Trade (Deridia Book 2)

by Catherine Miller

  But that didn’t make it hers. Perhaps in time she might think of them as such, but she worried that unless she managed to forge something greater with Machrus, any connection with them would remain somewhat stilted.

  Because she wasn’t a true wife to their brother, not yet. And likely, not ever.

  She bit her lip, and heard the blankets rustle as Machrus rolled over to face her.

  “I am certain there are some who still care for you,” Machrus insisted.

  Renna grimaced. “Oh really?” He appeared startled at her tone, and she quickly amended it. “No, you are right. They... cared for me, in their way.” Margaret, Sue... Desmond. They’d encouraged her to move on after Maisie died, after her parents were killed, to find some measure of happiness while she could. But she’d been too offended by their suggestions, their presumptions, so she’d withdrawn all the more until it was just her... alone and cold and trying so desperately to not have to feel anymore...

  There was always an element of ruthlessness to their lives before. You might enjoy someone’s company, might appreciate that you weren’t in the vast expanse of the Wastes all alone, but that was still another person drinking from the only water source, still another eating from their incredibly limited food stores.

  And when one’s own belly grumbled, one’s mouth was parched and aching...

  Friendships were difficult. Love was nearly impossible.

  But somehow she doubted that Machrus could understand all that—that anyone truly could who had not lived it.

  She wondered if this was what the bond was meant to help with, for him to be granted a greater depth of understanding than her words alone could provide. And whether he wished to believe it or not, she did not question how genuinely his brothers cared for their wives, and were loved so completely in return.

  It made it more difficult, to watch the ease in which the couples related to one another. Their teasing, their playful touches—some much more reserved in such things than others, but all of them expressing their affection in some way. And while Machrus had sat near her, had explained certain dishes and steered her away from ones he felt confident she would hate, it was not the same.

  She did not belong with him, not in the way his brothers were with their wives. The closeness they shared was obvious, some of it physical, much of it otherwise, and she wondered again at the bond, that tie that brought strangers together and helped forged something good. There was a presence in her mind, nearly absent unless she considered it directly, cold and distant now, likely due to his shuttering. She nudged it, not knowing in the least what she was doing, but curious about this thing between them.

  Machrus shifted on the bed, eyeing her dubiously. “What are you attempting to accomplish?” There was no mistaking the wariness of his tone, and she hastily abandoned her prodding of their darkened bond.

  “You... you felt that?”

  If possible, he appeared even more cautious. “Yes,” he confirmed, his eyes narrowing. “There is no severing of the connection, only masking it. One may always knock at a closed door, whether or not it opens.” He shifted a little nearer, presumably the better to see her. “Have you need of it? Our bond?”

  Renna flushed, fidgeting with her blankets. “I only... wondered. There are things about my life before that I don’t know how to explain. Not fully anyway, and I just wondered if... if something about the bond would help you understand.”

  Machrus shifted backward, still so guarded. “Ah. Yes, it would. That is its purpose, its nature. But I cannot...” he shook his head, his mouth a firm line. “It is relatively simple to dim now, when we have shared so little with it. The more it is used, the more difficult that will be to accomplish again.”

  “Oh.” Renna sighed. “I didn’t realise.”

  Machrus continued to stare at her. “I would not have expected that you would.”

  Renna nodded, feeling strangely struck by his answer. It was good that he recognise that so little of this made sense to her, but she also did not want him to think her stupid—that she was content to live in ignorance, floundering about in a world she found so difficult to comprehend. “I do want to learn about things,” she defended quietly, plucking at the blanket, ensuring Maisie’s was tucked beneath the outer ones lest he notice it. “To understand them. As best I can, anyway.”

  She was surprised when Machrus’s large hand came and covered both of hers, stilling them as she looked at him questioningly. “You will,” he assured, giving her hands a gentle squeeze. She hated that her heart fluttered as it did. “And I will help you. I meant no insult to you.”

  Renna nodded, not realising how cold her hands had been until he was warming them. Always cold, here, even with all the lovely things he had procured for her. She swallowed, knowing she should pull away, should banish him back to his side before she made a fool of herself again and tried to instigate... she didn’t even know what. Her thoughts were all a jumble, her desires warring with her sense, until, with mortifying clarity, she remembered that he could sense her feelings through touch.

  Or had that ability dissolved with their bond?

  She couldn’t risk it, so she extracted her hands and tucked them underneath the blanket, unable to meet his eye any longer. “What were we talking about?” she asked lamely, directing the query to the bedclothes.

  Machrus sighed and withdrew his hands, tucking them behind his head. “I believe we digressed after I explained that traditionally your family visits you here first.”

  Oh. Right. Renna carefully settled back next to him, squished as much by the wall as she could manage without seeming entirely ridiculous—though it was likely too late for that already.

  “So... who would you suggest? Since obviously I don’t have a family.”

  Machrus shifted, a lone finger absently skimming the closely knitted weave of the blanket. “I do not know if it requires stating,” he replied carefully. “And I should hate to be accused of stating what is obvious,” Renna suppressed a roll of her eyes, “but my family is yours. It would never be the same, I am not so obtuse as to suggest it would be so, but becoming a bride is not to sever you from one family and leave you with none.”

  Renna smiled thinly. “I appreciate that.” It did need saying. He was right of course, in that it would never replace what she had lost. The people she had met today did not share her history, had not raised her from infancy, had not watched her as she’d grown. But she was not so blinded by her own grief to think that family could not be born of new experiences, of affection found in adulthood, in sharing in a new life together.

  But it still felt as if something was missing, an important component that would make it true.

  And that was having a husband who loved her.

  But that would never happen.

  She sighed glumly. “So who? Desmond?”

  Machrus had glanced over at her huff, evidently concerned. She refused to clarify its cause. “He stood witness at our marriage. He would be an adequate choice.”

  Her arm was going numb from her position so she shifted, accepting that would mean be a little nearer to him. She didn’t trust herself around him, not anymore, and it made her feel even worse. Was she capable of wanting any man, simply based on his presence alone? He had paid her no particular attention, had been more than clear that he did not desire her in the same way, yet here she was... wanting.

  She bit her lip until it hurt, the pain forcing her to respond to his question and not to her own ludicrous impulses. “Are you saying no, then? To me going home?”

  She had thought the difficult part would simply be the asking—that if she could muster the courage to speak of a need aloud, he would do his best to fulfil it. Wasn’t that what he’d claimed? So for him to say no...

  Machrus hesitated. “Would you find a number of your people coming here to be insufficient?

  She lay there a while, considering. She wanted to see their progress for herself—to know for certain that they would be all right wh
en these snows came. But then... how could she know that? She knew that wood was necessary for fires, and there were plenty of those to be had in the new encampment. She had no idea how much meat was necessary to feed all the remaining colonists as she had never been in charge of rations, only obediently accepting her share and making it last as long as she could.

  All she knew were the best place to harvest Hasarts. How to dig in the too-hot sand without scorching her skin too badly.

  This time she bit her lip to keep it from trembling.

  “Your way is fine,” she conceded at last, her voice sounding miserable even to her own ears.

  Machrus turned, pushing down on the blanket barricade so he could see her better. “Your tone would suggest otherwise.”

  She held her breath to suppress a hiccough, waiting until she was composed enough to give a proper response. “Today... today was lovely,” she assured him. “Your family is so kind and welcoming, and I can see now why you wanted me to meet them.”

  Edlyn and Marella had promised to visit her again soon, and she was glad of it. There had been no opportunity to find out more about the bond, of Machrus’s suspicion that it was capable of coercion, and those seemed like private talks in any case. Adelmar had made no such promises, and it niggled at Renna that she would have to be the one to mend their strained relations.

  “But?” Machrus prompted, his eyes betraying his wariness.

  “They aren’t... mine. Yet,” she hastened to add, lest he think she was purposing to hold herself apart from them. “I think I just miss my own kind, that’s all.”

  Machrus did not reply quickly, and they lay there in silence so long that she wondered if he had fallen asleep. She burrowed under her blankets quietly, trying not to be cross that he might have drifted off while they were still discussing things, but felt guilty for feeling so. He was entitled to rest just as much as anyone. She was the one keeping him up with her desire to talk.

  “If I followed the suggestion of my teachers, I would remind you that you are Marzon now. That all you have met are your kind, and to hold on to those who came before is to give insult to the treaty—to the cleansing.”

  A lump settled in her throat.

  “That wasn’t my intention,” she murmured, hoping he believed her.

  “I, however,” Machrus continued, fishing beneath the bedcovers until he found her hand, her cheeks burning to think how close he was to other parts of her until his fingers were laced through hers. He brought it out and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles, across her fingers, across scar tissue that she had no idea could feel so much...

  And she almost asked him to stop, because her heart ached even as it fluttered, because this wasn’t real and never would be, but she couldn’t seem to form the words. Not when she longed for that contact and wanted to savour it for as long as she could.

  “If I was brought into a new people, I could not so easily forget the ones of my birth. I could not put aside the family who had raised me simply because my duty commanded it. To expect it of our brides, I find, can border upon cruel.” His thumb pressed into her palm, finding and releasing some tension that had coiled there, and she had to suppress a whimper. What was he doing to her? “And I will not be so pitiless.”

  “W-what are you saying?” she managed to ask, swallowing thickly as she tried to get a handle on her emotions. He was being cruel. Not in the way he meant, and not in a way she was willing to admit. But this touching was not helping her composure. He was her friend, nothing more. And perhaps holding her hand in this way did not mean the same to him as it did to her. He seemed to be doing more than inspecting it has he had once had, instead he was learning it, absorbing its every detail, the gentle skimming of his long fingers against her own sending shivers through her.

  “I am saying,” Machrus continued, his hand finally stilling, though he did not fully release her. She wished she had thought to ask before now if he still felt what she did when they touched. “I shall speak to my brother. And if he insists that a party from your settlement be invited first, then perhaps the period between those visits may be short.”

  “Thank you,” she forced out when she had collected herself enough to remember her manners. “And thank you for understanding about my... my missing them. I don’t mean any insult on you, or your family. Truly.”

  “I believe you,” Machrus cut in, his eyes steadily on hers. “You needn’t try to convince me of your truthfulness.” It made her uncomfortable, so she looked to their hands instead. Hers looked almost like a child’s in comparison to his, so dwarfed did it appear. But for some reason she could not name, it sent a thrill through her. That it felt almost like belonging.

  She pushed that thought away firmly.

  “Because that would be tedious,” she suggested with a wavering smile. “Belabouring something that is already known.”

  Machrus gave a solemn nod, ignoring her attempt at teasing. “Quite so,” he agreed. “Therefore you shall be permitted to miss your people, and I will do what I can to ensure you retain what pieces of them I can.”

  She thought of her things safely tucked away in his trunk, of Maise’s blanket now spread over her. A gift. “Is that why you saved my things for me?” she asked quietly. “Because you thought it wrong that everything be taken away?”

  And suddenly it was he that looked away, though she could not fathom why the acknowledgment of his kindness should discomfit him. “They are yours,” he answered simply. “I understand our traditions, and I respect their necessity. But sometimes,” he mused, glancing at her only briefly. “Sometimes that must give way for more important things.”

  From any other man she would have thought he meant her. That her desires, her needs, might outweigh custom’s dictates. But Machrus had never claimed romanticism, only a willingness to change just enough of his person that she was not left miserable and alone, so he could not possibly be suggesting that she was worth such consideration.

  Could he?

  Her mouth was dry, and he was still holding her hand, and with every last bit of self control she had left in her, she pulled it away. She could not look at him, did not want to see what his reaction might be at her withdrawal—not when the slightest indication that he disapproved of the action would have her cuddling next to him as she instigated another of those embraces that had already proven so unwelcome.

  “I think I’ll go to sleep now,” she informed him, her voice small, and she huddled beneath the blankets. Wisdom dictated she find another place to sleep tonight. Someplace where she might gather her thoughts and remind herself of their arrangement—a place where he would not have to fear her violating the barricade and reaching for him while she slept, her unconscious giving into the desires she did not want to admit were present. And, to her dismay, were ever increasing.

  “Very well,” Machrus acknowledged beside her, and though she did not look, her skin prickled where she knew he stared, his voice suggesting that he worried for her.

  The sense of freedom she felt after disclosing the truth about Maisie, of her past, was starting to dissipate as new secrets took their place. But these she could not reveal, not when they would be met with such sure rejection, such anger on his part when she had so assuredly failed to uphold her end of the bargain.

  For as she lay there beside him, forcing herself to try and sleep, she knew she wanted more. More from him.

  To have a family to call her own. To feel as though she belonged.

  Not just in her hand nestling so perfectly in his. Not just sharing his bed and feeling so terribly alone. But to feel that this was her home, that he was her husband, and that maybe, someday, they could have at least a glimmer of what she’d seen today.

  “Rest well, Renna,” he murmured softly into the darkness, and it took every last bit of her control to keep from weeping.

  18. Want

  “Renna? Are you certain you are well?”

  Edlyn reached over and stilled Renna’s hands, her dark eyes showing
her concern. She had brought a basket of wool and was showing her how to work a small spinning wheel, fluffs turning into twine—Edlyn’s far smoother than anything Renna had yet to produce. But it made her feel useful, and with time she would learn how to do it better.

  Though from the dubious look Machrus had given it before he left with the grenpeets that morning, she was a little suspicious that this was a task the children often saw to rather than two grown women.

  But Edlyn had shooed him out after a pleasant greeting, though from over her shoulder, Renna noticed Machrus whispered something to her before he shut the door.

  She hunched, tending to the morning dishes, her hands submerged in hot, sudsy water, the heat nearly a pain. But it was a welcome thing, she considered ruefully, though never would she have thought it possible. Her fingers were often stiff with cold, even tucked as she kept them either in her sleeves or wrapped up in her shawl, and although her skin was red and angry looking, at least it was warm.

  She gave the pot an extra scrub, Edlyn setting her things out on the table while she finished. Renna hated how anxiously she wondered what Machrus had said to the other woman. If he’d wanted her to know, he would have spoken louder.

  It was not that she feared for his faithfulness to her—she could not imagine him betraying his brothers in any such way, nor insulting the neighbouring peoples with a dalliance. But there was so much of him she did not know, and she coveted what little bits of him she could understand, and begrudged the ones he gave to another.

  But eventually the pot yielded to her efforts, and when no others required her attention, there was nothing else she could do but join Edlyn at the table and learn a new craft.

  Although apparently without some of the cheerfulness she had hoped to display.

  “I am fine,” Renna assured her, untangling her cord for what felt the fiftieth time. “I did not sleep very well,” she amended at the other woman’s doubtful glance. It was true. After her talk with Machrus, her mind had been all a whirl, and the more she tried to keep from thinking, to keep any sign of her distress from being known to him, the more tense she became, sleep a far off thing.