by C A Nicks
He waved a hand. “Bring them to me.”
“Fetch them yourself.” Resolutely, Tig picked up the bowl of dough and crossed to the range. With a sharp crack, she placed it on the metal stove and then busied herself organising tins and boxes on the adjoining shelves. After a short wait, he decided to dress himself. At the door leading to the steep, winding staircase, he hesitated.
“I should like to wash first. Where is the bathing-room?”
“Stone building next to the house,” Tig said without stopping her furious rearranging. “If you want hot water, there’s a copper boiler. When the water’s hot enough, open the valve to fill the tub. Bucket’s under the sink if you want to fill it faster.”
All spoken without turning around. Fabian wondered what he’d said to upset her.
“I will give you the honour of bathing me,” he offered. “I have obviously offended you in some way. Women have fought to the death for such an honour in the past.”
Her shoulders were shaking. Laughter, or tears? He couldn’t tell. Fabian only knew that he’d touched some open wound and caused pain. An uncomfortable feeling, given Tig’s kindness.
“I will do you the even greater honour of bathing you,” he said, offering the most he had to give at that moment.
“Don’t humble yourself,” Tig snapped back. “Wash if you want to. I have bread to make.”
In the give and take of this odd new life, it was his turn to offer comfort. When he thought of all he’d left behind him, he almost wanted to weep, too. Instead of this peasant clad in rags, he could have adorned her like a queen. Had her ride in the finest of carriages. In his world she would have been a reflection of himself. In her world, he thought ruefully, he was a reflection of her. A poor one, too.
“You may be dirty and lack means, but you have generosity and grace. Where I come from, that is a very precious commodity. Tig. If I offended you, I beg your pardon.”
She’d been crying, although she would never admit it. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m a mess. But Fabian. What do I have to get dressed up for, huh?”
“For me. Do it for me. Power is all in the presentation. I would know who you are. Had I my gold sword and my silver armour, you would know who I was.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Tig sounded weary, as if she’d had this conversation before. “The finery is just a front. I’m seeing the real you, and you’re seeing the real me. That’s a bigger privilege than you’ll ever understand.”
“May I touch you?”
Tig’s insolent gaze slid from his face to his feet. Too much of a challenge for his body to ignore.
“Had you been my captive, I would have had you, three, maybe four times by now.”
Tig’s eyes flashed alarm. “You’re going to rape me?”
“No. I will not take you by force. You have my word.”
“But you have?”
Fabian drew in a deep, steadying breath. The accusation in her eyes made him feel like something that had crawled from the depths of the slimiest pond.
“In another life sin had no meaning for me.”
She held him in her gaze for too long. “So what? You’ve suddenly grown a conscience?”
“Don’t mock me. There is nothing sudden about it.”
Slender fingers reached out for his. Broken nails crusty with dough. Her touch held more than the need to reconcile. His cock stirred to life and he wondered at his desperation. Far from cladding her in finery, the old Fabian would have thrown a woman like her to the foot-troops to provide a night or two of entertainment, if she lasted that long. That he would consider bedding her, showed how much he had changed.
Her eyes were the dark blue of the sea just before dawn. They held more understanding than he deserved.
“We’ve all done things we regret. The important thing is to know it, right? Go upstairs and find yourself some clothes. I’ll fill the copper. Wait here for me, until I give you the all-clear.”
“A wash would be most welcome. I have sand everywhere.” It wasn’t desperation, he realised. Not just the desire to lose himself in the pleasures of the flesh. He wanted to lie with this woman for mutual comfort. To give her pleasure, as well as receive it. He turned for the stairs aching with a need he’d never known. But then, he’d never had to practice restraint before.
At the top of the stairs, he pushed open the first door. A room furnished with two crude, wooden cots. An iron chest filled with women’s clothes. Dresses in a style he’d never seen, aprons and undergarments. He let the lid drop and moved on. The next room was a mirror image, with the addition of a pair of stacked beds against the far wall. How many siblings had Tig mentioned? From the window, he caught sight of Tig making her way across the court-yard, a bucket swinging from each hand. Green fields circled the farm buildings, ending abruptly where they adjoined the desert. An oasis, then.
The third room smelled of Tig and of something he did not immediately recognise. He took in the embroidered quilt dangling from the edge of the bed. The few jars, the silver comb sitting on a small, mirrored side-table. A dirty rag reeked of weapon-oil. A wardrobe held her clothes. He sifted through the contents. A single gown hung amongst worn pants and shirts. Why would she want more?
Thankfully, Tig had not lied about her father’s size. In the fourth bedroom, Fabian found himself shirt, pants and boots of a non-descript colour that would help him blend into this world. He waited for his erection to subside before joining Tig. With the acquisition of this cursed conscience, the fear he’d caused her shamed him. He would not add her to the list of those he’d taken in lust.
Mortality. How bitter the taste. Broken bones. Feelings he did not understand. And with each breath, the terrible uncertainty that it might be his last.
Shards of early morning sunlight streaked across the wooden boards at his feet. He’d slept the night away. Time he would never have back, unless he found a way to return home. He listened to the frantic thump of his heart, beating out the moments far too fast.
How did mortals live this way without going insane?
Chapter 3
Was she finally going crazy? Fabian had offered to bathe her, and god in heaven, she wanted him to. The bath-house filled with steam, and her head with wicked thoughts of Fabian, sitting behind her in the tub, both of them naked and wet.
Tig tipped another bucket of water into the metal tub and decided she should go dunk her head in the horse trough to cool the heat addling her brain. Fabian sauntered into the bath-house at her signal, still insolently naked. In his arms, he carried a selection of clothes, thank the heavens. He dropped them onto a wooden stool and dipped a hand into the swirling water.
“Hot,” he said. “Exactly how I like it.”
Tig busied herself with the last bucketful. “Hop in then,” she said without turning around. “And try to keep the splint and the bandage dry, if you can.”
Fabian groaned with pleasure when he sank into the water. He lay without moving, eyes closed, head tipped back onto the edge of the tub. Broken arm dangling over the side. A picture of complete abandon.
And trust, Tig thought following the exposed line of his neck with her gaze. Quietly, she tip-toed to the door and threw the bolt. Too late, she realised she’d locked herself in with him.
Better to stay. Because of his injuries, not because he was something to behold with the water sluicing from his shoulders and wetting the tips of his hair. It was somehow more erotic glimpsing the line of coarser hair running down his belly and thickening at his groin, through the rippling water.
“You have soap?”
His deep, sleepy voice made her start and quickly avert her eyes. “Yes,” she said scrambling for the soap dish. “Not what you’re used to, I’m sure. I make it myself.” She dropped the small cube into his outstretched palm. His fingers curled around hers as he took it from her. Their hands slid apart.
“I also have shampoo,” she said gesturing towards a pottery jar on the shelf. “I…you can…”
/> Fabian sat up. A tide of water sloshed over the edge of the bath.
Like one of the old sea-gods rising from the waves. The scandalously blasphemous thought came and went, followed by a quick prayer asking for forgiveness. None of that existed any more. The old ways had been wiped from the history books, and rightly so.
Fabian stared at the soap for a moment, dunked it in the water and then applied it, in slow circles to his tight stomach. She watched it slide over slick skin, dipping and rising over the contours of his chest and shoulder. The hand disappeared below the surface and continued to move, sending small rhythmic waves over the edge of the bath to splash onto the stone floor.
“You will wash my back?”
“If you want.”
Again, his fingers lingered too long when he handed her the soap. Fabian caught her gaze and held it, when she would have looked away. Ignoring him wasn’t easy, but she was no simpering youngling overawed by her first glimpse of a naked man.
It’s just a back. A landscape of skin, muscle and bone. Of swirling patterns inked into his skin. She applied the soap with gusto, narrowing her eyes to see better in the shady darkness. And a lifetime of scars, she realised. The myriad of criss-crossing lines, paler and older than the new cuts and scrapes told his history better than words ever could. She slowed her vigorous scrubbing and traced the longest of the scars with a soapy finger. This man had known suffering.
“The battle of Norinar,” he said in reply to her unspoken question. “Third son of a noble. I cut off his head for his trouble.”
“Oh.” Tig swallowed down the lurch of nausea. Fabian must be what? In his mid thirties? No-one lived that long without killing at least one person.
“And this one?” She touched a circular scar on his left shoulder blade.
Fabian let out a short dry laugh. “The Lady Dina’s idea of foreplay.”
“Was she your wife?”
“One of them.”
Tig placed the soap in the dish and toed off her shoes. She reached for the shampoo. “How many times have you been married?”
“You’re asking how many wives I have?”
“I guess.”
“Fifteen.”
Tig scooped out a dollop of shampoo, working it into a lather between her palms. “You certainly got around.”
“My father had thirty-two.”
“I was one of twelve.”
“Why did your husband let you go?”
Tig smoothed the shampoo over Fabian’s scalp and what remained of his hair, remembering the many times she’d performed the same task for her brothers. He moved into her touch, pressing back against her massaging fingers. Now home, she needed to bathe, too. Perhaps a strip-down wash while waiting for the dough to rise.
“Short attention span. He likes women but always has his eye on the next prize. A fair man, though. Gave me a legal separation and the perks of an ex-wife. I was very glad to return home.”
“Ahh,” Fabian said. “I understand your shame. You were rejected. That is why you hide here in this remote place.”
Without warning, she tipped the waiting bucket of rinsing-water over his head. Fabian bore it without complaint, which peeved her slightly since she’d hoped for a reaction. Why she tried to provoke this dangerous-looking man, she had no idea. He intrigued and irritated her in equal measure.
“Pity about the hair,” she said, smiling at the way he’d spluttered under the deluge. “It’ll mark you as an outsider. Feeling cleaner now?”
Fabian palmed water from his face and shook his head to clear his ears. “Pass me the drying-cloth,” he said impassively.
“Sure.”
She was still grinning when she handed him the thick, linen towel. Grinning and then suddenly pressed hard against the side of the tub, the towel looped around her hands.
“Thank you,” he said deliberately.
She didn’t struggle. So, he wanted to make a point? Let him. They both knew he was physically stronger. By lying limp, under his constraint, she retained a semblance of control without provoking him further.
Fabian loosened his hold. “You do not fear my anger?”
“I see it,” she said. “But something worse than me put those shadows on your face. You gave me your word you wouldn’t hurt me. Does that still hold true?”
“As we’ve already discovered. My word is worth more than yours.”
“Oh, come on. You’re not still sulking over that, are you? What would you have done in my situation?”
Fabian stood. Tig stepped away to avoid the tide of water and the way he resorted to the most blatant of sexual metaphors whenever she teased him. Hands on hips, she met his challenge. Handed him the towel. He wanted her to look? She was happy to oblige.
“Honour is everything. Without it, there are no rules. And without rules, there is only chaos. Dry my back.”
“Yes, your majesty.” She took the towel and considered slapping him with it. Wisely, she did not. “Your honour is a fake, Fabian, do you know that? People like you make the rules, draw the lines then change them to suit yourself.” She threw down the towel. Paced across the room. “I must be mad to have let you come back here with me. Whoever did this to you, if you draw their fire, I’ll lose the farm. Tell me, wasn’t your first thought to kill me? To steal my beast and leave me to die in the desert?”
Fabian stepped into the pants, jerking closed the drawstring tie. “You know it was, so why do you ask?”
“Because I want to know where I stand.”
“I’ve told you I will not cause you harm. I have never yet broken my word.”
“Well, you can’t blame me for being wary.”
“Caution is prudent,” he said, reaching for the shirt. “But, like all women, you have flutter-birds for brains. They fly this way and that, never knowing which direction to take. You wish to analyse every word I utter, when I have spoken loudly and clearly in words even you cannot fail to understand.”
“They pinned my father and brothers out for the Frey. Do you know how long it took them to die? How many men have you condemned to a slow, tortuous death?”
“Too many to count.”
She made no move to help him as he struggled into the shirt. His ribs needed binding, but, at that moment, she wanted him to suffer. The size and arrogance of him were everything she should despise.
The clothes transformed him, making him look somehow more human. Unable to fasten the shirt, he left it hanging open. Or perhaps he wanted her to step forward and button it for him? She heaved in a shaky breath.
“And that is the life you wish to return to?”
“I wish to return home, yes.”
“That’s not what I asked.” She saw it now. The angel of vengeance, sitting at his right hand. “When you return home, you will want revenge? There will be death? Am I saving you for that?”
A cloud rolled over the sun, casting the room in darker shadow. The scent of soap and damp stone lingered in the air. His words cut through the gloom. No metaphors. Just the clear, unambiguous truth.
“When I return, the rivers will run red with the blood of my enemies. I will rise from the abyss and reclaim what was mine. I will have revenge, and it will be terrible. Is that clear enough for you?”
Tig staggered under the weight of his words. The consequences of saving this man were more terrible than she could ever imagine.
“I won’t be a party to that.”
Fabian stilled like an animal sensing danger. His gaze flickered to the door-bolt. Back to her. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, I refuse to save you so you can start a war.” Disappointment, not anger choked her voice. She wasn’t so naïve, but she had seen a man worth saving. Now she knew she was far too small and insignificant to stand in the way of such venomous determination.
But when had that ever stopped her trying?
“You’re a lucky man, Fabian.”
“How so?”
“You’ve been given a second chance. A new start. Back
inside, when you talked of the women you’ve had. I saw the weight of it. Is all that death and pain worth the price of your soul?”
“If I return home, I will no longer be burdened with a soul.”
“Now you’re scaring me. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He bent for the boots, grimacing, but refusing to give his pain a voice. She watched him squeeze a foot into each. Snap closed the buckles with one hand. Straighten.
“Enough,” he said. “From now on, there will be nothing but the truth between us.” He tipped his head towards the door. “Are they coming for me?”
“No.”
His shoulders sagged. “It did not cross your mind that I was a valuable commodity?”
“Yes. It crossed my mind. Crossed it, and walked right on out the other side.”
Fabian stepped closer and paused to roll back the shirt-sleeve over the splint.
“Have you truly changed your mind, now you know what is on mine?”
Cringing in his shadow, she could well imagine the terror of those he’d conquered. He respected courage, but he wouldn’t let it stand in the way of his goals.
“Yes,” she said, with no idea what she was about to unleash. “I want to save you pain. But if all you want to do is go back to your old life, count me out. Go. I won’t stop you. I won’t help you, either.”
He lifted a strand of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “You have courage, little one. Few would dare to talk to me as you do.”
“Have you any idea what a cliché that sounds?” Stop it, she thought. His hand moved to her face, one finger tracing the line of her nose. He rubbed her lips with his thumb. Cupped her chin. Moved down to place a flat palm over her heart.
“Tyrants always talk in cliché. It’s expected.” He listened for a moment to the beating of her heart. “You fear me, and yet you stand your ground.”
“And you’re in pain, but you won’t admit it.”
His hand slid to her breast, a sure, possessive move. Tig fought for a single, rational thought and found her mind curiously blank. There was only the sensation of his fingers tightening and releasing. The softening and melting of her spine. A slight wobble in her knees.
