Slumber

by Cassandra Dean

  Hunching his shoulders and shuffling his feet, he made his way to the bar, uttering soft apologies when he got too close to others. His aim was invisibility, and there was nothing more invisible than a timid man.

  The barkeep approached. “What’ll you have, lad?”

  “Ale, if you please,” he said, allowing the accent of his youth to shape his words. “It be right busy in here. Something special on?”

  “No more than usual, but the Confirmation is upon us. The fellars what’s in here can’t stop yabbering on it, and we’ve seen many a traveler come through these docks bound for Queenstor.”

  “The Confirmation?” He pasted an expression of false surprise upon his features. “That’s what they’re talking of? I would have thought there be more interesting discussion.”

  “Nothing more interesting than Princess Thalia. That girl is loved, no word of a lie, and those what’s ’round here are looking to her return with a pleasure something fierce. Must say, my own eyes will be glad to see her in her rightful place.”

  It still surprised him that the common folk held such love for their princess. “She’s been gone these seven years but.”

  “Gone, but not forgotten.” The barkeep sighed. “It’s funny, but it’s like we’ve all been sleeping, waiting for her to wake us. She’ll shake things up, bring piss and vinegar and youth to the throne. I’ve naught against King Hector, but he’s become an old man, made older by missing his daughter, no doubt. You mark my words, within a six-month of taking the throne, she’ll make it so those who mean the crown ill are sorted good and proper.”

  “You mean”—making a show of glancing about, Sebastian lowered his voice—“the Spindles?”

  Fear soured the barkeep’s jovial expression. “Don’t be saying that too loud, lad. Everywhere has ears, and those that mean the crown harm have a long reach.”

  Sebastian nodded. “Right, right, but could they have some plan? Some way of stopping the princess?”

  “Could be. Most everyone has plans, of anything and everything, and the Spind— those who wish the crown ill are the same as most. What those plans are, we can but guess.”

  He played a hunch. “What about the Cormare? Do you think the Spindles have entered into a contract with them?”

  “Are you looking to get killed, lad? You keep up that talk, and you’ll see the inside of a barrel, make no mistake.” The barkeep took a step back. “And I’ll be asking you to move on if it’s all the same to you.”

  He wasn’t going to get anything more from the barkeep. The Cormare had most people wary and the rest downright terrified.

  Sebastian nodded his thanks and shuffled from the bar, maintaining the fiction of a broken man even as his thoughts were a whirl. He should have known the Cormare had more than one angle. They liked money, make no mistake, but they liked it better if there were two parties bidding. Thalia’s father would do anything to have his daughter back, and the Spindles would pay much to have the princess, and therefore the king, at their mercy. The fanatical group was determined to make a statement, and they didn’t care who got in their way. Two bidders, both desperate to win, and the Cormare would thus make a fortune.

  Bright sunlight blinded him as he pushed through the pub door. A blink, two, and the world became focused, the busy docks before him once more.

  “Sebastian!”

  He looked around to see Thalia barreling toward him, her expression grim.

  “Nothing?” he said as she reached him.

  She shook her head. “I left a message. Maybe they’ll receive it.”

  “Our ship leaves in five hours, Thalia. We can’t wait any longer than that.” Especially not with the Cormare and the Spindles wanting her.

  “I know.” She exhaled. “I would like to know they are well is all.”

  He wanted to haul her into his arms. He didn’t. “It does you credit, Thalia. Your concern.”

  Wrapping her arms about her waist, she nodded.

  It tore something in him to see her like this. “We can wait here, though.”

  She looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “We don’t have to wait near the ship. We’ll wait here, in view of the graph office.”

  She searched his face, and then a smile lit her features. “Thank you.”

  He nodded as if it was nothing, and she turned her contemplation to the office, but his pulse beat too fast. He tried to pretend her smile and her thanks had not warmed the region suspiciously close to his heart.

  Chapter Seven

  Bharia and Stahg hadn’t shown.

  Leaning against the railing, Thalia looked over the vast expense of ocean separating her from Queenstor. The cool air, heavy with salt, battered her face and tore at her hair. She loved the ocean, loved the violence of the waves and the spray. She’d been from it too long. Closing her eyes, she allowed the scream of the wind along her skin to soothe her.

  They’d boarded the ship without incident, but also without her guardians. They’d waited until they couldn’t anymore, but the graph office had remained frustratingly empty and Sebastian had practically dragged her to the ship.

  Linking her hands, she stared at the roll of the waves. She hadn’t wanted to leave without them. Her guardians had been with her for so long and had been her only constant companions. Bharia with her sarcastic comments and short fuse and the most intense loyalty she’d ever experienced. Stahg with his frustrating silences and lack of expression and a steady presence when she needed it.

  Her guardians. Her companions. And they were gone.

  Hanging her head, she took a shuddering breath. No, she would not think that way. She would think they were somewhere safe, they were together, and only unable to make their way to the graph office. She preferred that to any other option.

  Opening her eyes, she leaned into the wind and the sea. She’d missed it. She couldn’t believe how she’d missed it. Queenstor was set upon the sea, and she’d spent her life on boats. She’d not set foot on one since she’d left, and it was a comfort to feel the roil and shift beneath her feet once more.

  Turning her back on the sea, she searched out Sebastian. Another comfort. He sat near the mast, a greenish cast to his skin and a large book of paper discarded at his side. He had not taken well to this voyage, though, four days in, he seemed to be gaining his legs.

  She still couldn’t figure him. He was a mass of contrasts. He would act the courtier, delicate and intolerant, but then drag her through the streets of Dyerston to safety. He would have not a care beyond the press of his garments, but then wrap himself in pre-made clothing that fitted ill and dulled his brilliance. He was vain and practical and proud and resourceful and a hundred other things that pushed and pulled at each other. Which was the real him? Which was Sebastian?

  His hair glinted gold in the sun. She’d been so surprised when she’d seen his natural color, blond, and his eyes were grey-blue. His hands, without the ever-present gloves, were strong and covered in old nicks and scars, his fingers long and sensitive, the nails showing remnants of great care that the journey to find her had destroyed.

  Whoever he was, whatever he was, she found herself thinking of him too often. She thought of his hands and how they would feel against her skin. She thought of his hair and how it would feel sliding through her fingers. She thought of his mouth and how she wanted it on her own.

  Exhaling, she wrapped her arms about herself. She wanted him. It wasn’t going away and was only growing stronger.

  Before him, she would not have hesitated. If she wanted someone and they wanted her, she’d enjoyed them before being on her way, thinking nothing of the future or of the awkwardness the end of a liaison could cause. When she was princess, it had been fun and carefree. When she was on her Trip, it had been comfort and, by necessity, brief.

  With Sebastian, it would not be brief.

  He was tailor. She was princess. Any connection between them came with a hundred complications. If it ended—when it ended— it would not tr
uly be the end. He would still be tailor, adviser to the queen. They would have to see each other every day and remember the time when they were more than tailor and queen.

  Squaring her shoulders, she dismissed such thoughts. Things would happen or they wouldn’t. She would not think overmuch on this, and turn herself to knots.

  He looked up as she approached, his miserable expression almost comical.

  “Still not well?” she asked.

  “I’m better. I think.” The ship lurched violently, and he paled. “Maybe not.”

  “You’ll be fine.” Lowering herself beside him, she held out the herb she’d managed to procure from the ship’s healer. “Here.”

  He looked suspiciously at the packet she held. “What is that?”

  “Sailor’s doom.”

  He looked from the herb to her, incredulity widening his eyes, thinning his lips. “Why, by all that is holy and pure in creation, would I ingest something you have termed doom?”

  “It will cure your illness, but if you don’t want it….” She shrugged.

  The possibility of a cure piqued his interest. “Really?”

  Hiding a smile, she said solemnly, “Really, truly.”

  “Well. All right, then.” He took the herb from her gingerly. “You are certain it will work?”

  “It has on others. Why should you be any different?”

  “Ah. An amazingly certain vote of confidence. Why did I ever question?” Bringing the remedy to his mouth, he swallowed, grimacing at what she knew to be the bitter taste. He waited a moment. Two. “I don’t feel any different.”

  “Give it a chance to work.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Who knew you’d be such a baby?”

  He scowled. “I’d like to see you deal with this. Then we’ll see who is the baby.”

  She snorted, but only to hide the smile that still lurked.

  Resting his arms on his bent knees, he glanced at her. “What have you been doing?”

  He was looking better already, some of the pallor fading. “Watching the ocean.”

  “Oh. Of course. Because it’s not bloody everywhere.” He seemed aggrieved the ocean saw fit to be so vast.

  Another smile, quickly stifled. “But this particular stretch of ocean means I’m going home.” She gave a sigh, happy to again feel the roll and swell of the sea and know it was because she had set sail for home.

  He grunted.

  Brow furrowing, she looked at him. “You don’t like it?”

  “I don’t trust anything I can’t touch the bottom of.” Voice stronger, gaze alert, his shudder was solely for the sea and not because of sickness.

  Lacing her fingers, she stared back at the ocean. “That’s a poor way to live. How are you to ever experience other cultures?”

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t sail, just that I don’t like it.” He rested his head against the mast.

  “So when I again organize a regatta, you won’t be running?”

  “Gods, no.”

  She couldn’t prevent her smile. “Not even in the fastest boat in the fleet, one that cuts through the water and has you out to sea before you can blink?”

  He paled. “Are you trying to make me sicker?”

  Choking back a laugh, she shook her head. “Well, then, what do you like?”

  He regarded her from the corner of his eye. “I like that I’m the tailor.”

  “Yes, of course, but what do you like to do in your spare time?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Talking of nothing and everything. Comparing fashion. Trading witticisms. You know, the usual.” With a wave, he offered a pretty smile.

  Annoyance tugged at his flippancy. “But what do you like to do when you don’t have to do anything?”

  His smile faded. Turning his gaze from her, he stared at the deck. Silence fell, filled only with the cry of a seagull and the shouts of the crew.

  Her fingers tightened on each other. Why was it so important he answer?

  “I like to draw,” he finally said.

  Well, of course he did. He was the tailor, was he not? Drawing was an integral part….

  His expression was blank, his shoulders carefully loose. Studying him, another possibility occurred to her. “What do you like to draw?”

  “Anything. Everything.” He lifted a shoulder. “I like to draw.”

  “May I see?”

  For the longest time, he didn’t respond. His hand fell to the book at his side, but his gaze remained forward and away from her. She waited. She didn’t know why it was so important he allow her to see his drawings, only that it was.

  Just as she was beginning to think he wouldn’t answer, he lifted the book and gave it to her. Running her hand over the cheap cover, she carefully opened it and found page after page after page of sketches. There was a groom brushing a horse, so alive she could almost smell the liniment. A seaman running up the rigging, his expression filled with grim determination. A laughing Bharia, her hand clapped affectionately on a taciturn Stahg’s shoulder, though by the light in his eye he was the one who had made her laugh.

  And her.

  He’d drawn her. Over and over again. Hair wild and body half-turned, she scowled furiously at something off the page. Seated before the fire, she held a twig in her hands as she stared into the flames. Head thrown back and her shirt gaping, she laughed, her hands on her hips. Finally, he’d drawn just her face, averted and lit with light and shadow both.

  She closed the book. He must have obtained the book after they’d boarded the ship, drawn all of this in only four days. How could he have drawn all of this in only four days?

  Eventually, she found her voice. “These are very good.”

  Arms still on knees, his gaze still forward, he said, “Thank you.”

  Fingers resting lightly on the cover, she stared down at it. “When did you do them?”

  He shifted. “On and off over the past few days.”

  She glanced at him. “You drew me.”

  His jaw tensed. “Yes.”

  She raised her hand to his cheek. Reluctantly, he met her gaze, his blue-grey eyes defiant. Clutching the book, she traced his cheekbone with her thumb. He had drawn her. Over and again, with such grace and beauty.

  Slowly, deliberately, she leaned forward. He didn’t encourage, but neither did he deny, and, gentle as the breeze, their lips touched. Parted. Touched again.

  Heart racing, she kissed the corner of his mouth. He brushed again her lips with his, a hint of his tongue against her flesh. A shiver ran through her, and the world tilted as though the ship rode a swell. Fingers clenching the sketchbook, she made a sound, almost a moan.

  He froze then turned his head a little, just enough so they didn’t touch. “We should stop.” His throat worked. “Princess.”

  Pulling back, she licked her lips. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, we should.”

  He almost scrambled to his feet, his cool sophistication gone. “Shall we dine with the captain again tonight? He did bid us join him whenever we wished.”

  Rising as well, she balled her hands at her sides so they wouldn’t smooth the lock of blond that had fallen over his forehead in his haste. “No, I thank you. I don’t have the stomach for lies this evening.”

  “Ah, but I was going to embellish our tale. How do you feel about being a wrongly displaced magic woman whose people discarded her through fear of your power?”

  Unsteady still, she attempted to pretend the opposite. “I feel none but the most dimwitted would believe such a tale.”

  He seemed fooled as he flashed that pretty smile, but she fancied she saw the very faintest of edge to the expression. “I can tell a tale any would believe, never fear on that score.”

  “No,” she said softly. “I don’t.”

  Smile fading, he turned from her and abandoned her for the deck.

  She wet her lips, his taste lingering on her tongue. He might lie and run, but he couldn’t run from this. He wanted her just as she wanted him. She just needed
to decide what to do about it.

  Chapter Eight

  Sebastian paused outside their cabin, his fingers curled around the door handle. Leaning his forehead against the rough wood, he exhaled. You can do it, man. You can ignore her.

  For a week, they’d shared a cabin, and for a week, he’d struggled to resist temptation incarnate. Thalia brushing her hair. The rustle of cloth as Thalia changed clothing behind the screen. The even sound of her breath as she slept. A man could only endure so much, and he was rapidly approaching his breaking point.

  This evening he’d attended the captain’s dinner in a vain effort to garner much-needed distance, but all he’d done was think of her. What she’d been doing while he pushed his first course about his plate. If she would’ve enjoyed the intricately prepared second course. If she was at her bath during the dessert course, soaping the golden skin of her arms, dragging the washcloth over her breasts, pushing it between her legs over and over and over….

  Breath exploding, he pressed his forehead harder against the door. Gods, he had to stop this. She was his princess. He couldn’t feel this lust for her. Nothing could come of it, and he would only make for himself a frustrated bed should he continue. It didn’t matter that she’d kissed him earlier that day, that maybe she wanted him as he wanted her. It didn’t matter.

  Straightening, he turned the handle decisively and strode into the room, arranging a smile that he knew would dazzle upon his face. He faltered as soon as he saw her, the smile frozen.

  Thalia sprawled casually on the bed, her back propped by pillows she’d gathered from her sleeping area and the one he’d made on the pallet on the floor, her knee bent as she read a book she’d appropriated from somewhere. Her skirt was rucked up about her knees, her bodice half undone in deference to the warm night air, and she twined a piece of hair about her finger, her lip caught between her teeth.

  All-too-familiar lust rushed through him as she looked up, her frown of concentration lighting to a smile when she saw it was him. He wanted to taste the damp skin of her throat, wanted to take the book from her hands and cover her mouth with his.