Myra drew her fingers along his jaw, messing with the scruff he never shaved anymore. At the chin, she gave it a tug and said, "Damn straight you do."
Laughing, he buried his face into the top of her head, his naked chest cradling her face. Myra took in a deep whiff of her husband, who smelled so damn delectable she could almost talk herself into having another go. But...she had business to get back to. Damn that whole adult shit.
Wiping a hand against her forehead to try and get her hair back into place, Myra said, "We should probably get dressed quickly before whoever owns this dump comes home and finds us both here, naked as all get out."
Her husband smiled but didn't release her from his hug, "I don't think that will be an issue."
"Why? Wait..." She cast an eye around, noticing the candles that were all lit inside the boarded up apartment with nothing but a bed and no other furniture. "Did you set this up?"
Gavin shrugged and tried to glance away. He would have rubbed the back of his neck, but his hands were cupping her naked ass. Myra's mouth dropped open, "How in the void...? How did you know I'd come this way?"
"A lucky guess. Even if I'd caught you elsewhere, I'd have carried you here," he explained.
"But we always, ya know, kiss a bunch then make it back to our place for the real fun."
Gavin's hungry grin, the one that could make her squirm in her chair from across the room, beamed at her. "I couldn't wait that long."
"You are..." Myra chuckled at all the work he put in for her foolish plans. Her love of playing -- so many others would have called her childish for it, but not him. Curling her hands through his hair, Myra sighed, "You are amazing. And I love you."
"I love you too," he said back instantly, his lips pressing the same sweet as a peach pie kiss against hers. Holding hands sex was nice, but sometimes Myra wanted the thrill of the chase and then banging quick in a back alley. Lucky for her, she could get both with him.
"But I do need to get dressed," she sighed, sliding out of his warm arms. While she wiggled back into her blouse, Myra continued, "I left a few runes baking that I need to check on. Not literally, of course."
"Good," he nodded, "because after the last explosion I had 'concerned neighbors' tracking me down at the palace for weeks."
She yanked on her pants and buttoned up the fly fast. "A few minor sparks and they all think I'm going to burn down the whole block. Don't worry, I think I figured out what went wrong last time."
"Myra..." he shook his head slowly.
"I'll keep it to the table outside the city until I get it perfected," she sighed, "I promise. Spoilsport."
"You knew what I was when you married me," Gavin leaned forward to peck her on the lips. He'd managed into his own pants, but kept the shirt off. Blighted Maker, it almost seemed a crime at times that she was the only person he felt comfortable to disrobe around. His was a body that was gifted to thedas by the Maker personally. But Myra liked being rather selfish about it all too. Like one of those Kings of legend who hoarded all of the treasures of the world into his private collection to never be seen by another naked eye.
Taking one more kiss before she stepped back, Myra ran her fingers through her hair to get the knots out. "Shouldn't be more than an hour getting everything in shape."
"I'll keep a candle lit for you," her husband nodded.
Myra made it towards the door that he no doubt was going to nail back up after dousing all the candles and cleaning up. For a moment, her hand curled up against her stomach and she smiled to herself. The pause was enough to draw Gavin's attention.
When his eyes landed upon her, she said, "Oh, before I forget to tell you again, I'm pregnant."
"You...? What?!"
Giving a little wave, Myra said, "See you back at home." With her husband left dumbstruck, she dashed out into the night, already climbing her way back up to the roofs of Denerim. The unobservant city slept on.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Future Queen
The cry reverberated through her teeth and out her hair. For the first few window-rattling screams she tried to ignore it, but when it failed to cease Anjali threw away her work, launched to her boots, and went in search of whatever cat was being bathed to death. It wasn't inside some demented man's dungeon she wound up, but the nursery. Though, looking around at the innumerable fluffy duck paraphernalia the dungeon would have been preferable.
Barely pausing to take in a breath, the wail resumed and she paused at the great tears dripping off of emerald eyes. Both stared through the bars in his cage, chubby pale fingers clinging tight while he stared in horror out into the unfeeling world. Folding her arms, Anjali glanced around the room. Surely one of the numerous nannies or those maidens always around the princess would rush in and solve this problem.
The baby muttered something and then stuffed a hand into his mouth. Finding that wasn't what he wanted, he began to bawl again and Anjali decided she could take no more. Forgetting her promise to herself, she stomped over the pastel colored rug and reached inside the infant prison. "Blighted hell," she cursed while locking her hands against the baby's chest and hauling him up.
The change in scenery was enough to cause the crying to gurgle to a stop, but by the time Anjali lifted the boy to her eyes, she was out of ideas. His pajamaed feet kicked back and forth above the crib while she stared directly into his soul. "Stop crying," she ordered.
A great line of drool descended off of his thin lips turned red as blood from all the hysterics. The boy seemed unaware that he was covered in it, more snot dripping off his nose courtesy of all the tears. "Why does anyone create you?" Anjali sighed to herself. "You're piles of body fluids that sometimes smile."
Eyes the same color as her love honed in on the strange woman forced beyond her comfort zone to have to hold him. He babbled a moment, more of the drool leeching from the folds of his chubby face. "That you received from your father," Anjali declared as if it was fact. In truth, she knew next to nothing of the man. He existed, he could clearly produce seed to make children, and Rosamund wisely picked someone with brown eyes. That was enough for the assassin turned ambassador.
They'd bump into each other on occasion, though it was so rare Anjali would fail to recognize the man wedded to her love and he'd babble as if terrified she might excise his heart or something. It was hardly worth her trouble. Though, if he began to pressure Sapheela in any way, then she had a lovely bejeweled box to keep it in.
The child Rosamund worked so hard to create began to stir. He kept lifting a leg only to jam it down fast, as if he became some sort of cricket attempting to play a song. It only made Anjali groan harder, her arms growing more saggy from the weight. "Fine, you've stopped. I shall return you..." she moved to place the baby back but the tears began instantly.
"Maker's boils," she cursed, scooping the baby up into her arms. In doing so, she pulled him closer -- the child's grubby hand sliding across her chest and tugging upon a buckle. "What do you want?"
Babbling in its undeveloped tongue, the boy bobbed his heavy head a moment and continued to try to tug on her shirt. "What do people do with you in these situations?"
She would spend time around Rosamund after her births, but usually while a nanny or someone else tended the baby. "Ah," Anjali spotted the chair that she'd often find her love curled up in attempting to trick the babies back to sleep with. "This should work."
Hauling the child higher in her arms, Anjali plopped into the chair and stared dead center into the boy's eyes. Her death glare that would send full grown qunari scampering for the hills fell upon deaf ears. The boy looked up a moment, more babble falling free, while his feet planted firmly upon Anjali's thighs.
The crying was so long past it seemed as if it never even occurred. "Out of the dozens of people who could deal with you, why did it fall to me?" she sighed to herself, her hands locked under the baby's armpits. Rosie was no doubt ensnared in some political battle of wits, but what of all the nannies? The nursemaids? The various serva
nts who had to view cleaning up after an incompetent, shit-stained, wailing infant about the same as dealing with nobility?
Or were they all hiding, hoping for anyone else to deal with the problem and by accident it fell to the assassin wandering the halls?
"Was this all you wanted?" she asked, staring into the baby's eyes. It was hard as he kept focused upon her chest. Hopefully he was not wishing for a snack, because she had no chance of providing it. "To be free of your cage?"
That first year with Rosamund pregnant and freshly married, Anjali lived in fear that she'd be cast aside at any moment. After all, she was the confounding mistress to the princess -- more pain than pleasure as all who met her would say. She tried to be helpful with the baby, but it didn't extend very far. Helping Sapheela through her pregnancy was easy enough -- rub her weary body, hold her close when she needed, try to catch a breath from her rampaging lusts that could drive a satyr into retirement. But when the first baby appeared, Anjali was lost.
Luckily, Rosie was so exhausted she didn't seem to notice how often her lover wouldn't draw too close. By the time Lizbeth was talking and walking, Anjali had a better grasp on things. At least she could do what the kid wanted when Lizzy could tell her. And now she was back to square one yet again, doing her best to pretend as if she knew a thing about babies all because she had to fall in love with a princess.
"My mother would fall down dead in a heartbeat if she saw this," Anjali confessed to the baby standing on her lap. Having a child was to have been her future -- at least if it was a girl the first go around, she could stop. Someone to carry on the line of Seers to service their village. Her mother stopped at one and, for a time, Anjali assumed it was due to her father's absence. But now, after suffering the unending torment of having a child around, she realized that her mother wished to have a baby as much as Anjali did.
Too bad she mothered like it as well.
"I don't hate you," she said to the baby who couldn't speak in any tongue. "I can't understand the point of wanting you, but..." Maker guide her, Rosie adored her babies. How many times did Anjali, in trying to hunt out her lover, find the princess dressed for bed just watching her children sleep? It was normal for royalty to shirk off all the childcare duties to others, but not Rosamund. No doubt she learned it from her father and mother, both of whom should be here holding their grandson instead of some untested, untrustworthy assassin out of Rivain.
How in Andraste's holy name did I wind up here?
A good question, one she may never have an answer for. She always viewed herself as a piece of driftwood caught in an eddy. There was no point to fight against the inevitable, so why not lay back and savor the trip? The forces of fate pushed her into the Scarlett Ribbons and she gladly took up that life. It seemed easy enough, until...
Coughing, Anjali shifted the baby in her weary arms. Until she had to go and fall in love. Not just love, but this debilitating fear burned into her very marrow that she could scarcely comprehend. Some days Anjali, the killer without hesitation, lay in bed terrified that she'd give in to her old instincts. That she'd run up against a rock in the river, or find the stream switched directions and her first thought would be to bail entirely.
Rosamund would never forgive her if she did.
It was practically written on her face whenever Anjali would take a trip whether on business or to stretch for a bit. The princess would smile politely, wish her luck with a kiss to the cheek, but her eyes warned her to come back. That if Anjali didn't return, she could never try again.
Seven years on and she should be used to this life. It was a glorious set up, really. She had her own room, there was even a servant who'd lay fresh sheets on the bed, change the towels, even oil her leathers if need be. Meals were spectacular and fattening, warming her bones better than any of the mess of beans she'd have to cook up on the run to or from a job. And she shared her bed with a woman that made her wake up smiling. Perhaps they couldn't always sleep side by side, maybe she had to stand away from Rosie during ceremonies or parties, and on occasion Anjali would drift through the shadows of the castle to honor some fop's issues. But she had her.
She had a woman she could never deserve. A princess that made her laugh, caused her heart to skip a beat, and whose kiss lingered on her lips for weeks. All the other detractions that came with would be easy to ignore -- Anjali cared nothing for politics, she enjoyed stretching in her sleep alone, and the occasional bouts of traveling solo were nice -- save the bundle of joy clutched in her hands.
Everything else stealing away Rosamund's attention would pass quickly enough, but not this incessant need to breed. This one was only six or seven months old and already she was making careful inroads about yet another. No doubt the king and queen weren't helping, both smothering their grandchildren in slavering affection.
You do enjoy her pregnant...
Anjali never believed in that power of the feminine her mother preached. Masculine, feminine, in the end the real power of life came in who had the hilt of the dagger and who bore the blade. But Rosie felt different in her arms when she was building something inside of her. She was always forceful, like a wind that would wear down a mountain, but an edge grew sharper than any frostbitten breeze heralding an avalanche. As if she felt the need to protect and shield those in her care with a power no single person could possess. Also her breasts would swell to the point Anjali doubted she could get both her hands around one. That was delightful in and of itself.
"So this is my life, little Prince," she whispered to the boy who was back to drooling. "Why are you called prince while Cailan is also? Or my Rosie princess but her daughter as well? It's very confusing. Ferelden has no finesse when it comes to language. Did you steal away whatever words you felt were light enough to carry when building it?"
The baby didn't answer her, probably too busy weighing those light words, but he did blow a bubble of saliva with his lips. Absently, she swiped the edge of her cuff against the never ending spittle cataract and looked deeper into the boy's eyes. Something must have caught his fancy as his lips lifted and a great smile wafted across his face. She couldn't help herself, Anjali bowled over by the baby giggles escaping from her prisoner.
Her smiling brought even more from the baby who began to dance upon her thighs. His diapered butt stuck out far, swinging his hips around as if he wanted to spin and spin in a circle. Smiling, Anjali plucked him up and turned him in her lap. When he faced away from her, the laughing slowed and she could hear the return of a cry.
But the moment he swung back to her face, the baby chortled in surprise and peals of giggles bounced off her. "I do not comprehend why you find this so much fun," she admitted, her eyes drawn to the tuft of black hair molded into an upside down peak at the top of his forehead. It wasn't too strong but he was going to have to do something about it or be labelled the 'evil prince' all his life.
"I cannot understand why babies are any fun," Anjali continued to expound upon the fears clinging to her heart. "But...Maker save me, I love her. As much as I may not understand you, I do know that."
And you fear.
You, mighty assassin who stalked the grasslands of Rivain without a single lion catching your scent. Who slipped inside the ship off the coasts and slit all the throats of pirates who were pillaging local villages. Who left all she knew, all she learned, to leap feet first into this cold, backwater land of princes, and arls, and flavorless stews. Because of her.
And you fear that when she takes the crown, when she becomes what she will be, what she's destined to be that...
"What am I going to do when your mother becomes Queen?" Anjali whispered to the baby. He didn't answer, save another giggle, but a voice from behind caused her to sit up.
"This is a surprise."
She craned her head back over her shoulder to spot Rosamund dressed in her typical office attire leaning in the doorframe to the nursery. "Never imagined I'd ever find you holding a baby."
"He..." Anjali swallowed hard, te
rrified that Rosie overheard her heartfelt pleas, "he was crying and-and it seemed as if no one else was of the mind to silence it."
Her love's hand swooped around the back of her son's head, buffing up the hair, before her other curled against Anjali's shoulder. "That explains why I was summoned out of a meeting."
"For the love of Andraste," Anjali rolled her eyes, "Did they truly think I would 'silence' the baby permanently?"
Rosie snickered a moment, her red lips suckered in a pout before she turned to her baby and smiled wide. He in turn latched onto the sight of his mother, the giggles coming full force as she gently poked at his belly. "You're full to bursting, young man. What about the diaper?" After her hand slid around the back she paused and smiled, "Nope, dry as well. Are you having fun with Anjali?"
"Perhaps he is," she sighed and thrust the boy into his mother's arms. "But I am finished." Rosie transformed in an instant, her hands greedily scooping up the boy as she tucked him safely to her chest. Her eyes softened at the edges until Anjali expected to see a continual stream of maternal tears dripping off the sides. Even her lips hung looser from her normally tightly held tongue, the mother babbling to her child in a language only they could understand.
Anjali moved to rise from the chair, happy to leave Rosie to her baby. For a moment, the mother was fully immersed in her happy child. She hefted his chubby cheeks up to hers and bumped her nose into his. That caused a few more giggles from the baby, and Rosie joined in. Maybe it should open up Anjali's heart more, the sight of mother and son was warmer than the Maker's love, but she shuffled further into the cold.
"Wait," her Sapheela turned and a free hand gripped onto Anjali's upper arm. With the baby clinging to her hip, this great princess who'd one day rule an entire kingdom reminded Anjali of the women in villages and towns she'd dash through on her way to any life but that.
My Love Page 375
