Arthur nodded but stood to retrieve his loincloth and the remains of his clothing anyway.
She donned her undergarments, linen trews, and tunic, unlocked the bedchamber door, and entered the antechamber, leaving the inner door closed but not latched. She padded on bare feet across the chilly tiles toward the door that was under siege.
“Gyan, can you hear me?” Her visitor was still speaking Caledonaiche.
She removed the bolt, opened the door, and yanked Angusel into the antechamber. She pushed the door shut behind him.
“Are you trying to wake the whole fort, or only half?” she asked, in Breatanaiche for Arthur’s benefit, allowing a mild reprimand to color her tone.
Obligingly, Angusel responded in kind. “I’m sorry, Gyan, truly. But there’s been talk. Strange talk! You, Arthur, Urien…” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Some of the soldiers—I can’t believe what they’re saying! Is it true?”
“Stop. Take a breath.” When he obeyed, she nodded. “Now, tell me what you’ve heard.”
“I was breaking fast in the feast hall. There was a fair crowd—soldiers, mostly, preparing to go on duty. Others had just finished their guard shifts. Some of that lot said that two ships left port last night, or earlier this morning, no one was sure. But they claimed that one ship was carrying Urien and Morghe, with the Pendragon pursuing in the other.”
“What!” This from Arthur, who emerged from the bedchamber to the percussion of that door banging into the wall. In his ruined leathers and bloody bandage, he looked as if he’d just stepped off a battlefield and was searching for the next one.
“Sir!” Angusel aimed his astonished gaze from Arthur to Gyan, bowed his head, and stared at the floor. “Oh, gods. I am so very sorry for disturbing you, Lord Pendragon. Both of you.”
Was that a hint of envy? Absurd. She must have imagined it.
She laid a hand on Angusel’s shoulder. “Don’t be. Please, Angus. Thank you for alerting us.” He looked up and offered her a brief smile. She squeezed his shoulder before withdrawing her hand.
Arthur echoed her thanks, adding, “Urien had better hope the other half of the rumor is false too.”
Gyan turned her questioning gaze upon him. “You don’t think he would be that stupid, do you?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. I need to verify Urien and Morghe’s whereabouts, and set my men straight.”
“My lord, it’s not just the men,” Angusel said. “On my way over here, I overheard servants and craftsmen and others who weren’t warriors. They were all talking about your fight and what they thought had happened afterward.”
“Naturally.” Arthur unpinned his legion brooch from the leather tunic and approached Angusel. “If I might prevail upon you for your further assistance?”
Angusel met his gaze unswervingly. “Whatever you require, sir. My oath to Gyan binds me to her consort, as well.”
With a nod, Arthur gave Angusel the brooch. “Show this at the camp and tell the perimeter guards that you need to find Centurion Marcus for a private audience. Tell Marcus I want the men—all of them, including the Dhoo-Glass contingent—assembled by the time I get there. I will be stopping at the infirmary first. That should give Marcus the time he needs.”
“And…Urien?” Gyan asked, hating that she had to.
“I will deal with him, my love. Morghe too. You stay here and prepare yourself for a gathering.”
“With the men? Most of them know who I am.” She uttered a short laugh. “After last night’s feast, I’m sure they all do.”
“This will be for the civilians. There’s no telling how far those rumors have spread already, or how many there are. If merchants carry just one of those tales to the main island…” He shook his head. “I’ll return to escort you, Gyan.”
Angusel looked at the gold dragon, then at Arthur. “Given what’s happened to me in the past few days, sir, I would feel a lot better if you sent a written message too.”
“Right.” Arthur strode to the table, found a blank sheet of parchment beside the pile that was Gyan’s battle report, dipped quill to ink, and scratched a few words. His final notation read, “AAV, DB”—the mark that meant his Ròmanach name and title, she realized. He waved the sheet dry, folded it twice, and gave it to Angusel. “Also, tell Marcus to prepare my parade uniform. Leave my badge with him, and come back here to wait with Gyan until I return.”
“Yes, my lord!” The brooch and message clasped in his shield-side fist, Angusel gave Arthur the Caledonach warrior’s salute with the other, followed by the lopsided grin Gyan loved so well. After he departed on his mission, she and Arthur shared a chuckle.
Gyan closed the door, turned, and leaned against it, feeling her lips bend into a sultry smile in response to Arthur’s. He drew closer and lowered his mouth to hers.
She didn’t want to say it, but, “We don’t have time for this. You need to get to the infirmary, mo laochan,” she whispered. “My little champion.”
“Little?” He attacked her throat, and she gasped her pleasure. “You might consider revising that assessment.” He rubbed his leather-sheathed tòn against her linen-veiled banasròn to prove his point.
“If it were true,” she murmured, feeling both their bodies throb in anticipation, “it would be a title, not an endearment.”
LYING ON her stomach on top of the wolfskin covering her bed, she clutched the russet pillow beneath her chin. She raised her head to escape the woolen covering’s scratchiness and scowled at the whitewashed stone wall.
She, Morghe, daughter of Uther and Ygraine, had no one vying for her attention, while the Pict had two of the most eligible men in all Brydein wrapped around her little finger.
And the woman had absolutely no idea how lucky she was.
In Gyanhumara’s place, Morghe would have had a veritable field day playing Urien against Arthur at the feast. She’d expected Gyanhumara to do something—anything—other than mope through the meal. Still, watching the chieftainess stew had been entertaining in its own way.
Equally puzzling was why Gyanhumara seemed to favor Arthur. Any sane woman would leap at the chance for a husband who would one day become chieftain of a clan as strong as Urien’s. Arthur was a soldier. The commander-in-chief of the army, true, but still only a soldier, with no lands and a source of income that was sporadic at best.
But if the Picti woman’s behavior was difficult to understand, Arthur’s was not. Neither was Urien’s. Any dolt with eyes could have guessed their intentions when they left the hall on Gyanhumara’s heels.
Inwardly, Morghe railed at the times over the past several weeks she had failed to maneuver Urien into a more intimate setting. She had even resorted to putting powdered sea-holly root in the water she used to wash her hair, mixed with lavender oil to mask the scent. Once she realized she was going to be stuck at Port Dhoo-Glass for who knew how much longer, she had gone to the apothecary for more of the aphrodisiac. Sea holly was much more effective when ingested, but she knew the chances of getting close enough, unseen, to Urien’s food or drink were slim.
She could have force-fed him a raw root, however, and it wouldn’t have mattered one iota.
Fingering a fragrant tress, she wondered why she had even bothered with the hair treatment this morning.
Morghe reached for the borrowed emerald linen gown draped across the chair, thankful for the thoughtfulness of the innkeeper’s wife. While not the finest frock ever to grace her body, it was far better than the tunic and breeches she’d been captured in, which had begun to reek. She would have preferred having slippers to match, but the woman’s feet were too big. Her doeskin boots would have to do until it was safe to return to Tanroc. At least, they’d been scraped clean of the muck picked up from tramping across this overgrown dungheap of an island.
As she pulled the gown over her head and smoothed it into place, she wondered what had happened in Gyanhumara’s quarters. The guardsmen had denied acce
ss to the building despite her most provocative pleas. She fingered a lock of hair, releasing a burst of scent. Perhaps her luck would improve this morning.
She tugged on her boots and stepped into the corridor. The mansio was awakening to the activities of the other guests, mostly merchants and itinerant craftsmen who had been caught at the port when the Scots attacked.
To her surprise, Arthur rounded the corner. His scarlet-and-gold uniform was impeccable, as usual, and not one hair on his disgustingly handsome head was out of place. The bottom edge of a neatly wrapped bandage peered from below the kilt on his left thigh, one that was too clean to be covering a fresh wound. No bandage had been there during the feast.
“Dear brother, whatever happened to your leg last night? Picti foreplay?”
He barked a laugh. “May we find a place to talk that’s a bit more private?”
“Why, of course.” Curiosity afire, she invited him into her antechamber, and he closed the door behind them.
“I have good news for you and I wanted you to hear it from me first.” He looked thoroughly pleased with himself, and it was about to make her sick.
Then it occurred to her why.
“I was right, wasn’t I?” Arthur’s smile was utterly captivating. It took more than a little effort to resist its spell. “What have your bedchamber exploits with foreign women possibly to do with me?”
“There is someone who wishes to marry you. Urien of Dalriada.”
Marrying Urien, the politically powerful and handsome and virile Urien…it was her fondest wish! Except for one drawback. “You expect me to marry the Pict’s castoff?” Morghe never accepted seconds from anybody, and she wasn’t about to start. Folding her arms, she glared at her brother. “I won’t do it.”
“Ah, but think of the possibilities. To be chieftainess of the most powerful clan of Dalriada.” He waved as though painting a picture. “Perhaps even to rule all Dalriada one day.”
