This gives her pause. “Yvan... I never...”
“I’m not a child anymore,” he says firmly. “And you didn’t raise me to be a fool.”
“I can’t have her here, Yvan. You have to understand that. This girl is a danger to us all.”
“Then I’m leaving. Elloren’s waiting for me out there in the cold, and it’s dangerous for her to travel alone.”
“Dangerous, how?”
Yvan hesitates for a long moment before answering. “There’s an Icaral after her.”
“An Icaral.” There’s an edge of bitter sarcasm in her tone. “Well, Yvan,” she says acidly, “I hope that Icaral finds her.”
There’s the sound of furniture being pushed against the floor and footsteps approaching the door.
His mother calls out, “Wait... Yvan!”
I jump back as Yvan emerges from the house and slams the door behind him. His eyes are blazing with anger. He strides quickly toward me and takes my arm, leading me away from the house, back to the stable. He’s walking so fast, it’s almost impossible to keep up with him.
Once we’re in the barn, I watch silently as he unhitches our horse, his jaw and neck rigid with tension, his movements clipped, the horses responding to his uneasy mood by growing restless themselves.
We walk away from the house on foot, Yvan leading the horse beside us.
“What are we going to do?” I ask, growing worried as his home disappears behind us. It’s dark now, and very cold. I have very little money with me and based on what Clive said earlier about Yvan sending most of his income home, I suspect he’s also low on funds. “Where will we stay?”
He doesn’t answer me right away, and I can just make out his jaw ticking as he stares straight ahead. Finally, he stops, brings his free hand to his hip and looks down at the ground in frustration before looking back up at me. “I’m sorry, Elloren.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I didn’t think...” His words trail off, replaced by a heavy sigh. Yvan motions ahead with his hand. “There’s an inn about a half-hour’s ride east. It’s not the most luxurious place in the world, but we might be able to find lodging there for the night.”
CHAPTER FOUR
LODGING FOR THE NIGHT
“How much for two rooms?” Yvan asks the innkeeper.
I survey our surroundings nervously. Yvan is right about this inn not being the most luxurious place in the world. It’s downright seedy. A crowd of Keltic men linger in the small tavern, more than a few quite drunk, some of them leering shamelessly at me as we enter, as if they’re trying to make out my figure under my winter wrappings.
I’m immediately and self-consciously aware that I’m the only young woman in this place. There’s one other woman here, but she’s a mean-looking, scowling crone who glares at me briefly before going back to angrily serving drinks and picking up the mess left by her unruly patrons.
I instinctively move closer to Yvan, threading my arm through his, and he pulls my arm protectively toward himself. The rancid smell of stale pipe smoke coupled with spirits hangs heavy in the air and makes my lungs sting.
The innkeeper, a surly-looking old man, eyes Yvan speculatively. “Forty guilders for the night.”
“Forty guilders,” Yvan repeats, incredulous.
He’s taking advantage of us. But it’s late, and cold, and there isn’t another inn for miles.
“That’s right,” the man replies, looking away from us to flip through some disheveled papers. Yvan glares at the man for a protracted moment before turning to me.
“We don’t have enough.” I squeeze Yvan’s arm gently. My gaze flickers toward the innkeeper, who’s now peering at me with narrowed eyes. I turn back to Yvan, trying to ignore the man’s stare. “We could share a room.” I feel the blush spreading on my face, even as I struggle to remain impassive.
“Well, now,” the innkeeper says suggestively, “I think you should take the young lady’s advice, lad. Since she’s so willing.”
Yvan’s intense green eyes snap back to the innkeeper, obviously furious at the implied insult to me. The man gives a little start and looks back down at his papers.
“Fine.” Yvan pushes twenty guilders toward the man.
“You’ll have to start your own fire,” the innkeeper informs us as he snatches up the coins. “It’s ten more guilders for dry wood.” A greedy look fills his eyes.
“Ten guilders for wood,” Yvan says flatly, his neck muscles growing more tense by the minute.
“Awfully cold night tonight,” the innkeeper says smugly, clearly relishing having the upper hand.
Yvan glances at me, and I shrug helplessly. We don’t have any more money to spare between the two of us. “We’ll have to get by without it,” Yvan tells him icily.
“No matter.” The innkeeper leers at me before his beady eyes dart back to Yvan with some envy. “This pretty thing will keep you warm enough, no doubt.” Amused by himself, the innkeeper begins to chortle and cough at the same time, his uneven teeth heavily tobacco-stained.
Quick as a flash, Yvan reaches across the bar, grabs the innkeeper by the front of his shirt and pulls him halfway across the counter. I flinch back, startled, and the room behind us goes silent.
“Apologize now,” Yvan says calmly.
“Sorry, miss,” the innkeeper chokes out.
Yvan lets go of him with a rough shove, and the man staggers back. Eyeing Yvan warily, he holds up a key. “Room’s at the end of the hall,” he says, the words sounding strangled, “to the left.”
Yvan grabs the key out of the man’s grip, takes hold of my hand and we start for the room.
* * *
The room is small and cold, with one dingy bed covered in a threadbare woolen blanket. There’s a dim lantern on a small table by the drafty window, and old ashes spill out of the dark, unlit fireplace.
I wrap my arms around myself, the chill creeping in. Yvan closes the door behind us and pauses, looking around uncomfortably, as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“It’s cold in here,” I say, stating the obvious just to break the silence.
Yvan nods in unspoken agreement and considers the fireplace. “I’ll go out and find some wood,” he offers. He turns and starts for the door.
“It’ll all be soaked,” I point out. A wet snow has begun to fall outside, teetering just on the edge of freezing rain.
Yvan stops to look back at me, his hand on the wrought-iron door handle, his lip curling sarcastically. “I’m pretty good at starting fires.”
I throw him a knowing look. “I’m well aware.”
His expression grows uneasy. “I’ll be right back,” he tells me, stepping out into the shadowy hall, but pausing as he moves to shut the door. “Elloren,” he says, a cautionary note to his tone, “lock the door while I’m gone.”
“I know. I will.”
He nods, satisfied, and closes the door.
I throw the bolt.
* * *
It isn’t long before Yvan returns. I’m lying on the bed, the brown woolen blanket wrapped around myself, chilled to the bone and half-asleep. Hearing his knock, I rouse myself, let him in, then sink back down onto the bed, exhausted.
Yvan kneels down by the fireplace and arranges the sticks and logs he’s gathered. In mere moments, there’s a roaring fire blazing in the hearth, but its warmth isn’t able to fully chase away the chill in the drafty room. Yvan stands up, brushes his hands off on his trousers and looks around awkwardly. “You can sleep on the bed tonight,” he offers. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Yvan, it’s a muddied stone floor.”
“It’s all right,” he assures me, looking down uncertainly.
“If you want to...” I begin hesitantly, “share the bed with me tonight...”
“No!” he says with surprising vehemence.
A sting of warmth heats my face. “I... I didn’t mean...”
“I know,” he says quickly, looking around the room. At anything but me.
“I only meant—”
“It’s all right,” he insists, his eyes shifting to his feet. Perhaps realizing how stern he sounds, Yvan sighs, and seems to make a conscious effort to soften his expression and his tone. “Thank you,” he says. “I know what you meant, Elloren. But I really will be fine on the floor.”
“I know that sleeping in the same bed is...inappropriate,” I rattle on, shivering from the cold and nerves. “But no one would need to know. And...you’re always so warm.”
Yvan looks me over, seeming chastened as he takes in how I’m shivering. “Of course. I should have noticed how cold you are. I don’t feel the cold, so...” He catches himself and eyes me sidelong.
I hold his gaze, surprised by his open admission. Yvan suddenly looks as tense and worn-out as I feel. He eyes the bed covetously. “It would be nice to lie down, even for a moment,” he admits.
I lie down on the bed and make room for him, my heartbeat deepening. Yvan sits down on the edge of the bed and gives me a small, awkward smile over his shoulder, leaning forward to remove his boots. Then he lies down beside me and stretches his long body out on the mattress with a sigh.
His arm brushes against mine, and it’s deliciously warm. Almost hot. I breathe in deeply, my shivering quickly lessening as he releases some of his fire, his heat radiating through my lines in a rippling caress. It’s strange and brazen, lying there in a bed next to him, but so wonderful.
“You don’t have to hold your fire back,” I tell him, fatigue making me bold. “I can feel you holding it back almost all the time now, and...I sense it’s a strain.”
His lips turn up in a jaded smile, and then his gaze darkens. “Trust me, Elloren, I have to hold it back.” His smile disappears, his fire giving a turbulent flare.
I wonder what he means by that, but he doesn’t seem willing to elaborate further, so I don’t ask.
The draftiness of the room has stirred up a slight breeze, and the cobwebs hanging from the rafters above sway lazily from side to side.
“Yvan?” I ask, tentative.
He turns his head to look at me. “Hmm?”
It’s hard to get the words out. “When did your father die?”
“When I was three,” he tells me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry that happened.”
He gives a slight shake of his head and glances over at me, the normally sharp planes of his face softened by the lamplight. “It’s not your fault.” He considers me for a moment. “When did your parents die?”
“I was also three.” The year my grandmother died, as well. “Do you remember your father?”
Yvan exhales sharply, his eyes tensing with sadness. “Yes.” He turns to face me, a rush of his heat suffusing me. I suddenly long to move into that warmth and let it fully overtake me. To be encircled by his arms and his fire.
“I remember my parents, too,” I say, basking in his heat. “Especially my mother. She used to wrap me up in the quilt she made me...”
“The one Ariel burned,” he says quietly, regret in his eyes.
“Yes.”
“Elloren...” he says, then hesitates. “I was very harsh with you when we first met.”
I remember him scoffing at my grief over losing my quilt. I’d hated him in that moment, but it seems like such a long time ago now. Especially considering how drastically my feelings for him have changed since then.
“It’s all right,” I say. “I can understand why you acted that way.”
“No,” he counters with a tight shake of his head, “it’s not all right. I’m sorry.”
I nod in acknowledgment, feeling overcome with emotion, my mutinous eyes tearing up.
“And I’m sorry my mother treated you like that,” he adds. “It was a mistake to bring you there. I thought...” He lets out a frustrated breath. “I thought she’d give you a chance.”
I sigh heavily, blinking back the tears. “I imagine seeing me brought back horrific memories. I look so much like my grandmother...”
“But you’re not her,” he insists, staring at me intently. “I was hoping she’d be able to see that.”
My breath catches in my throat. “It means a lot to hear you say that.”
He gives me a small, rueful smile, and I feel my lips curving upward in return.
“You know, it’s funny,” I muse out loud, so tired it’s easy to just speak my train of thought.
“What is?”
“This situation, right now. It’s so inappropriate, it’s actually funny.”
Yvan’s eyebrows edge higher in question.
“Here we are, two unmarried, unsealed people, you a Kelt, me a Gardnerian, alone in a room in this seedy tavern, lying in bed together...” I pause for a moment. “It’s just...amusing, don’t you think?”
Yvan smiles slightly. “It is.”
“My people teach us that men can’t control themselves around women, and that’s why we need to dress so conservatively, and be chaperoned everywhere we go. Fasted younger and younger. Yet here we are, you and me, all alone—”
“The idea that men can’t control themselves is ridiculous,” he says adamantly. “It’s just an excuse.”
“That’s what I’ve always thought. I mean, I don’t have any experience with, you know...” I think of Diana’s impatience with me when I trail off ambiguously on this particular subject. Yvan seems to understand, though—his culture is extremely straitlaced, as well. “But I grew up with two brothers,” I continue, “and I know they’d never force anyone to do anything like that.”
I blush, feeling self-conscious. “I’ve never spoken to anyone about things like this. I suppose I shouldn’t really be talking to you about it.”
“I don’t mind talking with you about it,” Yvan says, his expression open and unguarded.
I suddenly feel very close to him, our eyes locked in understanding. The side of his hand touches mine, and without thinking, I slide my hand over his.
He turns his head from me to stare up at the ceiling, his breathing suddenly deepening. Then he turns his hand over and threads his long fingers through mine.
My breath catches, warmth flaring inside me. I focus on the rafters above us as well, too overwhelmed by the feel of his fingers clasped around mine to look directly at him.
We lie there together for a long moment, holding hands.
It’s like heaven—a thousand times better than kissing Lukas. And, strangely, more intimate. Because it feels like, in this moment, he’s truly letting me in for the first time.
Both his fire power and my fire lines flare at the same moment, reaching for each other. Twining at the edges, like his hand around mine.
I finally dare to glance over at him. He continues to stare at the ceiling, stone-still except for the rise and fall of his chest.
“Yvan,” I breathe out, his flame lightly caressing my lines, “the fire...”
“Do you like it, Elloren?” he asks, his voice throaty as he turns to me, his eyes sparking gold.
I nod, lit up by him. “Yes.”
His full lips twitch into a smile, the gold in his eyes intensifying.
I look back at the ceiling, savoring the sultry feel of his fire shivering through mine.
“Are they going to make you fast?” he asks, his voice gaining an edge.
“If I stay in the Western Realm,” I meet his eyes, an ache gathering in my chest. “But I don’t want to.”
Yvan’s fingers tighten around mine, his gaze suddenly impassioned. “I don’t want you to.”
The thoughts stream through me, unbidden. I don’t want to fast to Luk
as. I don’t want to fast to Gareth, either. Or to anyone on the Council Registry. I don’t want any of them.
“Do you see yourself married someday?” I wonder, pain infusing the question.
A shadow falls across his face, and his eyes cool to green. “No, I don’t.”
I want to press, to know why he says this with such terrible certainty, but there’s suddenly so much conflict in his expression I hesitate. That familiar look is back again—like he wants to tell me something but can’t.
“I wish you could tell me everything,” I say, running my thumb over his.
“So do I,” he breathes.
I think of how he healed Bleddyn and Olilly. How he spends every spare moment helping the refugees fleeing east. How readily he jumped in to help Marina.
How kind and incredibly brave he is.
I wish I could fast to you, I think as we lie there, his eyes locked on to mine.
But I can’t say it out loud. So, I let the thought gather in my head, straining for release as we lie there, our hands and fire magic entwined.
Overcome with fatigue, I try to stifle a yawn and fail. “I didn’t realize how tired I was until I lay down,” I tell him softly.
“Go ahead, get some sleep,” he encourages.
I can barely keep my eyes open, they feel so heavy.
“Good night, Yvan,” I whisper, savoring his presence, wanting him to stay here all night long, but too shy to ask him to.
“Good night, Elloren,” he whispers back, his gaze touched with longing.
I drift off to sleep but am roused soon after by a slight movement beside me. I watch through the lashes of my barely opened eyes as Yvan quietly gets up to sit by the fireplace. I’m immediately aware of the chill his departure creates, of missing him and wanting him back. I pull the woolen blanket up, hugging it tightly around my body, before drifting off once more.
* * *
I’m fast asleep when I feel the bed shift again. I slowly open my eyes, my brain fuzzy from sleep.
Yvan is sitting on the bed, staring at me. The room is softly illuminated by the fire he’s coaxed higher, the flames throwing out light that dances on the walls. It’s much warmer now, with only a slight chill from the draft coming in around the window. I can just make out Yvan’s long, lanky figure, his head tilted down toward me. His beautiful eyes glowing with vivid golden flame.
The Iron Flower Page 23
