This inexplicable urge to see Derek close by, to make sure he was unharmed, was a dangerous one. He was a tangle of contradictions, the mildness of his manner (which Callan had so sorely mistaken for weakness of character) hiding a sharp mind and a prickly sense of honor. Callan had no business wanting to pick on all those different strands, to be fascinated with all the distinct facets of Derek’s personality. Worst of all, he shouldn’t wonder what his lips would feel like against his own, or whether his body was as lean and perfect underneath all those clothes as he imagined it to be.
They were mere strangers, thrust together for a short while by some whim of circumstance, and would drift apart just as quickly, returning each to his own life. Derek had said he wished to be home for his family, after all. Callan hadn’t allowed himself to be close to anyone since Idona’s death, not even to take simple physical pleasure in anyone’s company. That was all there was to it—his loneliness and the stirrings of his flesh playing tricks on his mind.
Callan ducked as Leandre, coming from the right, swung her blade at the raider who charged at him with a heavy ax, slicing his arm at the elbow. His bellow of anguish was cut short as Callan plunged his sword into his chest. He wheeled around in time to see Mathis go down, blood spattering in a wide arc from a deep gash in his flank.
“No!” Callan started toward the young man, while the others chased the retreating Vanir pirates to their ship, but Derek and Gella got to Mathis first, kneeling on the sand now wet with blood.
“We got him,” Derek said when he saw Callan, his face a pale smear in the moonlight. Gella’s cheek was scraped raw and her hands were shaking, but she was already cutting away Mathis’s leather jerkin and pressing his ruined shirt to the wound to stop the blood. “Go!”
Callan gave him a curt nod and ran after his men.
THE SMELL OF blood and salt hung heavy in the air as they huddled around Mathis’s prostrate body, shivering when the cold wind got under their soaked clothes. The ship was slowly drifting away on the currents, its sail blazing against the starry sky, but no one paid it any heed.
Aside from Mathis, no one was severely hurt, but Callan noted the collection of injuries—the scratches, the cuts, the bruised faces. This was a harder victory, the final price for which was yet to be determined.
“There’s only so much I can do,” Gella said, wiping her brow. “We’ve bandaged the wound, but it’s too extensive. He needs a doctor. A good one.”
“There’s no surgeon to be found in this wilderness,” Rema said. Their brow was covered in tiny droplets of sweat, glistening in the glare of the distant fire against their dark brown skin. “Only village healers. And Bryluen is a two-day ride away.”
“Then we ride harder,” Callan said.
There was a murmur of assent around him. No one would see the boy die while a chance still remained, however small, to save him.
They made short work of the preparations, and then they were back in the saddle, climbing the rocky slope to the main road. The villagers watched them from half-opened doors and windows, but fear kept them from approaching an armed company.
They took turns with Mathis, who was too weak and in too much pain to ride his own horse even during his brief bouts of consciousness. They were all tired and strung out, men and animals, but didn’t stop to rest, eat, and tend to their own wounds. No one spoke as they rode through the rest of the night and morning, coming to a halt only at noon for a short break before pushing on.
They’d only had a few brief hours of sleep after sunset. That time no one bothered with tents and a proper camp, and even Derek slept on the ground, wrapped in his cloak. Callan hated seeing him putting so much strain on his already injured arm, but there simply was no time for the luxury of comfort.
They rode all through the next day and reached Bryluen in the late afternoon, the city’s towers gilded with the rays of the slowly setting sun. Wasting no time, they headed straight to the fort.
Lord Morgan and Lady Elsie would no doubt want to question Callan about the encounters with the Vanir, but first things first. After leaving the horses in the hands of the servants, Callan and Leandre led the way to the infirmary while Jorn and Gella carried the unconscious Mathis on a stretcher between them. Rema stayed behind to make sure everyone else was taken care of.
Callan wanted to stay by Mathis’s bedside, but the elderly gray-haired physician ushered Leandre and him outside, politely but firmly.
“The boy’s condition is grave enough without you tracking dirt all over the sickroom,” he said, and Callan had no choice but to defer to his authority.
“Come,” Leandre said, putting her hand on Callan’s arm. “There’s nothing we can do to help him now. He’s in good hands.”
“I should’ve been more mindful of him.” Callan shook his head. “It’s my fault.”
“You’re always so eager to castigate yourself.” Leandre let go of his arm and rounded on him. The warm light coming from the hallway windows softened her skin and crowned her fair hair with a glowing halo, but it couldn’t erase the signs of tension and weariness from her face, still smeared with splashes of mud from the road. “Mathis is young, but he’s a soldier. He was picked to be a member of your personal guard for a reason. Soldiers face risks every day. You know that. No one’s to blame but shitty luck.”
“I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier.” Callan turned away and strode down the corridor away from the infirmary.
“Your husband appears to be of like mind,” Leandre said, falling in beside him. “The way you spoke about him before his arrival, I was expecting a pampered courtier. But he pulled his weight along with the rest of us. Even Rema was impressed.”
“I regret saying those things about him.” Callan rubbed his neck wearily. “He’s…not at all what I was expecting.”
Leandre stopped right before they reached the stairs, turning to him and forcing him to halt as well.
“Would it be so bad to give him a chance, Callan?” she asked quietly, her eyes searching his intently. “Forgive me if I speak out of place, but I’m asking as a friend. Derek seems like a decent fellow. He cares what happens to the people around him, and for those who can’t protect themselves—and he’s not afraid to do something about it. He could make a good companion for you.”
“Perhaps,” Callan said after a short pause. “But I don’t think I’d make a good companion for him.”
AFTER PARTING WITH Leandre, there was suddenly nothing more for Callan to do, and the exhaustion he’d successfully fought off the last few days came back with a vengeance. He briefly contemplated making his way to his guest room and falling asleep, but the doctor had been right about the dirt. His clothes were covered in a thick layer of dust, and his hair was matted with sweat and salt residue. So, he dragged himself to the baths.
The steam and the hot water threatened to lull him to sleep right there in the washtub. The baths offered some privacy, as they were divided by wooden partitions into individual stalls, each with its own tub and a low bench for dressing and grooming. Callan took advantage of the relative quiet, taking the rare few moments of idleness to clear his mind of all thoughts and soak in the water, letting his stiff muscles gradually relax and his mind drift away from the worry that gnawed at him.
There was a shuffle, and Callan’s eyes flew open. Derek stood at the entrance to the stall, holding a bundle of clothes. His face was flushed, either from the heat or from embarrassment, but his eyes were riveted to Callan’s bare chest where his upper body rose from the water.
Half-forgotten awareness coursed through Callan, settling in his groin. Startled by his own reaction, he sat up, and Derek tore his gaze away, meeting his eyes instead.
“I’m sorry. The servant pointed me here; they must have been mistaken. I’ll leave.”
“No,” Callan said. “Don’t go. I’m done.”
He stepped out of the washtub as Derek hastily turned away toward the wall. Callan was grateful for that, because the intensi
ty of the man’s earlier scrutiny had made certain parts of his body take undue interest. He wrapped a towel around his waist and drained the tub, the water flowing down a grate that ran the length of the wall. Instead of calling a servant, he filled the tub again himself with clean water from the heated metal buckets outside while Derek placed his clean clothing on the bench and slowly began to undress.
Callan couldn’t help but notice how stiff and awkward his movements were. His shoulder was clearly encumbering him, and after days in the saddle, his back was probably aching.
“Would you like me to help you with that?” Callan asked before he could think better of it.
Derek turned to him. The steam made his short auburn hair curl at the ends and stand out, framing his pale face like a halo. For a moment, Callan thought he was going to refuse, but to his surprise, after a long pause, Derek nodded and took the sling off his neck, stretching his left arm with a wince.
It had been a long time since he’d helped anyone undress. Callan’s heart thudded wildly in his chest, but he did his best to keep his touches impersonal, helping Derek out of his dirty shirt. His skin was smooth and flawless, marred only with an angry red scar where the arrow had gone clean through his shoulder. It still appeared tender, but nothing suggested inflammation, and, despite the recent exertions, it was healing nicely. The unknown Camrian surgeon had done a fine job.
Callan moved to help him untie his pants, but Derek shook his head.
“I got this,” he said, but didn’t move away, still looking up at Callan. Light hair dusted his chest, a narrow streak of it running down below his navel. Callan followed its path with his eyes, over the taut abdomen, lingering where Derek was holding the ties. With his coat and shirt gone, there was no hiding his arousal in the tight pants, as if Derek’s fast breathing and flushed cheeks weren’t enough to betray it. Callan absently wondered if that part of the man’s anatomy was as shapely as the rest of him appeared to be. The undershirt Derek had worn when he barged into Callan’s bedroom intending to scare off potential assassins hadn’t been short enough to offer Callan an insight into that particular question.
By now, Callan’s own cock was tenting the towel in a rather unequivocal manner. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so hard—and so mortified by his response to the sight of another person’s body. He had no right to experience this kind of feeling toward Derek, to desire him, to wonder how he might look completely naked. But, gazing into his doe eyes, framed with dark lashes as if outlined in kohl, he couldn’t quite remember why.
Without thinking about what he was doing, he leaned in. Derek’s lashes dipped, and his lips parted slightly in silent invitation, his breath ghosting over Callan’s heated skin. Callan closed his eyes.
“My lord,” someone said, and Derek jumped, hurriedly stepping away from him.
Callan straightened. His frustration must have been evident on his face, because the servant bowed hastily and darted to put a stack of fresh clothes on the bench.
“Forgive me, Lord Callan, but Lord Morgan requires your presence,” he said with another bow and was gone before Callan could protest.
Derek took another step toward the tub, avoiding his gaze.
“You should probably go, then,” he said, and Callan couldn’t tell if he sounded disappointed or relieved.
Callan turned away from him, dressed in silence, and left.
EVENING HAD ALREADY set by the time he emerged from Morgan’s war room. They’d been debating for what seemed like hours, but, finally, Morgan had agreed to send a contingent up the northern coast under Callan’s command, as well as triple the number of scouts.
He didn’t know what had incited the Vanir to ravage the Mulberny shores with such unmitigated brutality, but they were largely opportunists, opting for the easy prey. Despite Morgan’s misgivings on the matter, he doubted they’d risk making a landing in such a heavily guarded harbor as Bryluen when there were so many unprotected, if less lucrative, spots to pillage. If, with the help of Elsie’s spies, they countered the attacks with a show of strength, the Vanir would be forced to set their sights elsewhere. Those little villages were not enticing enough a prize to risk getting slaughtered over.
Callan went down to the infirmary to check on Mathis, but the doctor he’d met earlier was still busy. The care nurse he managed to speak to, however, wasn’t too optimistic.
“I’m sorry to say it, my lord, but it’s unclear whether your man will last the night. With the damage to his liver and kidney, it’s a miracle he’s survived for as long as he has.”
Callan returned to his room in much heavier spirits than before the exchange. He knew as well as anyone that casualties were an integral part of war, and yet he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done enough. Mathis was barely out of boyhood, too young to die. If only Callan had paid more attention to him during the skirmish, if only they’d been a tad faster getting back to the city… But he couldn’t change what had already happened. It seemed his list of regrets was doomed to grow longer and longer with each passing day until he was crushed under the weight of all the guilt.
A fire burned in the hearth, staving off the darkness and chill. Somehow, he’d forgotten he was sharing the room with Derek and was startled to find evidence of the other man’s presence—his saddlebags by the bed, a half-eaten meal on the side table by the window. But Derek wasn’t there, despite the late hour. His sword and cloak were also nowhere to be seen.
Truth be told, after what had happened (or almost happened) earlier, Callan was dreading facing his husband. These new…feelings were entirely too confusing. They’d be easy enough to dismiss if it all boiled down to simple lust, but deep down, Callan knew that wasn’t the case. His fascination with his husband had started long before the awkward faux pas at the baths. It began when Derek rode alongside him, facing the same hardships as everybody else despite the acute discomfort of hard travel, when he was risking his life to defend this land though it wasn’t his home. No, it was this stubborn determination coupled with wit and a sharp mind that Callan had found so appealing, even before he took into consideration the man’s physique. He was edging closer to the path he’d forbidden himself to take again after Idona; the one he believed himself incapable of following with anyone else but her.
Wouldn’t it be funny if he only fell in love with people he was forced to marry against his will? Hilarious.
To distract himself from these thoughts, he rang for an evening meal and wine, and settled to wait for Derek. As much as he wanted to sleep, they probably needed to talk if they wished to avoid further mutual chagrin.
Minutes stretched into hours, and Derek still hadn’t returned. Callan rose from his seat at the table and went to the window to look down at the courtyard, illuminated by a multitude of torches. Had he made Derek so uncomfortable by his advances that he’d felt like he had to avoid Callan altogether? Had he somehow made him feel imposed upon?
Callan bit his lip, considering the possibility. It hadn’t been his intention; his action had been quite spontaneous, and Derek hadn’t seemed averse to the idea of Callan kissing him. But perhaps he’d misread the situation entirely. What if he’d been so caught up in the surge of yearning he’d made an unwelcome move?
He needed to find him and resolve the matter—apologize and make clear it wouldn’t happen again. He’d just have to keep a tighter rein on his misplaced desires and jumbled emotions. Derek shouldn’t be driven from their quarters by fear. Callan would be perfectly fine sleeping in the barracks with the rest of his troop.
“Do you know where Lord Derek went?” he asked a servant who came in to take away the empty dishes and Derek’s uneaten portion.
“No, my lord. He did receive a letter, though, just before your lordship arrived. He then left straightaway.”
“What letter? From whom?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, my lord.”
Vague unease stirred in the pit of his stomach. What could possibly be so important that De
rek felt he had to address personally at this late hour? He thanked the servant and grabbed his own sword belt before going out.
Questioning the staff he met on the way, he managed to track Derek down to the stables. His mare was in her stall, resting, but the stable hand informed him that Lord Derek had taken another horse.
“He said something about his brother being detained at the southern gate,” the stable boy supplied helpfully, eying Callan’s wolf-emblazoned jerkin with something close to awe.
“Really? His brother?” Callan frowned. He assumed this had to be Ivo, the older one, although, frankly, he considered either of Derek’s brothers to be bad news, for different reasons. The city guard kept a tight watch these days, but Callan had a hard time believing they’d deny entry to a member of Derek’s family, and by extension, his own. Something didn’t add up about this story, especially considering Derek’s retinue was supposed to be residing at Irthorg at the moment, ostensibly still celebrating the young count’s nuptials.
He paused in indecision. His instincts screamed something was wrong, but on the other hand, rushing to Derek’s aid without clear indication anything was amiss was silly. These days, however, Callan preferred to err on the side of caution.
The main hall of the barracks was noisy and well lit, the off-duty soldiers relaxing after their communal meal. He spotted Leandre immediately, sitting at a table off to the side with half their troop, chatting over tankards of ale. When she saw him, she raised an eyebrow and got up to meet him.
“You think something happened to him?” she asked after Callan had told her why he was there. She sounded dubious, but she didn’t outright dismiss his concerns, which was part of the reason he meshed so well with her. They took each other’s hunches seriously, after years of fighting together side by side, trusting each other with their lives.
“I’m not sure, but I’d like to check on him, just in case,” he said.
He was almost embarrassed to admit he was worried. For all he knew, Derek might have gone off to town to seek whatever nighttime entertainment Bryluen had to offer. But by now he also knew Derek well enough to know that was highly unlikely.
The Wolf and the Sparrow Page 9
