Arthur crept along the outer wall of the structure, keeping his footfalls as quiet as possible.
The early-winter grass under his boots didn’t make it easy, as dry as the blades were, but that was part of the challenge. Step by step, he made his way toward the far end of the building. From there, he’d take stock again. If conditions were favorable, he’d cross to the stable.
When he reached the corner, he stopped and held his breath, listening. Nothing but a few random crows calling to each other and the rattle of the last few leaves in the trees at the edge of the nearby forest. Edging forward, he peered around the building.
Nothing moved beyond it but a thin wisp of smoke from the hearth inside. Only a few strides off this corner lay the stable, a structure older than the one next to which he stood, but solid. The afternoon’s rain dripped from the fringe of the thatching. If he was very quick, he might make it through the door without getting wet. Drawing a deep breath, he leapt from his place and crossed the space between the buildings in three long strides…
…only to find the stable door bolted shut.
He shook it, then cursed when rainwater dripped down the back of his shirt. Why would the door be bolted—
A large hand slapped over his mouth. Grunting in surprise, he was drawn back into a broad, solid body until he could feel the man’s breath at his ear.
“And what might you be up to?”
Jerking his head, he freed his mouth. “Just having a look about.”
A deep chuckle raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “You look as though you could use a guide.”
His heart thumped in his chest. He’d been so sure he hadn’t given himself away. “And you’re such a man?”
Another low laugh. “Oh, I’ll guide you.” Teeth closed on his earlobe. “Directly to my cock.”
Arthur fought it, but a slow smile curved his mouth anyway. “Then why’d you bolt the fucking door?”
The hand that had covered his mouth closed on the door handle and pulled. The door swung open.
“What—”
But a hard shove sent him stumbling into the stable, and then the door shut again. He turned to meet his abductor, who was stalking toward him in the dim light, and then the man’s fingers slipped into his hair and gripped it tight. “What took you so long?”
He ignored the demand and leaned close. Brushed his lips over the beard until they prickled. “Impatient?”
Bedwyr didn’t answer his question either except to claim his mouth.
Then again, that was answer enough.
Forceful. Inescapable, as if he would want to do such a thing, and then, as was usually the way of things, easing into a gentle exploration. Holding tight to Bed’s shirt, pressing his fists into Bed’s back, Arthur shared the moment, his senses nearly overwhelmed.
The dark, chill interior of the stable smelled of hay, stale but pleasantly so in the way of all grasses this time of year. The only sounds to be heard were his breaths and Bedwyr’s, the scuff of their boots, and a few from much smaller feet as tiny creatures scuttled in the rafters and along the walls. Bed tasted of their midday ale, and Arthur licked into him, reaching beyond for the man’s own flavor, the one Arthur knew as well as any other sensation in his life, and he held Bed’s body close, pressing into his warmth.
Bed broke the kiss but only just. “Cold?”
“Only enjoying you.”
A grunt of approval, and they kissed again.
He’d fought by Bedwyr’s side for a dozen years now, and sometimes it felt as though they’d been born that way, landing in the world at the same moment, in birth side by side, and had marched forward that way.
They hadn’t—Bed had four years on him, had been best friends with Arthur’s older brother Cai, not Arthur. It had taken Arthur costing Bed his sword hand to turn that in a new direction, and he still marveled that this had been the outcome of Bedwyr’s loss.
That the man would want to move through the world at the side of the man who’d cost him everything.
Not that he was complaining. And he’d made a commitment to himself long ago that he would make sure Bedwyr never regretted his decision. Moments like these made it easy to meet his commitment.
So naturally, he tried to make them happen as often as possible.
Especially here, while they waited. He and Bedwyr had been to this place a few times before. It was a small stronghold Rhys maintained at the very edge of his domain. During the late spring and summer, it served as a communications outpost, but when winter rolled around, its inhabitants moved west to Rhys’s walled settlement. “Go there,” Rhys had said, “and wait for further instructions.”
Arthur and the men normally would have awaited winter mission orders in Rhys’s hall, or in private chambers rented from Caron at her brothel next door. Why he wanted them to wait here instead was a mystery. He hadn’t said more, even when Arthur pushed him, and so he and Bed, and Palahmed and Gawain, had traipsed out here to the edge of Rhys’s lands and settled into the villa.
It comprised only a few buildings. They were outwardly modest but, as befitted Rhys’s wealth, boasted private chambers, a small but comfortable hall, a well-stocked cellar, all surrounded by farmland and then forest. Bed was enjoying himself particularly, but then he always did in their off-times. He’d already admired out loud the sturdiness of the farm’s structures, from the roof of the hall to the frame of the bed in their private chamber. The man would probably hibernate, if they weren’t needed for the tricky midwinter operations no one else cared to take on.
Just this moment, all that mattered was that even the farm’s livestock had made the journey to Rhys’s settlement for the winter, with their keepers, and so he and Bed had this cozy little stable to themselves. He palmed Bed’s arse, filling his hand with its meaty curve.
“Think they left any blankets behind?” Bed said.
“We’ve done without before. And we have cloaks.”
“That we do.” The dim light was just enough to catch the flash of Bedwyr’s teeth as he grinned. “Assuming I let you lie down.”
The villa and its outbuildings finally came into view, and none too soon. Morien was about to come out of his skin.
For much of the journey, he had hungrily surveyed the land around him—snow-blanketed meadows, winter-bare oaks, crisp streams—anything to distract him from the presence of Safir behind him. It felt as if the man were pressing up against Morien’s back. Sometimes it was a delicious thought, and he was glad for his winter cloak. Besides keeping him warm in this climate he still wasn’t completely accustomed to, it also hid Safir’s effect on him, on the fact that sometimes, when he imagined Safir very close behind him, pushing him up against a wall, for instance… Well, his cock began to have imaginings of its own, and there was little he could do to check it.
Unfortunately, he had to stop now and then, and he couldn’t help sneaking glances at the man. Safir was dressed for winter too, of course, with a cloak and tunic and trousers and boots. But his long, dark hair was pulled back in a simple tie that didn’t hide the way it curled. And Morien had witnessed him wearing much less during his secret nighttime visits—only trousers, say, or a few times only the blanket from his bed, tucked around his hips. On such occasions, the thick, glossy hair on his chest and belly had shone in the light of his chamber’s hearth. It had been hard to resist during those visits, and recalling it now made it damned difficult to walk. He breathed a sigh of relief each time they mounted back up and he could stare at the track ahead.
He was dying to shift into his magpie form, so the sight of the farm was welcome. Especially the stable. With the horses gone for the winter, no one would have any reason to venture into the low-slung structure, which made it the perfect spot for a man to shift in peace.
Trying to keep the eagerness from his manner, he began to talk up the comforts of the hall, with its insulating wall hangings and generous firepit. Safir looked at him strangely because of course he was babbling after not giving the man more than three willing words in a row for hours, but eventually Safir conceded that it would be a pleasure to sit before that fire, perhaps even with his feet up. Morien encouraged that line of thought, and when they walked the horses into the yard, he jumped down from Nera. “I’ll see to the horses.” He reached for Ned’s reins.
Safir’s gaze flicked to his. “I’ll help.”
“Go on inside. Palahmed’s bound to be about. Enjoy the fire. Father told me to check on something.”
One of Safir’s eyebrows arched, graceful as a bird’s wing. A bird of prey. “And what was that?”
“The stable,” he said. He didn’t owe the man an explanation.
Safir stared at him, as if he might conjure more words with the power of his gaze, but then he nodded and handed over the leads. Lifting his pack from where it lay across Ned’s back, he strode toward the villa.
Morien turned for the stable, clicking his tongue for the horses to follow. It took every bit of will he had not to sprint, and he grit his teeth as he measured out his steps. His muscles felt tight under his skin, and the prospect of flying, finally, had his bones quivering in anticipation. He would step inside as if all were normal, settle these two in stalls with water and grain, and then close the door and strip. And then he would be free.
His blood beat in his ears, and he couldn’t help a little smile as he reached for the door handle. “Nearly there, nearly in the air,” he whispered to himself as he shoved the door inward and ducked under the lintel.
And then jerked to a halt.
Leaning against one of the stalls stood Bedwyr. Arthur knelt between his boots, his hands splayed on Bedwyr’s bare thighs, the man’s cock down his throat.
Bedwyr glanced up sharply, his dark eyes wide, hand reaching for his sword, and Morien tripped backward. His head struck the lintel with a thump loud enough to draw Arthur’s attention, and then he was stumbling outside, causing the startled horses to chuff and stamp, an incoherent apology stuttering out of him as he slammed the door shut again.
Bedwyr stared at the door as it thumped shut. A horse nickered outside, and then boots scuffed in a hasty retreat.
Arthur snorted. “I think our message just arrived.”
“Gods’ blood.” Bedwyr let his head fall back against the wall and willed his heart to calm itself. “I thought we were ambushed.”
“Terrible timing either way.” Arthur nuzzled Bedwyr’s cock, or tried to. The damned thing had been shocked into retreat. “And just when I had you where I wanted you.”
Bedwyr wasn’t sure if Arthur was talking to him or to his prick. He tucked it back into his trousers and tied the laces. Evidently the message they’d been waiting for had arrived with Rhys’s son, Morien. Even if the fellow wasn’t standing outside, there’d be no getting his cock back into a sparring attitude now.
When they emerged from the stable, they found not one horse but two, both still saddled, their reins tied to a post.
“That’s promising,” Arthur said. “One man’s a message. Two are a mission.”
“Or Morien brought an extra horse.” But secretly he hoped his bear was right. He didn’t want to be expected to ride one of these beasts. While Arthur rode well—with the same ease he seemed to bring to most new things—Bedwyr and horses didn’t get on. Even now, they shied from him.
Arthur chuckled. “Stop glaring at them. Makes them nervy.”
“Fair’s fair, then.”
“Come. Let’s find out why we’re here.”
Safir left Morien to explain their presence to Arthur and Bedwyr, and settled on a bench next to Palahmed. After the journey, it felt good to lean back against the table and let the heat of the hall’s fire seep into his body. Gawain’s great hound, Khalida, immediately propped her front paws on his knees.
“Down, Khalida.”
Safir smiled at his brother’s quiet growl, and at how Khalida blithely ignored it. He ruffled her big ears. “We’re all right, aren’t we, girl?”
The dog grinned at him, and then at Palahmed, who scowled.
“You’ll teach her bad habits.”
Gawain snorted. “As if you don’t.”
“I don’t.”
“Aye, and that’s why she hangs about your feet while you eat? Because you never slip her table scraps?”
Palahmed tried to look severe, but he was having trouble holding the expression. “You’re the one who lets her sleep in the bed.” He turned to Safir. “Damned dog takes up half the mattress.”
“Sounds as if that leaves plenty for you two to share.”
Gawain made a triumphant sound. “That’s exactly what I told him.”
Palahmed scowled at Safir. “Come to gang up on me? Or have you run out of funds already?”
It was humbling to have someone who knew him so well. “I got bored.”
“With a brothel full of distractions?” Palahmed settled back against the table. “That’d be a first. I think you woke one morning, found your purse empty, and went to Rhys for a job.” He raised an eyebrow at Safir, though it bore more confidence than question.
“My purse isn’t empty.” It was the truth, if only just. He had one good silver coin left and the iron ring. The bauble he’d given away to one of the whores’ wee lasses before he’d left. It had made him feel generous, which was probably pathetic, but there he was. “I was restless. Unlike some folk with shieldmates and giant dogs, I didn’t plan to spend the entire winter lazing about in bed.”
Palahmed chuckled. “The fuck you didn’t.” But Safir didn’t miss the glance his brother sent Gawain’s way then. Fondness, with an undercurrent of promise.
Gawain’s pale cheeks went rosy above the fox fur collar of his cloak. He scratched Khalida behind one ear and, fickle beast that she was, she abandoned Safir for her master. “How is it Morien’s here? Doesn’t he serve Gwen?”
“Serves his father foremost, I suppose. Rhys insisted the lad accompany me.” That didn’t encompass the entire arrangement, but all these two needed to know for now.
“Hardly a lad.” Gawain looked across the chamber at Morien. “He’s about my age, I reckon. And taller than any of us, even Arthur.”
“Height doesn’t make a man,” Safir said.
“Is that so?” Palahmed turned and gave him an intent look that made him want to snatch the dog back and busy himself rubbing her head again. “What other opinions do you have on his manhood?”
“None on his manhood, sadly. Only his adulthood, which has scarcely been tested.”
Palahmed stared at him. “What is this job you’re undertaking for Rhys?”
“To wait here with Arthur for this message you’re anticipating.”
“And yet I can’t help but notice you seem somewhat distracted.”
Safir jerked his gaze from Morien. “Don’t be stupid.”
Palahmed took up a posture perfectly designed to lord things over him. He’d used it on Safir quite a lot since he’d taken up with Gawain. If Safir had known that regular fucking would make Palahmed so infuriating, he’d never have encouraged him to give in to the northerner.
“I know the look of a man intrigued,” Palahmed said softly. “I was one.”
“Me, intrigued with Morien?” He tried to put as much scorn into the words as he could. “He knows nothing.”
Palahmed’s grin was sly. “Precisely. But you do.”
As if he hadn’t thought the very same thing. That he, who’d been bedding people since he was fourteen, could teach a thing or two to someone less experienced. He’d done little in the past twenty years besides fight and fuck. Surely it had to amount to something.
He had very little else to offer.
But Morien wouldn’t be on the receiving end of any such offer. He was haughty and proud and would laugh at the suggestion. And so the notion would die right here, not to be considered again.
Now, if his brain would only cooperate with the decision, he might survive this little mission.