by Jane Davitt
"Are you angry with me?"
"For what?” Peter shifted so that he could lie against Jamie's chest as he'd wanted to do earlier, noting absently that they were both somewhat sticky.
"Taking the Luck."
"It's either going to belong to you at dawn, or you'll return it,” Peter murmured sleepily. “And, although if you do let the castle fall I'll be in trouble, I'm finding it difficult to work up any righteous wrath for some reason. Give me an hour or two, will you?"
"You want to sleep?"
"Aye,” Peter said, making Jamie chuckle deep in his chest. “I've flown for hours, been knocked out and seduced—I want to sleep."
He felt Jamie sigh and tug the covers up over them, heard Jamie murmur a charm that took care of the drying residue of his come on them both, and then he fell asleep with Jamie's arms warm around him.
* * * *
Emerging from his doze a few hours later he found Jamie watching him.
"What is it?"
"Nothing. I'm just not so used to sharing my bed."
"Well, neither am I,” Peter admitted.
"Aye, so you said,” Jamie agreed. “Though why a man like you has to go months between lovers is beyond me."
In the shadowy room, Peter had only the tone of Jamie's voice to go by. The man sounded sincere, but even so...
"I don't know why you're surprised,” he said. “I'm really very ordinary; I told you; I can't transform and I'm—"
"Why can't you?” Jamie ran a hand down Peter's arm and found his hand, linking their fingers. “It's nonsense to say you're weak when I can feel your power. You're fair crackling with it, like cat's fur in a thunderstorm."
"I am?” Peter said doubtfully. “I find that hard to believe, but thank you."
Jamie snorted. “You wouldn't bother thanking me for pointing out that you had blue eyes; this is no different. And I'm still waiting. What's your form, anyway?"
"A hawk. And I'm scared of heights,” Peter said flippantly.
"As you arrived here by broomstick, I'm thinking you'll need to do better than that,” Jamie said dryly. “Or did you fly two feet off the ground the whole way?"
The soft, slow brush of Jamie's thumb against his hand shattered Peter's reticence. “I don't transform because—"
Jamie kissed him when his voice trailed away, looking slightly ashamed. “Don't be telling me if you don't want to, lad. I've no right to force a confidence."
"No,” Peter said. “I don't mind. It's just that I never do tell people, and it's a hard habit to break, somehow.” He curled up against Jamie, who obligingly lifted an arm so that Peter could get closer and rest his head on Jamie's shoulder.
"My parents shared the same form; they were hawks, too."
"That's rare,” Jamie commented.
Peter nodded. “They actually met in their bird-forms, flying over the Forest of Dean, and didn't know the other was human until sunset came and my mother changed back because she had a party to go to. They both loved transforming so much—"
"It's like nothing else,” Jamie said. His large hand swept over Peter's chest and down. “Well, almost."
Peter laughed without humor. “I'm an only child,” he said. “I think for them even sex couldn't compete."
"So what happened?"
"Nothing. At least—my mother died and my father...” Peter swallowed down the anger and sorrow he felt. “He transformed and stayed that way. I never saw him again until his body was found; he'd been killed by a predator; an eagle, they thought, and, of course, he transformed back when he died."
"And you—” Jamie shook his head. “I can see a few ways this could go,” he said frankly.
Peter traced a glyph on Jamie's chest, twining their initials and then kissing the spot. “So could the therapists I saw weekly for more years than I care to remember. I was either resentful because transformation took my parents away, terrified that the call would be so strong that I'd never return, or simply incapable. Quite a range of possibilities there. Angry, scared or weak. You'll see why the whole issue's not one I care to think about."
"Oh, aye,” Jamie admitted easily. “It's a proper mess.” He turned his head and kissed Peter soundly. “But it's a pack of nonsense to say that you couldn't transform, or return, given your power, and you're not the type to hold a grudge."
"Unlike you,” Peter said pointedly, deflecting the conversation away from a wound so old that it really shouldn't have still stung.
"Oh, once crossed, I'll curse someone to the ends of the earth,” Jamie said easily. “Never forget, never forgive."
"Your family motto?” Peter asked, getting a pinch on his nipple that made him gasp and then squirm closer.
"No,” Jamie murmured. “That's more along the lines of never passing up an opportunity.” The movement of Jamie's hand on Peter's chest became slow and sensuous. “You'll forgive me for taking advantage of this one?"
"There's nothing to forgive,” Peter replied. “Unless you stop."
Jamie's hand paused and he chuckled. “I'm eccentric, maybe, but I'm not touched. You're safe there; I'll not stop until we're both satisfied."
"Or I fall asleep,” Peter said provocatively, just to make Jamie smile again.
"If you fall asleep, I'll take the hint."
* * * *
When dawn came, they were both awake and busy.
"Oh God, yes,” Peter said tightly. “Right there, Jamie, right—ah God, yes—"
Jamie's hands tightened on Peter's hips and his cock slid home again, leaving Peter making a sound that was close to a whimper, because he'd already worked out that when he did that, Jamie loved it, and the next thrust came harder and faster, just how he wanted it. He was a little hazy about cause and effect sometimes, but he was sure about that.
Not that the whimpering was entirely voluntary...
"Summer boy,” Jamie whispered thickly, bending over to nip at Peter's shoulder with teeth that had already left half a dozen marks on Peter's skin. “You feel so hot when I'm fucking you. Like sliding my cock into—"
His voice broke off and Peter smiled unseen, not blaming Jamie for being unable to come up with something suitably poetic at such a moment, and more than willing to exchange words for actions. When Jamie remained still, cock deep inside him, he frowned, wriggling slightly in a gentle hint.
Jamie pulled out of him, leaving Peter gasping and bereft, and, as Peter twisted his head around to stare, Jamie drove his fist hard into the bed, his mouth set and angry.
Peter rolled onto his back and tilted his head to look at the pale gray square of the window, comprehension replacing bewilderment.
"Dawn."
"Aye,” Jamie replied from the foot of the bed. “And you're being fucked by the Head of the Clan of Callum, if you care."
"I care that you stopped,” Peter said truthfully, “although I can quite see why you did.” His cock, slow to understand, still stood tall, and he sighed and ran his hand over it idly, his gaze fixed on Jamie's back, wondering what to do.
"It was like a sword through my skull,” Jamie said irritably. “Damn the man!"
"The prince?” Peter guessed.
Jamie turned, his face stormy. “Well, who else?” His eyes dropped to Peter's hand and widened with outrage. “I was taking care of that!"
"You stopped,” Peter said evenly. “And from the look of you, you're about to spend a considerable amount of time sulking, so don't mind me, will you?"
Jamie's jaw dropped slightly and then he smirked and reached for a pillow, propping his elbow on it and settling down to watch. “Off you go, then."
Raising one eyebrow and fighting to keep a calmly amused smile on his face for the first few strokes at least, Peter curled his fingers around his shaft and began what was an all-too familiar action.
Of course, he didn't usually have an audience whose gray eyes seemed torn between watching his face—and he was damned if he'd close his eyes when the only man he was interested in picturing was right there in f
ront of him—and his cock, contained in a grip he knew would look painfully tight.
And it was. He liked it that way. The average person spoke blithely about the cruelty of the children of winter, and Peter knew many who enjoyed living up to that preconception, but they forgot, perhaps, that summer could be harsh too, with its drought and searing sun.
And none of that mattered, because no season was forever, and relief from heat came with the storms of autumn and the clean, fresh winds that scoured the trees bare.
Peter whimpered Jamie's name deliberately, challengingly and waited for his own autumnson to quench his fire.
Jamie grinned slowly, unpeeled his hand from his own cock and crawled across the bed to Peter, kissing him first and sucking at his bottom lip until it stung. Then Jamie worked his way down Peter's body until he got level with Peter's cock.
"Move your hand,” Jamie said, lifting his head to stare up at Peter.
Peter showed Jamie his teeth and pushed through the tight tunnel of his own hand one more time.
"Very well,” Jamie said, ducking his head and waiting. Peter thrust up again, throwing in a moan for good measure, and then gasped as Jamie's tongue flickered out, a warm, wet slash of a touch across the exposed, sensitive head of his cock.
He managed to endure three more of those lightning-fast caresses before his resolve faltered and his hand fell away, leaving him at Jamie's mercy.
Jamie, who sighed patiently, put Peter's hand back where it had been, with Jamie's own over it, holding it in place, and made him carry on until every sound that fell from Peter's mouth was genuine, heartfelt and increasingly desperate.
By the time Jamie's grip slackened, lips sliding down further, Peter was lost to sensation, his eyes tight-shut and his skin heated and tingling.
"Jamie, oh God, oh love—"
He felt Jamie hum with satisfaction and then he was coming, hips jerking as he rode out a release intense enough to leave him shaking.
Jamie lifted his head, wiping the back of his mouth with his hand as Peter blinked up at him hazily.
"Turn over,” Jamie said and then added, rather charmingly, “Please?"
* * * *
They woke again at full light, kissing their way through dressing and coming close to falling back into bed again. The storm had blown out and a high, blue sky smiled down on white crispness.
Peter sat with the remnants of his broom, examining them ruefully as Jamie cleared away the breakfast dishes.
"You never did say what on earth you were doing coming that far on one of those,” Jamie remarked, coming back into the room and stretching out on a couch. “It's a hell of a long way to fly."
"That's exactly what I told my employer,” Peter said, “but he insisted that the Luck had to be delivered by magical means."
"Stuff and nonsense,” Jamie said roundly. “Amanda brought it with her by helicopter last time and there's nothing magical about that."
"Really?” Peter said. “How odd. Not that it matters, I suppose.” He prized the compass out of its holder and gave it an exasperated look. “Will you look at this? It's insisting I'm where I should be—"
"Good to hear,” Jamie murmured. “Clever compass."
Peter smiled at him. “Well, yes, but the fact remains that the co-ordinates I gave it were for the castle.” He went back to glaring at it. “Honestly. Brand-new and a little blizzard has it confused."
"Send it back with a curse,” Jamie said lazily. “Better yet, chuck it away and come here and kiss me."
"I can't, not really,” Peter said. “I'm technically at work today, and I really should go to the castle to explain why I'm not there.” He blinked. “If you know what I mean.” He gave Jamie a severe look. “And if you really do plan to go through with this revenge of yours—"
"I do,” Jamie said firmly.
"Then we—I—no, we, dammit! We need to warn people before the castle falls. Unless slaughtering your relatives is also part of your plan for revenge?"
"Have you ever met my Aunt Dolores?” Jamie enquired. “Because if you had, you wouldn't be quite so free with your mercy. Och, what's it to you, anyway?"
"Well, I don't suppose old man Callum was serious about setting the hounds on me,” Peter said with some asperity, “but I think it's safe to say I'm unemployed as of the moment he discovers I've failed to complete my task."
"Hounds?” Jamie said, jerking upright. “He said he'd set the hounds on ye?"
"Something of the sort, yes,” Peter said, wincing as a splinter from his broomstick worked its way under his nail. “Don't worry; I feel sure that they were metaphoric hounds."
"Oh, aye,” Jamie said grimly, rolling up the leg of his jeans and tapping at a ragged silver scar on his calf, half-hidden beneath the russet hair. “They might be. In fact, as they're ghost hounds, I suppose they are. But their damned teeth are real enough. Laddie, why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I know good and well that he didn't mean it?” Peter said. “Don't be silly, Jamie. Besides, they'll answer to you now, so I'm safe unless you take a sudden dislike to me."
Jamie stood up. “I'm wanting your word,” he said roughly. “You're to swear that you won't try to trick me into touching it, and then I'll give you the Luck and we'll take it to their fucking castle and they'll no’ be able to blame you when I refuse to touch it, because you'll have done all you could. But you're to swear, you hear me?"
Peter stood, too. “Don't you trust me?” he asked quietly, the hurt he felt finding its way into his voice.
Jamie shook his head. “Lad, if I didn't, I wouldn't be doing this much, believe me. Aye, I trust you."
Bending down, Peter sorted through the fragments of wood and picked up a twig from the tail. Birch. It would do. He stood and walked over to Jamie and stopped far enough away that he could extend his hand, folded around the twig.
"By this I swear,” he said. “Neither by trick, nor threat, nor coercion will I force you to touch the Luck. Let it bear witness to the truth of my words.” He felt pain lance through his hand as the wood twisted and stabbed and then sighed as the twig went from bud to leaf, the soft green dappled with his blood.
"Thank you,” Jamie said softly.
Peter placed the twig on the table and waited.
"It's in a tree,” Jamie said heading toward the door. “Just across from where you landed."
It wasn't there.
Somehow Peter had known that it wouldn't be that easy.
Jamie leaned his forehead against the tree trunk and brought his hand up, fingers spread, to touch the bark. Peter watched him in silence. Jamie hadn't spoken since Peter had withdrawn his empty hand from the hollow in the tree, but Jamie hadn't needed to; the dismay followed by fury had been plain on his face.
"My land."
"I'm sorry?” Peter said.
Jamie turned, straightening and looking dangerously unstable. “They came onto my land and stole from me,” he said through his teeth. “I'm going to fucking kill them."
Clearing his throat and hoping that Jamie wouldn't take out his evident frustration on the closest warm body, Peter said mildly, “But does it matter? You don't want the Luck, and one could say that they've done you a favor."
He got an uncomprehending look. “My land,” Jamie repeated before shaking his head. “Och, you're a townie, and English as well; I wouldn't expect you to understand."
Keeping hold of his temper, Peter said patiently, “Be that as it may, this changes nothing. I don't know who would have taken the Luck, or why; it's valuable, but more for the associations than for the jewel itself; garnet's only semi-precious and—"
"It is what protects my clan,” Jamie said, his voice cold and steady. “For centuries. And for all I know, it's in the hands of strangers. Don't stand there and tell me it doesn't matter, for I'll not listen."
Pursing his lips, Peter studied Jamie. If the words ‘dog’ and ‘bone’ flitted through his mind, he didn't dwell on them. Jamie's apparent change of heart was in his in
terests after all—and in Jamie's; Peter was certain that Jamie would have come to regret carrying through his plans, and the Clan would have found a multitude of ways to deal with him, none of them pleasant.
"Very well,” Peter said. “Then I suggest we dress for the weather and begin our search.” Jamie frowned and Peter pointed to the faint tracks leading away from the tree, barely visible with the fresh snow that filled them, but clear enough if you were looking for them. “One man, heading north along a track. Where does that path lead?"
Jamie strode to the footprints, kneeling beside them and touching them lightly with his fingers. “To the castle, where else?"
"It doesn't follow that the Luck was taken there, though,” Peter said thoughtfully. “The thief could have turned aside."
"It doesn't matter,” Jamie said. “I'll find him wherever he's gone with what's mine.” He jerked his head at the cottage. “Get what you need, and hurry."
Something in Peter's face must have given him away because Jamie's eyes lost some of their anger. “Please?” Jamie said quietly, walking over to Peter and resting the back of his fingers fleetingly against Peter's cheek.
Peter nodded and turned away.
When he came out, his flying suit on as it was weatherproof and light enough that he could walk in it, Jamie was in the middle of the clearing, bare-chested and half out of his jeans.
"What on earth are you doing?” Peter exclaimed.
Jamie grinned, tossing his jeans on top of the rest of his clothes, tucked neatly into a small bag, and shivering convulsively. “Well, I can't shift form wearing that lot, now can I? I'm not like you, shifting down small and able to shed my clothes as I do it."
"Oh!” Peter said. “I see.” He glanced away. “I wouldn't—I hadn't really thought about it. With not being able to do it myself.” He forestalled Jamie's next question. “No. I don't want to try. I've given up trying, if it's all the same to you."
Jamie stared at him, his face unreadable, but mercifully free from the pity or scorn that Peter had grown to expect, and then nodded. “As you like. But you can hold on, can you not?"
"To what?” Peter asked.
"Me,” Jamie said, extending his arms and diving forward.
