The Wolf and the Sparrow

by Isabelle Adler

  A pang of shared sorrow lanced through Derek at the mention of “this time.” Callan must have prayed for Idona’s life as well, to no avail. It was small wonder he was mistrustful of the gods’ providence. But they were here, alive, together, be it for the grace of a deity, or by their own daring.

  “I don’t understand. Why kidnap me at all?” The question still weighed on Derek’s mind, even if the matter was devoid of its earlier urgency.

  “The Undin probably did it in hopes of ransom.”

  “They sure went to a lot of trouble,” Derek said, frowning to himself. Even allowing for the idea that his family could afford a ransom payment or that Duke Bergen would be willing to help, the reward could hardly be worth the risk of sneaking into a Mulbernian city in disguise and bringing a witch with them. “Someone devised a pretty elaborate scheme, with the fake letter and everything. They’d have to have been very cognizant of my situation with my siblings to come up with something like that.”

  “We’ll have to look into it more closely if we ever come back to Bryluen,” Callan said. “I’m certain Lady Elsie will have dug into it already.”

  “When we come back,” Derek corrected him stubbornly. There was no way they’d gone through everything just to fail when they were so close.

  “When we come back,” Callan agreed, the smile evident in his voice though it was too dark to see.

  THE MORNING GREETED them with a rosy glow lighting up the water’s edge and the white sails of a ship in the distance.

  At first Derek was afraid it was an Agiennan longship, sent in pursuit. But the silhouette was entirely different, with three tall masts and an unadorned bowsprit. The rectangular sails bore the stylized shape of a seagull, marking it as a merchant ship from Hundara, a coastal fiefdom farther south of Mulberny. It was most likely back from its journey to trade for timber and furs with the nomads of the northern plains.

  As tired as they were, they made as much noise as they could, shouting and waving a dirty rag until the ship turned in their direction. Then it was only a matter of Callan announcing himself and promising a large reward for their safe passage to Mulberny. A short explanation of their predicament was thankfully enough to convince the captain to make the detour, considering Irthorg wouldn’t take them too far out of their way.

  Derek kept looking back, waiting for Agiennan ships to spring out of the waves and block their path, but the sea around them was empty and as calm as they could wish for. So he allowed himself to be led to the hold after Callan, to be watered and fed. It was basic sailor fare—salted meat and dried fruit—but even that felt like a feast. After the meal, he fell asleep stretched out beside Callan on a makeshift pallet in the belly of a foreign ship, lulled by the gently rocking motion and the sense of safety. He wished they could stay like that, cocooned in each other’s arms, for a little while longer before facing whatever the new day would bring.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “THIS KIND OF insult to Mulberny cannot stand,” Duke Bergen said.

  Callan sighed inwardly. He could well understand the rage his father felt upon hearing that both his son and son-in-law had been abducted and taken into enemy territory, and that rage could hardly be quelled by the bedraggled state in which Callan had returned home. Even though he hadn’t been seriously injured, there was no hiding the scrapes and bruises, the chaffing on his neck and wrists from the long hours spent in the pillory. Every argument Callan had offered by way of justifying Aegir’s actions against him only served to incense the duke further, and he’d prudently given up on that particular avenue of reasoning. But he wasn’t about to concede his maltreatment as the cause for another war.

  “The High Queen will not be pleased with another conflict,” he said, doing his best to appeal to his father’s political sense—which was as sharp as the rest of his faculties, if not sharper. “The current treaty allows trade to prosper along the northwestern routes by keeping the Agiennans at bay. A new war would mean a significant cut in income from import taxes.”

  Bergen made an impatient sound. His sharp profile was outlined against the clear sky as he gazed out of the window, drumming his fingers on the stone ledge.

  “But they don’t stay at bay, do they? Her Majesty would understand that such brazen provocation from Agienna cannot be met with restraint either by Mulberny or by the realm itself. These attacks on our shores, this abduction and attempted murder—this is all just the beginning. If the clans see us do nothing, they’ll perceive it as weakness, as a concession to raze our towns and sink our ships. War is inevitable, but if we strike against the Danulf now, swiftly and with great force, there will still be a chance the rest of the clans won’t support them. We should be the ones setting the rules, not reacting to other players’ moves.”

  “This is not a game,” Callan said. “People’s lives—”

  “Do not lecture me!” Bergen turned toward him abruptly, his blue eyes smoldering with icy fire. “I know full well this is not a game. I almost lost you, and you have the audacity to tell me they had the right to torture you, to plan to kill you in the cruelest way imaginable to appease their misplaced sense of honor! Thank gods they didn’t have the chance to rid me of my son.”

  “Gods had nothing to do with it,” Callan said, clinging to calm in the face of his father’s anger. “It was Derek who saved me.”

  “Yes, Count Derek,” the duke said with a strange expression. “How fortunate he was there. Considering he was the reason you ended up a prisoner in the first place.”

  “There was…something else,” Callan said reluctantly.

  He hadn’t mentioned it before in his accounts of their captivity and ultimate escape. It was an easy detail to gloss over, but not nearly as easy to forget. Even now, Callan wasn’t sure dredging this up was a good idea, but his father had to know.

  “I…I called upon the wolves for help,” he said. “I summoned them to go after our hunters.”

  Bergen went still. His eyes bore into him, and Callan squared his shoulders, bracing himself for his father’s wrath.

  “You did what you had to do to survive,” Bergen said finally, pushing the words out as if with great difficulty. “Who knows about this?”

  “Derek,” Callan said. “And Logitt, I suspect.”

  Bergen huffed dismissively. “No one will take the word of an Agiennan witch if she were to accuse you. Now, Derek… Do you trust him to keep his mouth shut about this?”

  “Yes,” Callan said without thinking.

  Only a week ago, he’d have thought such a level of confidence in another person, save perhaps for Adele or Leandre, impossible, but it seemed Derek had thrown all his notions about caution and discretion into a wild disarray that Callan was still struggling to make sense of. But he knew with absolute certainty he trusted Derek with more than his life. He trusted him with his soul and all its appalling secrets, because Callan’s stupid heart had apparently decided it needed Derek to keep beating. And, what was more amazing, Derek looked past all the ugliness and still wanted the man behind it.

  “Tell no one else of what you’d done,” Bergen said. “Not even Adele or Priestess Nehewia. No one else must know.”

  He didn’t have to explain why. An accusation of dabbling in witchcraft could spell trouble, Callan’s title notwithstanding.

  “Is it really a curse?” he asked quietly.

  He’d never dared to speak with his father about it, not so openly. Callan had known about the curse from an early age, but the matter had always been hushed whenever he tried to bring it up, so eventually, he gave up on trying to hash it out. No one wanted to examine something so shameful, so perverse, too closely.

  For a long moment, he thought Bergen wasn’t going to acknowledge his question, but then the duke sighed and rubbed his temple. He suddenly looked much older than his age, as if the long years of strife and worry had finally manifested in the lines of his gaunt face.

  “The witches of the Outer Isles, those gifted with magic, do not con
sider themselves cursed,” he said. “They use this power freely, to heal, to protect their ships, to conquer their enemies. If there hadn’t been so few of them born in recent years, they’d have an advantage over us. But magic, even used for what one considers good, always has a price. It’ll consume your soul if you’re not careful. And you have to be very, very careful, son. As your ancestors—the wise ones—had been since claiming this land as our own.”

  Callan nodded. It wasn’t the direct answer he wanted, but he suspected it was the best one his father was willing to give.

  “I will inform the High Queen about the current situation with Agienna,” Bergen said, changing the subject. He was gazing out of the window again, watching the green waves roll in endless succession. “Her Majesty and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I’m sure she will now agree we have no choice but to retaliate.”

  CALLAN WENT TO visit the remainder of his personal guard in the barracks. All its members had since returned from Bryluen, aside from Leandre and Mathis, who was still in critical condition and could not be moved from the city’s infirmary. Now, with Leandre gone, Rema was to assume the duties of Callan’s lieutenant. It was a somber promotion, with none of the usual cheer. Rema was well loved and respected by the soldiers, and Callan didn’t doubt their competence and dedication. They’d make a fine lieutenant, Callan contemplated as he went up to his rooms, but in Leandre, he’d lost so much more than a brilliant officer. He’d lost a true friend, and nothing could make up for that.

  He’d just unfastened his sword belt with a weary sigh when there was a soft knock on the inner door that connected to Derek’s bedroom.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Derek paused on the threshold, as if unsure of his welcome. Since their return to Irthorg, they’d barely seen each other, Callan too busy, locked in his father’s study with his lieutenants and Lord Morgan’s emissaries, and Derek bed-ridden, resting his sprained ankle. It was still bandaged, but at least now he was able to walk without clutching at the walls.

  “I wanted to see you,” Derek said shyly, his expression unexpectedly serious, solemn. He was standing in the doorway between their rooms, his hair fringed with gold, lit by the setting sun peeking through the high window. Callan’s heart moved at the sight in a way he’d been sure wasn’t possible anymore.

  “I missed you,” Callan said, because it was the simple truth.

  He crossed the room to take Derek’s hand. The man’s eyelashes dipped, casting long shadows on his cheeks, tinged with a hint of blush. It was strange how all of a sudden they were awkwardly uncertain around each other, as if without the imminent danger, they weren’t sure their closeness was appropriate.

  Well, Callan was done with being appropriate. He’d do whatever it took to woo his husband.

  “You look good,” he said, touching the tips of Derek’s hair ever so lightly. “Are you feeling better?”

  Derek nodded. “I wish you’d get some rest too. You’ve hardly slept at all since we came back.”

  “I’m fine. There’s a lot to be done. I plan to ride again to Bryluen as soon as possible to meet with Morgan and Elsie. I doubt the raids will stop now; if anything, they’ll only intensify, especially if my father is right and the Danulf are the driving force behind them.”

  Derek pursed his lips, thinking it over.

  “I’ll go with you,” he said finally.

  “Are you sure?” Callan asked gently. He seemed unable to stop touching Derek’s overgrown locks, and Derek didn’t seem to mind at all, so he kept caressing them, luxuriating in their feathery fluffiness. “I thought perhaps you’d want to go home to Camria.”

  “Do you want me to go home?” Derek’s dark brown gaze was steady, but Callan sensed an edge of challenge in his voice.

  “No. No, I don’t,” Callan said.

  It felt like a proclamation of sorts, no less momentous for its implicitness. And Derek seemed to take it for what it was because he turned his head, leaning into Callan’s touch, and pressed his lips softly to the chafed skin on Callan’s wrist. His heart hammering so hard it surely must be audible, Callan swiped a thumb over Derek’s cheek where the slightly rough texture of his jaw met smoother skin.

  Had he ever considered him tolerably average? What a pompous fool he’d been. Derek was positively gorgeous, from his unruly curls to the slightly sardonic turn of his lips, his dark eyes so deep Callan was sure he could drown in them if he wasn’t careful.

  “That night in the woods,” Derek said, rousing Callan from his distracted admiration. “When you let your mind reach to the wolves. You wanted me. I could feel it.”

  Callan recalled the moment with embarrassing clarity—his own agitation on the cusp of madness, the heightening of senses that made the allure of Derek’s proximity irresistible. He’d held the beast inside in check, but who was to say what he might have done otherwise? It was too scary to dwell on. He’d never call on his magic around Derek—or any other person—ever again.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I wanted you too.”

  Callan took a deep breath, almost expecting to be hit again with the cloying scent of his arousal, but now, without the enhancement of magic, his perception was limited and clouded with self-doubt.

  “What would you have me do?” he asked. Peering into Derek’s eyes, he knew the answer, but this was too important to misconstrue.

  “Stop talking and kiss me,” Derek whispered and tilted his head upward, bringing their mouths together.

  The kiss was everything Callan wanted it to be and yet so different from what he had expected. Derek’s lips were cool, yet their slide against his sent a wave of burning heat down his spine. Every nerve ending in his body tingled with the kind of raw desire he hadn’t felt since—that he hadn’t felt for a long time.

  Perhaps it was wrong of him to succumb to it, to even want to explore this unexpected, bright attraction. He’d vowed he wouldn’t let himself get attached to anyone ever again, having no right to devastate someone else’s life, as he was wont to do. But this connection he’d formed with someone he’d seemed least likely to like, let alone care for with such intensity, felt so right. As he held Derek in his arms, some emaciated part of Callan’s soul came rousing back to life, like a patch of dried earth sprouting fragile shoots of new grass after a much-needed rain.

  He sucked in his breath as Derek slid gracefully to his knees. He knew, even when Derek stepped into his room, what was going to happen between them, yet he was almost caught unawares by Derek’s intention. Something close to panic rose inside him, but it was laced heavily with desire, so he stilled himself, willing his racing heart—futilely—to slow down.

  Derek ran his hands tentatively down the front of Callan’s pants, resting his palm lightly over the rapidly hardening bulge, and looked up at him, wordlessly asking for permission. Callan nodded tersely and bit his lip as Derek deftly undid the fastenings and gently rubbed his cheek against Callan’s half-mast erection.

  “You’re very…in proportion,” he murmured with appreciation.

  Callan huffed in embarrassed amusement. Tentatively, he threaded his fingers through the silky texture of Derek’s hair and was rewarded by Derek’s sigh of pleasure, his breath ghosting over the sensitive flesh. Callan’s cock leapt to attention, and his grip on Derek’s hair tightened instinctively when he licked his lips and took him into his mouth.

  It was an exercise in willpower at first, holding himself back from thrusting, keeping his touch undemanding. But Derek clutched Callan’s hips with a punishing force, urging him to forgo his restraint while working his lips and tongue with unmistakable eagerness, and Callan let his control slip, surrendering to the simple, half-forgotten pleasure.

  It couldn’t last. It had been too long since he’d enjoyed anything other than his own touch, and even that served nothing but the hollow need for immediate release. He wanted to bask in the exquisite torment that the drag and suction of a wicked tongue could bestow, but
the heat was building too rapidly at the base of his spine, the tension cresting higher and higher, until something snapped—in his brain or in his chest, he couldn’t tell—and he was swept along in the flood.

  He steadied himself on Derek’s shoulders, panting as his lover lapped his softening cock with leisurely attentiveness, and then looked up. Derek’s lips were swollen and glistening, his cheeks flushed red, his eyes dark and glinting. His tongue flicked to swipe a trickle of moisture at the corner of his mouth, and Callan came nearly undone again at the sight.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said huskily.

  Derek’s eyes flickered. He rose to his feet unhurriedly, though his erection was visibly straining against his pants. Without another word, he took Callan’s hand and pulled him over to the bed, leaving him no choice but to follow.

  They took their time undressing each other, tasting lips and skin. The soft down mattress dipped as they lay on it, bathed in the failing light which was quickly fading from gold to purple.

  Callan ran his hands over Derek’s chest and taut abdomen, reveling in the quiet, pleased noises his touch elicited. Derek was exquisitely proportioned in his own right, the lines of his body lithe and elegant, like those of a fine tall ship, built for speed.

  Up until this very moment, Callan hadn’t realized just how long and how much he’d been yearning for this. Ever since the kiss they’d shared on Cirda, right after the wolves had come to their aid—no, even before the kiss. Ever since they’d set out on their mission to patrol the coast, when he witnessed firsthand what kind of man his husband really was. A brave, intelligent, capable man. And a kind, selfless one. Callan didn’t know what he’d done to deserve someone like Derek in his life again, but he was sure as hell not going to question his luck. Especially not now, with Derek writhing and sighing in pleasure under him.

  “What do you want?” Callan asked, tearing his eyes away from where he was stroking Derek’s cock. The sight of his flushed face and parted lips was as equally rewarding as the feel of the hot, velvety flesh under his fingers.