by C A Nicks
“Aww, come on. Don’t be like that.”
The back of Hal’s hand pressed against her cheek. She felt the rush of warmth from his fingertips as he attempted to read her and pushed him off irritably.
“Don’t do that. You know I don’t like it. Okay, I’ll get you a drink from inside, but water’s all I got.”
Hell, he was following her. Cocky bastard. She never let him into the house.
“I’m key to his survival,” he said when she turned at the door to warn him back. “I think that means you have to be nice to me.”
How had she ever contemplated marrying this man? Close up, she could see the pock marks left by the disease that had almost claimed him as a young man. The pale eyes that always saw too much. The mouth that kissed as if he owned her. For years she’d drawn the line at this door. Now she could do nothing to stop him invading her sanctuary. All she could do was shrug and wave him in and hope he didn’t see how much she cared.
Of course he did. Very little got past Hal.
“There,” she said handing him a mug of water. His gaze took in the vial of stimulants, still lying on the kitchen table.
“Is he taking them?” Hal accepted the water. Drained it in one gulp and placed the mug onto the table. “Guessing he isn’t since the man’s too proud for his own good. Well, that will change.”
“He doesn’t need them.” She glanced from the window, willing Fabian to come rescue her. A vain hope since the water would take a good hour to heat and Fabian hadn’t exactly looked in the mood for company.
“He doesn’t take them, he dies. Plain and simple. Rumour has it someone stabbed Warrington in the arm last week. Apparently he laughed, right before twisting the man’s head right off his neck. You want that to happen to him?”
Folding her arms, she faced Hal across the table. “So we all know Warrington is a vicious bastard. What’s new?”
“What’s new is that someone you love is about to take him on. And if we don’t get him into shape, and soon, he’ll be just one more failed warrior sleeping on cemetery hill. Think about that when you tilt that nose of yours and think you’re too good for me.”
“I’m not in love with him.”
He closed the distance between them before she could react. Hot fingers grasped her chin, holding her in place. His other hand gripped the side of her head, causing her to cry out with shock. The stone slab of the draining board dug into her back. Hal’s face loomed so close she could smell the cigar he’d smoked on the journey home.
She’d never realised the true extent of his ability. Little wonder he always managed to wheedle himself into positions near the top men. A hammer-blow of pain along with the feel of Hal worming his way into her brain almost knocked her over. She kicked out, catching him where it hurt and sent him reeling away, clutching at his crotch.
Before she could think she was brandishing the cast-iron skillet, arms trembling. Daring him to touch her again. He held up a flat palm in surrender, face contorted in agony.
“For god’s sake put that down before he comes back. How’s this going to look?”
They both glanced at the door. Carefully, she set the skillet on the draining board, never taking her eyes from Hal. “Don’t ever try anything like that again. Do you hear me? You have no right--”
“I’ve every right.” Hal straightened, gathering up the threads of his dignity as best he could. “Does he know you’re in love with him?”
“We’re not having this conversation. Get out, now.” After months of appeasing and pandering to him, of dangling him on a string hoping he’d get bored and go pursue someone else, she was sorely tempted to tell him exactly what she thought of his creepy advances. She bit her lip. The wrong words now and this whole deal went up in flames.
“Keep your voice down. Do you want him to hear?” Hal stood his ground. “Now, listen up. He didn’t like what he saw today, which means you need me more than ever. I know you don’t want to marry me, but what are personal wishes against the bigger picture? That you’re still here means something. Do we have an understanding?”
“Are you saying you’ll pull support if I don’t marry you? What’s to stop me screaming right now? If Fabian knows you’ve touched me, he’ll kill you where you stand.”
“And then my men will come looking for me. Scream as loudly as you like, Fabian knows my worth. He won’t let anything happen to me. Since Warrington knows nothing of my involvement here, I’d say I have nothing to lose.”
Why was she surprised? Watching Hal lick his lips, she swallowed down the revulsion and realised she had only herself to blame. Like a wallflower at a country dance, she’d hung around waiting for something that would never happen. Convinced herself she’d be able to live with the consequences. One of which stood before her.
She squashed down thoughts of the rifle in the attic. Shooting him would widow Sunas and bring his men sniffing around. Hal shook his head.
“I’m sorry I went for you like that. It was impulsive, forgive me. But I had to make you realise your part in all this. Make you see we all have to give something for this venture to be a success.”
The long-case clock let out a solemn chime, followed by five more, telling them the day was winding down and folk should be sitting at table eating meals, lounging on armchairs in front of hearths, or snoozing on the porch-swing under a darkening sky. All those things ordinary folk with ordinary lives did.
“Please leave, Hal. I have a headache and I can’t think. You need to be on the road before it gets too dark. Sunas will be worrying about you.”
Hal buttoned his jacket, irritatingly slowly while she trembled with the effort to keep her expression blank and herself anchored to the kitchen sink. Before opening the door, Hal stopped to inspect himself in the wall-mirror, patting his tied-back hair into place. Then on impulse, he snatched a wild-flower from the vase on the shelf and strode across the kitchen with it clutched in his fist. She was reaching again for the skillet when he pushed it into her hair and hastily backed away.
“You could be a stunner, Tig, if only you’d make a bit more effort. Or let someone take care of you. Someone who’d spend on a bit of finery, some nice gowns, decent shoes. Make you feel like a proper woman for a change.”
His soft laughter made her want to scream both with anger and with shame.
“Out! Get out, now.” The crumpled flower landed at his feet. The laughter faded.
“All I want is a son, Tig. I won’t hold you to more than that. Give me a son and I’ll divorce you to go live wherever you please.”
Oh god in his heaven, the planets must be out of line. Suddenly every man within a ten mile radius wanted to impregnate her. “Pay one of the camp girls, or better still, marry one of them. You said Warrington had given you your pick, so go pick.”
“You’ve grown hard, Tig. You never used to be so cold.”
“Just trying to survive like everyone else.” He was giving her that look of naked need men did so well. Piling on the guilt, as if it was her fault he’d never raised an heir. She reached for anger and found only compassion, even for him. Every man wanted to leave something of himself behind. To watch their children grow and make them proud.
“I don’t even know if I’m fertile, Hal. You’d be better off with a woman who’s already had a child.”
“Perhaps.”
The fight had faded from his eyes, although a little of the hope remained. Now was the time to squash that remaining spark dead, but the words in her head sounded too cruel. Bending, he retrieved the flower and twirled it slowly between his fingers.
“You won’t have my child, but you’ve considered having his?”
Definitely fishing. Not once had she thought about having Fabian’s child. Had she?
“I’m considering nothing. Please, just go.”
“All right. But my help comes at a price. Remember that.”
“How could I ever forget?” She murmured the words to the closing door, her mind full of children sh
e definitely did not want. Children bound a man and a woman together in a way no divorce could undo. Leaving her baby with Hal would never be an option for her. And he knew that.
Chapter 15
It had taken longer than he’d liked to conquer the doubts that had beset him on the journey home. By the end of his long soak in the tub he’d at least convinced himself he had a chance of beating Warrington. But a chance was not a certainty.
The stimulants would tip the odds. The stimulants he did not want to take. Could he risk failure on a matter of pride? Again.
Fabian threw down the wet drying cloth and helped himself to another from the small stack on the shelf. Tying it around his hips, he pushed away unwelcome reminders of his one and only defeat. Of the blindness to his own arrogance. Deafness to his ministers’ pleas.
A fit of conscience made him bend down to retrieve the sopping drying cloth and hang it on a peg. Here no servants preceded him, smoothing his path through life, clearing up his mess.
His had been the superior force and yet still he’d been beaten. He’d been fighting on a whim, insulted because the Imarna had only sent half their usual tribute. Annexing a strip of land he did not even particularly covet. The Imarna had been fighting for their very existence. The strong would always conquer the weak, but he’d made the mistake of thinking that strength lay only in brawn and numbers and weapons. He was learning fast that strength lay in the will.
At the time he’d vowed to strike the Imarna from the face of the world. Now, from afar, he found himself admiring their tactics, wondering what lessons could be learned from the way they had simply refused to lie down and die.
No sign of Hal’s wagon in the yard. No sign of any food when he entered the house. Disappointing since he was ravenous and oddly lacking in the energy needed to slaughter another goat. Stretching out the stiffness in his shoulders, he marvelled at how tired stress could make a man. The bath had done little to ease the tension of being incarcerated for so long while worrying about the fear of discovery. To say nothing of catching the first glimpse of the man who might be the instrument of his death.
He fell into the armchair and exhaled deeply. When he first arrived, the need to return home had burned strong enough to consume him. Find a mage, make a spell and he would magically appear, feet planted on his home-soil, sword in his hand. Righteous anger blazing in his eyes.
Now the memory of home had blurred and grown fuzzy with distance.
Why not forget it all? Stay here with Tig and evenings spent in a comfortable chair smoking a pipe. Nights in bed with the woman he loved. Days spent raising children who would not grow old and bent in front of his eyes and then die and leave him behind.
The choice was no longer so simple as go or stay. Even without Hal in the mix someone would have realised Tig harboured a lodger. No warlord would let a man of his stature roam free. Confrontation was as inevitable as day melting into night.
There on the table were the stimulants he would be foolish to do without.
“Eggs again, I’m afraid.”
It took him a few heartbeats to realise Tig had entered the kitchen, a basket of eggs and greens hanging on her arm. She set it on the draining board and shot him a grin.
“Is that a weapon you have there, or are you just pleased to see me?”
A jest of some sort, possibly referring to the erection tenting the drying cloth. His subconscious had heard her before he did, judging by the state of him.
“It seems I am indeed pleased to see you,” he said trying to match her mood. “Although I must warn you I’m surprisingly exhausted for one who’s done nothing but lie on their back all day.”
“Looking at Warrington is enough to tire anyone out.” She tipped the wilted greens into the sink and began to work the pump. “Don’t worry. I won’t be making any unnatural demands on you tonight. Tell me, do I look like a proper woman to you?”
The unexpected question unbalanced him. Not her usual fish for compliments tone; her whole demeanour spoke of false brightness. “Of course,” he said more as a reflex than as a consideration of the question. “Why should you think otherwise?”
Her shoulders lifted. “Something Hal said. I know I need a make-over. Apparently it’s starting to show.”
“And a make-over is what?”
“In my case it’s everything. New clothes, face-paint, a decent hair-cut. It’s official. The world thinks I’m a scruff.”
She continued washing the greens, a little more vigorously than they deserved, while he contemplated her answer. Did she want flattery or the truth?
“Did I not already tell you I find you beautiful exactly as you are? That I see the real you beneath that scruffy exterior?”
She turned, a wilted leaf in her hand. “I shouldn’t let him bother me the way I do, but you said the same thing when you first came here. Oh, forget it. What were your impressions of Warrington? Did you get a good look? Did you see Plains-Man, his mage?”
“He is every bit the man I imagined him to be, unfortunately. Does the mage have a tattooed face?”
“They all do.”
“In that case, yes I believe I saw him. How powerful is he?”
“Not very or he’d be warlord himself, don’t you think? Although their order is not supposed to covet power, they’re always there, hanging on the coat-tails of the rich and strong. Carson’s was a clever trickster. Most of them are.”
Not what he wanted to hear. “I will need powerful magic to find the portal that brought me here.”
Tig tilted her head, a sympathetic smile on her face, like one trying to take the sting out of bad news. “Do you think if there existed magic that powerful in this world, we’d be living like this?”
“In my experience magic is finite and specific, not a catch-all remedy for all ills.” He glanced at his palms. “There was a time I could command the elements with a wave of my hand. The wind, the rain, all harkened to my call.”
“At what price?”
“At the price of my very being. You take something, you give something back. That’s how magic always works.”
“So could you turn base metal into gold? Because that would have been jolly useful.”
“No, but I knew of people who claimed that skill.”
“History books say the scientists could do that. So much technology was lost to this region after the wars.”
She stood on tip-toe to reach down a pottery bowl. Into it, she cracked the eggs, inspecting each one to make sure it was fresh. “Spinach omelette sound good?”
“Whatever you provide will be gratefully received. I would read more of your history.”
“There are a few history books upstairs. You speak our language well. Do you read it, too?”
“The Fall equips us for life in our new worlds. As part of my penance I talk like you. I had no problems with the astrology book.”
She raised her eyebrows, a hint of wry humour in her eyes at his words. Had he sounded condescending? It had not felt so to him. Time to change the subject.
“Why is Hal still bothering you when we’ve made it plain you are not part of the spoils?
A slight hesitation before she turned and mumbled the words. “He wants a son. A son and then I get a free divorce if I want it. Not a bad offer when you think about it. Would get him off my back for good.”
“Except that he knows you would never abandon your child.” Fabian felt oddly wounded that she would consider having Hal’s spawn but had turned down his own offer of a child.
“When next I see Hal I will make sure he fathers no children with anyone. Then he will not bother you again.”
“Not a good idea.”
Tig kept her back to him, chopping the greens with sharp taps of the knife. Then she moved to the stove, knelt and opened one of the iron doors. A neat stack of logs awaited the match that would start the blaze. That in turn would heat the hot-plate above and cook their supper. The details fascinated him. A simple meal and yet so many steps required t
o bring it to table. Steps a poor person was required to perform for themselves.
She seemed happy enough pottering around her kitchen. After being alone for so long, did she find it strange having a man here? How would she cope when forced to face loneliness once more?
At some point the dogs crept inside and settled at his feet. He must have dozed because the picture of Tig preparing the meal changed abruptly to one of her clad in the green gown and leaning over him asking if he’d like to come to table. Food always smelled good to a starving man. The spicy aroma filling the kitchen made him salivate in appreciation, although the size of the omelette filled him with dismay. It hardly looked enough for one, let alone two mouths. Still, he sniffed in appreciation and complimented her on both her dress and the food, which seemed to please her.
“I will go dress myself,” he said feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious garbed only in a towel while she’d made an effort. The room glowed with the soft light of the oil-lamp. Outside, dusk had covered the land. How long had he slept?
“Stay as you are,” she said, waving him to the table. “I want to look back one day and remember I had dinner with a desirable and very naked man, fresh from his bath and I’d never seen a man better dressed.”
Her words made him stand a little straighter, push back his powerful shoulders, flex his arms so his biceps bulged. The ladies had always liked a little show. Tig placed a hand on her brow and pretended to go into a swoon. He couldn’t help smiling at that, still not sure whether she was laughing at him or with him. No mistaking she was the cheekiest wench he’d ever encountered. And he’d known a few.
Such an ordinary scene. Two people eating supper in a rustic farmhouse kitchen. Dogs whining hopefully for scraps, the stove blazing merrily behind him. Ordinary and yet for him so utterly extraordinary. A thousand years of terror and remorse, of pleading so hard for the Fall to end he’d almost torn out his throat with screaming, and somehow he’d come to this.
