by Megan Derr
The woman beside her had discarded her shirt at some point, and her flat chest was equally admired. Whenever she turned, Charlaine caught sight of the beautiful, colorful Delfastien wood-block style tattoos on her back, a style imported from Kin del Kar forever ago.
Like most sailors, she wore a leather cord around her neck strung with beads that indicated she was a woman, since some cultures were weirdly old-fashioned and rigid when it came to things like gender and didn't default to a neutral when they weren't sure what an individual preferred.
Charlaine shook his head in amusement as the ribald comments continued, Jac and the other woman retorting with looks and brief words as the dance permitted.
Thankfully, this was a Harken ship, and looking and admiring was likely all anyone would do—well, and make lewd suggestions nobody took seriously. Sarrica had seen to it a lot of death penalties the empire had clung to were done away with once and for all, but he'd left those pertaining to sexual assault unchanged.
He tore his gaze away from Jac and sought distraction, but over and over again his eyes were drawn helplessly back. As the jig concluded, she kissed the woman on the cheek, before another sailor came up and a new dance started. The song this time was a bawdy one, the dance itself much more sprawling and playful than the intense, tricky jig.
Charlaine watched helplessly as they turned and twisted, moving together in perfect harmony, occasionally dancing twined and twisted together, stirring the crowd to deafening heights. Why was Jac a soldier when she could move like that? Every move of her hips had the effortlessness of a wave lapping at shore, every kick sure and strong. She dipped like a bird in flight and spun like leaves in the wind. He wanted to rain praises all over her—vocally and then carnally.
By the time the dance ended, Jac's shirt was plastered to her skin with sweat. She begged off another dance and accepted the bottle of rum someone offered, taking a long swig that drew attention to the unreasonably long line of her throat.
Someone called out to her and she turned to reply—and stopped as she saw Charlaine. Hastily replying to the man who'd called out, Jac crossed the circle to Charlaine, flushed and mussed and smiling bright enough to burn. The shadowy remnants of Charlaine's dream teased at him, and all his efforts to bank leftover desire began to crumble.
Damn it, he didn't need this. Myra was off somewhere, scared and alone and possibly hurt. Even pretending for a few seconds that all was well, he was not going to hurt Jac by pushing himself on Myra, and he wasn't going to hurt Myra by succumbing to inappropriate lust for Jac. What was wrong with him? Was he so fickle, to love Myra and yet suddenly be so drawn to Jac? Because even if his focus right now was mostly on how much he'd like to make her come apart in his arms, there was much, much more to Jac than how ridiculously sexy she was. No, she was infinitely more dangerous than that.
Pantheon damn him. The man he loved—the man they both cared about—was going off to die, and Charlaine wasn't bastard enough to be distracted by the woman Myra wanted.
Except apparently he was, and he had no idea what to do about it.
Why couldn't his dick have just stayed disinterested in everyone? He'd been perfectly happy before sex and romance had woken up and decided they needed attending.
Charlaine curled his fingers against his thighs to remind himself he shouldn't—couldn't—touch. "You look like you're having fun."
"Lots. Do you want to go for a spin with me?" She offered the rum and he took it, ignoring all the warning bells clamoring in his head.
It wasn't the cheap, too-sweet clear rum imported with great enthusiasm in Harkenesten, but dark, rich and spicy Kin del Kar rum, more potent than even the expensive brandy and whiskey that kept the High Court functioning.
The taste of cinnamon, ginger, orange and cloves lingered on his tongue and burned all the way down his throat. He wanted to taste the rum from Jac's mouth.
Instead, he handed the bottle back and enjoyed the view as she took another swig, watching a bead of sweat vanish into the valley between her breasts. Those dream remnants flickered through his mind again, shadowy images of bodies pressed together, eager hands and hungry mouths.
It was almost a relief when Jac was dragged away again. She hastily pushed the bottle back into his hands before returning to the center of the circle. A short, slender man with Islander looks—and earrings, no mistaking those—motioned and said something. Jac laughed, chin jutting out, and those that had heard their conversation cheered and taunted, the ribald suggestions from before returning twice as bad.
Charlaine figured out why, as Jac stripped off her shirt and threw it at him before rejoining the Islander and falling into a dance that had Charlaine feverishly gulping at the rum and hoping the shirt in his lap hid the worst of his transgressions.
He'd thought Jac entrancing before, but clearly she'd just been warming up. Now she was enthralling, moving fluidly through the steps of a complicated dance that Charlaine recognized as Islander. He saw them around the military yard and barracks sometimes, and around the palace swimming pool the Islanders had more or less claimed. He also knew them from his theatre days, when bits of them had been incorporated into certain plays. Islander dances were hard; he remembered the complaints of the actors.
It was unusual for anyone not an Islander to know them, but Jac danced like she had Islander blood. Charlaine watched every movement like a man obsessed, rum and lust heating his blood to boiling.
He wished, with a sharp, sudden ache, that Myra was there to enjoy the sight with him. Did Myra dance? Funny that he didn't know—funny and sad. How much did he work that he didn't know whether or not his best friend could dance?
Pantheon, he hoped Myra was managing. They'd find him and take him home, and he bet Jac would dance for Myra until she fell over if he asked—and Charlaine would definitely tell him to ask.
By the time the torture session was over, the rum had left him pleasantly warm and a bit floaty—but nowhere near drunk enough to be unaffected by the sight of Jac half-naked, sweaty and bathed in flickering lantern light.
She stumbled as she drew close, catching herself with one hand on his knee, the other on his opposite thigh. "Sorry."
"S'alright," Charlaine said, the words coming out strangled. He thrust her shirt at her and gulped more rum. Once her entirely too delightful chest was covered again, he handed off the rum and tried to think about things like Myra's hurt face and being homeless, but even contemplating his own death by deadly assassins in a sweltering forest could not counter all the images of Jac now permanently engraved in his stupid, traitorous, worthless mind. "You done dancing for the night, Dragon?"
Jac laughed, swaying a bit and once more all but falling on top of him. Hopefully she was too drunk to notice how hard he was, because that was not a conversation Charlaine intended to have ever. "Maybe."
"Definitely," Charlaine said, and finished the last of the rum before leaving the bottle on the barrel. "Come on." He pulled one of her arms around his shoulders and slid one of his around her waist, bidding goodnight to the sailors before leading her away.
They stumbled down a narrow hall once inside the ship, Jac giggling the whole way, doing nothing to make the trip easier, warm and soft pressed up against his side, though he could feel the flex of firm muscle beneath his fingers.
Pantheon, if his dick got any harder he was going to break something. "Remind me to kill you later," he muttered.
Jac giggled. "Why do you want to kill me?"
"I don't, sorry," Charlaine said. "How much did you drink?"
"I have no idea. A lot."
Charlaine grinned briefly as they continued stumbling and shuffling along. "Finally got over the seasickness and now you're going to be dealing with a hangover. Some dashing hero."
"Oh, you be quiet," Jac replied, the words coming out slurred and faintly sing-song. "At least I'm not sitting around brooding and scowling. We'll get your beloved back, never fear."
Charlaine froze, heart thudding hard. "M
y what? Myra isn't my beloved."
Jac huffed, the sound way sadder than such a tiny noise had any right to be. "I saw you in the garden. I can tell. Don't know why he said yes. No tea for me."
"He said yes because he wanted you, as he damn well should," Charlaine said, heart breaking. He got them moving again, going as quickly as he could push her, down to where the hammocks were located.
They'd nearly reached the hammock they'd been allotted when Jac stumbled again, sending them both nearly crashing to the floor. Charlaine averted disaster at the last moment, but only wound up slamming into a wall, setting his head to throbbing—and leaving him with an armful of Jac, her soft breasts pressed against his chest, one of his hands accidentally falling to places it had no business gripping. He moved it hastily, while also trying to both right his balance and push her away.
Jac looked up abruptly, head slamming into his nose and leaving it throbbing. "Sorry!" she said, and drunkenly leaned up to kiss it.
That led to disaster, though Charlaine could never entirely say how.
But he could say how soft her lips were, how hot her mouth was, and how excellent a kisser she was, even drunk out of her mind.
Charlaine tore away, scooped Jac up, and dumped her in the hammock. He pulled the blanket over her, made certain his satchel was safely tucked away, then went in search of something, anything, that would work off his frustration.
*~*~*
By morning, he was feeling moderately better, and laughed loudly as a hungover, completely wretched and miserable Jac stumbled over to him. "How are you feeling, Dragon?"
"Fuck you," Jac said around a groan as she sat next to him and sipped at a bottle of festival tonic. "What the hell was I thinking last night? I'm not normally this damned stupid on a mission."
Charlaine grinned around a bite of porridge. "It's not like we have anything else to do for the better part of a month. And you do dance extremely well. I didn't know you could dance."
Jac's skin turned a few hues darker as she tried to stare a hole through the table. "Um. I learned a lot of it as a child. Dancing is a big thing in Outland. The rest I picked up traveling and trying to blend in. I mostly learned it from sailors, traveling performance troupes, sometimes from villagers when we happened to be around for a holiday or something."
"Where did you learn the Islander dance?"
"Sailors there, too. The Dragons were stuck aboard a becalmed ship, and the Islanders were short one person for one of their holiday dances. I offered to fill in if they could teach me the moves. I think they only agreed at first because they thought I was a stupid Mainlander who couldn't possibly manage—but I did, and so they taught me more and more. Shemal and some of his friends have taught me a few new ones. I don't think I dance extremely well, but it's always fun. Maybe with less rum next time." She whimpered and drank more of the tonic.
Charlaine's grin widened. "I'm guessing it's tradition to do it bare-chested?"
That got him the most adorable squeaking sound he'd ever heard and a look on her face he wished he could capture. He buried his face in his folded arms to muffle his laughter—laughing harder when she smacked his shoulder over and over.
Finally sitting up, he gasped out, "Your face."
"So are you just messing with me?" Jac asked.
"No, you really did take your shirt off. You danced beautifully."
"It is tradition, and yes, I do it that way with Shemal. Not normally with strangers, though."
Charlaine shrugged. "This is a Harken ship, so it's not like anyone would be bothered. If I recall correctly, there was a great deal of approval."
Jac groaned and let her head thump on the table.
"Should I stop you next time?" Charlaine asked. "You didn't seem that drunk."
"No, it's fine. It's not the first time I've done that. Islanders don't really wear much clothing, after all, so all their dances are done at least half-naked. I remember doing it last night, sort of. I was just really hoping I was wrong. I'm seriously embarrassed I'm acting this way when I should be working. Some professional mercenary I must seem." Her face clouded. "Especially when Myra is somewhere suffering, and that's assuming he really is still alive."
"From everything we've been told, he'll live until they return him to Iron Moon. Myra wouldn't want you sitting here brooding and being miserable on principle. That will just sap your strength and leave you useless when you need it most. So dance, Dragon."
She grunted an acknowledgement, finished off the tonic, and tucked the empty bottle away. "I think I'll go spend the rest of the trip hiding amongst the cargo. Did I do anything else? My memories go a little foggy after that last dance. I remember the dancing and you returning my shirt, but not much else."
Charlaine stared at her, but if she was lying, she was too damned good at it, and he hadn't noticed that quality before now. Though he really should have, given the Dragons specialized in covert work, not to mention the discretion required of an imperial bodyguard. "No. You were pretty much done at that point, so I took you to bed—" He covered his face as Jac spit out the sip of tea she'd just taken. "Put you to bed."
Jac smirked as he looked up. "How much rum did you have?"
"Too much, clearly," Charlaine drawled. And not nearly enough. He finished his porridge and tea, then gathered up his dishes. "I hate to abandon a comrade while they're suffering, but I helped mend sails and clean last night and am exhausted. Try to stay out of trouble while I'm sleeping."
"I'm too hungover to do more than lie around feeling sorry for myself."
Charlaine dumped his dirty dishes in a bucket, then returned to gather up the book he'd been reading, obtained from a sailor, and gripped Jac's shoulder. "I'll see you in a few hours."
She smiled and covered his hand briefly with hers and went back to her tea and porridge as he headed off.
Hopefully when he woke up later, the memory of that kiss would have finally faded, and Pantheon willing, there'd be no more dancing.
Chapter Nine
Jac never wanted to set foot on another ship ever again. Between the sea sickness, the hangover, making a perfect fool of herself dancing and that fucking kiss her drunk self never should have let happen, she'd rather swim back to Harken than be trapped on a vessel with Charlaine ever again.
She rubbed her temples, willing away yet another headache, this one brought on by the shift from sea to land. Mercy of the Pantheon, she hated ocean travel. No matter how many times she did it, she was always sea sick and came away cranky and with a pounding headache.
But focusing on her headache was better than thinking about that night. By now the memory should have dulled, but it could have happened yesterday, instead of weeks ago, she recalled it so clearly. Dancing like a brazen fool, spurred on by the audience, driven wild when she'd realized Charlaine had joined the crowd at some point. She hadn't realized just how strong an attraction to him she'd been pretending not to have until she'd seen him watching her like he wanted to bend her over the barrel he was sitting on and fuck her into it. Or maybe he wouldn't mind if she spread that ridiculously perfect ass of his and fucked him.
Ugh. Not helping. She fished out one of the headache powders she'd fobbed off the captain, dumped it in her mouth, and chased it with the watery ale she'd managed to order. After her ridiculous, drunken display, the sailors had been more than happy to call her friend and teach her all they could—including a smattering of Soltorish. Most of it not fit for polite company, but they seemed convinced of the kind of company she might seek once back on shore, and she'd given up arguing with them.
She finished her ale and ordered another. At least they were finally ashore. Now they could focus on rescuing Myra. Pantheon, let him still be alive. What if they'd come all this way only to be too late? What in the names of the gods was she going to do if he was already dead?
There was no point in worrying herself to death about something that may not have happened, though. Better to focus on problems she actually had.
&n
bsp; Like Charlaine's smiles. The way he laughed when his guard was down. The way it felt to be pressed up against him, wrapped in his arms and kissed senseless. If Myra had that, why had he agreed to spend time with her? If he didn't have that, what kind of fool was he not to try for it all these years?
Merciful divine, she hoped they got into a fight soon. All this sitting and waiting was driving her to madness. If a good distraction didn't come along soon, she was going to do something drastic or stupid.
Hopefully Charlaine would return soon. How long did it take the man to piss? Had he fallen in or something?
She was just about to go look for him when a sudden shift in the demeanor of the cheap pub they were in drew her attention. Nothing good ever came from a place that went from cheerful to alarmed in the blink of an eye. Several people got up to crowd around the windows, buzzing with nervous chatter. She caught snatches of words in various languages, mostly soldier and looking and, most ominously, dragon.
Setting down her cup, Jac wedged into a small space and stared out the grimy glass. "What's wrong?"
Thankfully, as she'd hoped, somebody replied in Harken, though it was poor and thickly accented. "Guards to be look for Harken double soldier, a dragon of three heads and broken storm."
Even with the dubious grammar and verbiage, that wasn't hard to figure out. "Thank you." She shoved her way out of the crowd, dropped a coin on the bar and gathered their belongings, and headed for the back—nearly plowing into Charlaine. "There you are. What took you so long?"
"Do you really want to know?" Charlaine asked.
"No. We have to go. There are Triumvirate soldiers looking for us." She relayed what the man at the window had said.
Charlaine swore. "Either the Triumvirate wants us dead, or someone back home has ordered them to find us before we cause further trouble. Either way, not good for us."
"It could simply be that Allen is worried about us."
"I have every faith he is, but that doesn't mean the High Throne isn't concerned our actions will start an international incident. What we're doing isn't all that different from some of Treya Mencee and Benta's behavior. Myra is guilty of at least two murders, I'm sure there are false identity charges that could be levied, especially since he's been lying to the High Throne all this time, and that's only the stuff we know about. Soltorin has every right to want to punish him, even if their methods are illegal since he is also a Harken citizen now. And look what happened to those Treya Mencee delegates a few years ago—shipped off and Pantheon alone knows if they're even still alive given how brutal Treya Mencee can be. We're lucky Harken isn't nearly so strict. Whatever the case, if the people who took Myra know we're here, that's even worse for us. Either we're going to get dragged home, or we're going to get killed."
