Freed, she scrambled for the tree line again, wisely distancing herself from both the panicked horse and its former rider, though the man was on the ground and writhing. Cathal would have wagered he had a broken leg, if not worse. He wasn’t disposed to care, not with the other two fast approaching.
A few quick steps brought him to Sophia. He grabbed the rope harness from off his shoulder and pushed it into Sophia’s hands. “You’ll need to be quick, after. Stay behind me.” Then he stepped forward, putting himself between her and the oncoming riders, praying without words or very much faith.
Fighting mounted men from the ground went poorly for most. Mortal men needed either archers or a shield wall to manage it with any chance of success. Cathal had a few other advantages.
One was the horses’ reluctance to approach him. Even though he was in human form, he could see them snort and balk, smelling his true nature. It took a good application of spurs to move them again, and by that time, Cathal was ready to use his other advantages: height and strength.
His first strike pierced through the guard’s armor and the flesh of his thigh, and sank to the bone. The man screamed, a familiar sound. The spray of blood was familiar too. A major vessel was severed. The wound would likely be fatal. Cathal spun away, and the momentum as he pulled his sword back to his side half severed the leg.
The third man was turning his mount to run. Cathal had half expected as much. Valerius had taken the best part of his retinue to war. These men had thought they’d be chasing down an unarmed woman.
That woman was staring at the broken corpse of the soldier, and her full lips pressed together until they were a thin line indeed. Cathal had no time to speak because other men would arrive soon. He knew not what he might have said if he could have.
He felt no guilt over what he’d done, nor triumph. At best, he’d rid the world of a man who’d serve Valerius willingly, but there were many like him. At worst, he’d killed a man who’d done his duty for what might have been noble enough reasons in the end; feeding a family could put good men to bad work. That was often the way. It was war, and it was done.
Yet he watched Sophia’s face until he changed and then again after, and was glad when she swung herself up into the harness that he might not have to see her any longer. He was glad to feel her weight on his neck, and that she put herself there without hesitation—without, as far as he could tell, fear. He could only hope that wouldn’t change when she was no longer desperate, but that hope had to take a fifth or sixth place to other, more desperate wishes.
He crouched, gathered himself, and sprang, spreading his wings to launch himself with the wind.
Its strength was with him, carrying them far upward even more quickly than Cathal had managed at the castle, but this speed wasn’t his own, and he had no sure way to control it. The wind twisted too, tossing him from side to side, full of updrafts and downdrafts and cross-breezes, and the rain poured down so hard that he could barely see.
He was above the trees, away from most mountains, and both of those facts likely saved him and Sophia. For a long stretch he flew onward, heading as much as he could manage in the direction of Loch Arach, but not truly knowing where he was going. Sophia’s weight, and the warmth of her body, let Cathal know that she was still there, one of the few constants in the storm’s rage.
When she began to shiver, Cathal knew they’d need to stop soon. He was wearying too, his wings tiring with the effort to stay both on course and level against the wind. Shaking water away from his face with a quick gesture, he peered down through the rain and saw in the distance a cluster of tiny buildings, one with still-lit windows. A village, he thought, and with luck an inn—or at least a manor with stables.
Nobody would be out in the storm most likely, but he still wanted a bit of concealment. A line of trees a few yards away would suffice, he decided. He folded his wings and dove, landing as gently as he could manage under the circumstances. He still hit the ground more roughly than he’d have liked, and there was a moment of deep alarm afterward when he didn’t feel Sophia moving.
When he whipped his head around to look at her, though, she blinked back at him and slowly began to sit back. “I-if I’m not to g-get down,” she said through chattering teeth, “you’d b-b-best tell me so now.”
It took longer for her to get out of the harness, due to a sodden cloak and numb limbs, Cathal guessed, and cursed to see both. From what he could tell, she was in no danger, but he couldn’t tell much, in truth. He knew human fragility on the battlefield. In all else, the men had been the camp surgeon’s problem, or the supply captain’s, or the steward’s. If Sophia could move and speak, he thought she was well enough, but he only then realized how little qualified he was to gauge the certainty of any such thing.
As soon as she hit the ground, he was changing back to man’s shape. It did little immediate good—he hadn’t brought a cloak and had been warmer as a dragon—but he put an arm around her and started them toward what civilization there might be, wherever they’d ended up.
They spoke not at all on the way. Walking was effort enough.
The lit building did turn out to be an inn, one where a party of merchants was sleeping in the main room, and a tired man came forward without curiosity to meet them.
“A private room,” said Cathal, and counted out the named price without thought. “Where are we?”
“Larkford,” said the innkeeper. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Cathal doubted the man cared about anything but the coins Cathal was handing him. “Take a wrong turn?”
“Several.”
The town’s name was unfamiliar, but the man’s voice was Scottish, and that was reassuring. The fire was more so. Cathal didn’t suffer from the cold, not the way humans did, but warmth was better, and he was glad of it for Sophia’s sake. He couldn’t hear her teeth chatter any more, and when he looked over at her as they followed the innkeeper up the stairs, there was a little more life in her face.
“They can’t follow us here before tomorrow,” he said, once they were in the room and the door had closed behind the departing innkeeper. “We can rest. Wait out the storm.”
“Demons?” she asked. She pushed back the hood of her cloak, her wet hair clinging to her face and neck. Firelight played across both, and her eyes reflected it, somber save for that dancing play of flame.
“I’ll handle them,” Cathal said, tapping a finger against the hilt of his sword. “You should get out of your clothes.”
Then the weight of what he’d said and where they were struck him, truly drawing his attention for the first time now that she was physically safe. Cathal looked away, surveying the room. In truth it was a small enough place, with only a fireplace and a canopied bed as furniture.
He turned his back on her and walked to the window, staring at the red-and-yellow pattern on the shutters. It matched the bedcovers, a nicer touch than he would have thought from the place. Mayhap it was better on less miserable nights. “Wrap up in one of the blankets, and tell me when you’re done,” he said, keeping his mind blank. “Hang your clothing by the fire. Doubt it’ll be exactly dry in the morning, but damp’s still better.”
Wet wool made thumping, squishing sounds. They weren’t pleasant; what they implied was far too pleasant. The softer noises were worse: lighter fabric, garments worn closer to the skin. Cathal closed his hands on the windowsill, careful not to break the wood, and breathed through his nose.
“Your clothing’s wet too,” Sophia said. Her voice was quiet, a touch rough. Cathal told himself that was probably the strain of their escape.
“I’ll… Ah, I’ll take my turn after you,” he said, although just at the moment, cold and damp were both helpful qualities. Not sufficient, and he wouldn’t want to turn around any time in the near future, but helpful.
More noises came from behind him: footsteps and a slight exhale, as if of effort. Then, s
ounding less sure of herself than usual, she said, “There’s only the one bed.”
Trust her to make observations. “Aye,” said Cathal. He had a brief ridiculous notion of offering to put his sword between them. It might have worked for bloody Tristan, but he doubted it would for him, and Sophia was more alluring than he’d ever imagined Isolde to be. “I’ll take one of the other blankets, lie on the floor. I’ve had worse quarters.”
“Oh. Er,” she said, and then he heard more footsteps, slow ones, as she came toward him. He drew breath, trying to find words that would politely tell her to keep her distance, and then she put a hand on the back of his neck.
Her fingers were rough, damp, and cold, and the light touch ran through Cathal as strongly as the pain of a wound. “What I’m trying to say,” Sophia said as Cathal turned helplessly to face her, “is that you…you don’t have to. In truth, although it’s kind of you to offer, unless you’d rather, you’ve no need to do either of those things.”
She was naked.
Her wet hair flowed down her shoulders and almost to her waist, but it concealed nothing: not her full breasts, rosy-brown nipples drawn tight and hard, nor the flare of her hips, nor the dark triangle between her legs. Sophia’s face was bare too, stripped of scholarly distance, reserve, and all concealment. Cathal saw there more than a trace of nervousness, but, overwhelmingly, desire.
“We could,” she said, “spend the night differently.”
Thirty-five
Sophia made herself stop speaking. She wanted to keep going, clarifying and explaining, yet she knew that would in truth only be babbling. For the space of every word she said, she’d not be waiting on Cathal’s answer. If he was going to deny her, he’d be less likely to interrupt her to do it, and so as long as she talked, yes was still a possibility even if no was in his mind.
You can’t keep talking forever, said her common sense, and besides, if you didn’t want to give him the choice, you shouldn’t have made the offer, nor be standing here undressed.
The time for second thoughts was past.
Sophia closed her mouth and looked up at Cathal, past where his soaked tunic outlined his muscular chest and into his eyes. The bright green of them was a thin ring, the dark pupil large with surprise. She hoped for more than that, but didn’t dare count on it. His neck was warm beneath her hand, the skin smooth and the pulse rapid. She thought about drawing back, but couldn’t make herself move.
A gust of wind outside blew rain against the shutters, a hard percussive spatter.
Despite the speed Sophia knew he could manage, Cathal took her hand slowly, his calloused fingers light on her own. As he bent, brushing his lips across her knuckles, the moment felt dreamlike—but no, her dreams of late had been more active, and more horrible, even if this was to be only a polite refusal.
There was that. Whatever he said or did would be better than being devoured by shadow-men or turned to mist by Valerius. There were many worse fates than the worst that could happen here. Sophia wished she could make her gut know that, or her heart.
When he raised his head and smiled at her, she felt her heart throwing itself against her ribs like a wild bird in a cage. The smile, like his eyes, was surprised and uncertain. It was also gentle, and she fought back trepidation when she saw that. Gentle could mean How do I say no without upsetting you?
“Is it truly your wish?” he asked. “I expect nothing. You owe me nothing…and I owe you a great deal.”
“No,” she said, and even as she was shaking her head, she went on quickly. “Not this. You don’t owe me…” She couldn’t think of a term that wasn’t medical, so she waved a hand, indicating her naked form. “And I wouldn’t have it as a debt, but if you want to, then…then yes, it is. Very much so. I…”
While she was trying to work up the nerve to say I desire you greatly, which might have been even more embarrassing than standing before him naked and making the offer, Cathal’s eyes flashed and his smile shifted, uncertainty fading and hunger taking its place. Sophia saw that much before he pulled her into his arms. After that, she wasn’t in a position to examine his face, and she didn’t need to.
The first kiss was light, teasing, a brush of his lips against hers and then a momentary retreat, only to return longer, and firmer, Cathal’s tongue slipping against hers and back. One of his hands cupped the side of her face, while the other splayed across the back of her waist, easily spanning it, and his fingers moved in slow, almost reverent patterns against her bare skin. He used none of his strength; it was Sophia who wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned in to his body, pulled by the growing need in her own.
She knew that he was still dressed, yet had forgotten for the moment the condition his clothing was in. The chilly dampness against her bare skin was sudden, but not pleasant. She flinched and squeaked a little, and Cathal lifted his mouth from hers. “I’ll not hurt you…” he began, sounding surprised and concerned.
“No, that is, maybe, probably, but that doesn’t matter.” Stories from her married friends and anatomical studies alike suggested there was likely some pain in the future, but that was the case for most worthwhile things. It had no bearing on the issue at hand anyhow. She plucked at the fabric of his tunic. “This is the problem, and I think you’ll want to remove it in any case, so…perhaps now?”
“Ah, aye,” he said, relieved and yet not entirely so. Sophia couldn’t analyze that for long. He kissed her lightly again and then stepped back. “Sorry. I’m not used to—”
“You must be,” she said, eyes going wide. Almost two centuries, and a man, and a soldier—and if neither of them knew what they were doing, this was suddenly much more intimidating.
Cathal blinked at her, then laughed, shaking his head. “No’ used to rain, lass,” he said, his accent stronger now than it usually was. “No’ with women, or at least not when it was a problem.”
“Oh,” she said. Another time, that would be a fascinating discussion: what the east was like, what the women were like, how damp clothing on a hot day might actually add to an embrace, all manner of interesting facets. That curiosity would have to wait, because Cathal had been undressing while he spoke, and when he stood naked before her, she actually lost the use of words.
He was magnificent, like a statue from the ancient world, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist and the lines of his muscles firm on his arms. His skin was winter white. A thick mat of blond hair covered his chest and narrowed almost to nothingness on his flat stomach, before widening again between his legs. His membrum virile rose up out of it, swollen long and thick against his stomach. Art didn’t show that, and texts could only portray so much. Sophia realized she was staring, and her blush felt like fire in her skin, but she couldn’t look away.
“Although…” Cathal said quietly, and Sophia snapped her gaze back up to his face. He didn’t reach for her again, but sat down on the edge of the bed and motioned to the space next to him. “I’m not used to virgins. Unless—”
She shook her head. When she sat down, the fabric of the coverlet beneath her was rough against her skin, but not in an unpleasant way. She shifted her weight, testing, and tried to keep looking into Cathal’s eyes. They were beautiful eyes, but just then the urge to look…elsewhere…was hard to resist. “I am.”
“Ah. But you know how it is? Between men and women?”
At that, there was such hidden dread in his voice that Sophia had to laugh. “Yes,” she said, and giggled again at the relief on his face. “I don’t make offers in ignorance,” she said and then leaned over, kissing him this time.
Cathal drew her close, warm against her now as they both fell back onto the bed. His hands slid down Sophia’s sides, stroking her hips, her thighs, the sides of her breasts. Every contact was a pulse of sensation that lingered, spread, and joined the others, making a net of feelings and urges that spread all across her skin.
“Didn’t wan
t to scare you,” he said, half muttering the words against the side of her neck.
She shivered at the movement of his lips, at the heat of his breath. He lay on his side above her, their bodies still barely touching save for his hands and lips on her. “I wasn’t,” Sophia said and reached up to trace along his chest. “I’m not.” The hair beneath her fingers was crisp, curlier than that on his head, and his skin smooth around it, the muscles tense beneath. “Only I know what happens, but I don’t entirely know what happens, to speak in, um, in terms of experience, which I suppose is obvious, and I’ve never seen…oh. Oh.”
Bending his head, Cathal had taken one of her nipples into his mouth. All the sensation flooded over Sophia then, so strongly that she had to close her eyes. She knew that she was writhing on the bed and making noises in the back of her throat, but otherwise she wasn’t entirely sure of anything other than wanting, the feel of Cathal’s tongue flicking over her nipple and the moisture flooding her sex.
“Aye?” he asked huskily, hands warm on her thighs.
At first Sophia could only whimper at the loss of contact, but the sight of her hands on his shoulders reminded her of what she’d been saying. “I…mmm…” His lips were on the other breast now, and she struggled for thought. Her legs opened under his gentle pressure, hips thrusting upward in such a blatant invitation that she’d have been embarrassed if she’d been able to think. “Never seen a man like you. In your state. Both. I wanted…ahh…wanted. To touch you.”
“Ah.” It was half a word and half a groan, and he’d obviously worked out that she didn’t just mean her hands on his chest, because his hands were still for a second and he shook his head against her breast. “Not now.”
“No?” The organ in question pulsed against her leg, hot and hard. Sophia shifted her weight slightly and felt Cathal catch his breath.
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