“I take back everything I said about the occupants of these hills,” Marguerite said. “They are a noble people and I love them all.”
The cause of her change of heart was a shelter built out of carefully stacked and fitted stones. It was dark and dusty and various animals had obviously been using it, but it blocked the wind and the rain and felt a good twenty degrees warmer inside than out.
The only furniture, if you could call it that, was a stone box built into the wall, topped by a metal lid. Marguerite dared to hope that it contained firewood. Shane flipped it up and pulled out a flattened, irregular disc of what looked like mud.
“Hmm.”
“That tone fills me with dread,” said Marguerite, slumping back against the drystone wall.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose the good news is that we can make a fire.”
Marguerite forced her tired eyes to focus. It was very dark inside, but nevertheless… “Oh god. That’s dried cow poop, isn’t it?”
“It might be sheep?”
“Is that better?”
“No, I think it’s about the same.” He took a few more of the patties from the box and set them in the soot-stained depression in the center of the shelter, then pulled out his tinderbox and set to work.
“I suppose beggars can’t be choosers,” said Marguerite philosophically. “It was good of them to keep the place stocked at all.”
“Indeed. You should get out of those wet clothes. I’ll build up the fire.”
She had no doubt that he was legitimately concerned that she might die of hypothermia. It was just that it also kicked the sexual tension up by about five notches.
Impressive that I can even think about that, after a long hike and nearly sliding to my death down a mountain.
On the other hand, that would definitely warm me up. “Right,” Marguerite said, and began stripping her soggy clothes off.
Painted orange by the fire, Shane’s throat moved as he swallowed hard. Carefully not looking in her direction, he rummaged through his pack until he found a suitable length of cord and busied himself stringing it across the shelter to make a rough clothesline.
Marguerite wrung what water she could out of her cloak and stretched it out to sit on. Even damp wool was better than bare stone. The pungent smell of burning dung began to fill the small space, but so did the first stirrings of warmth. “Aren’t you wet, too?”
“Um,” he said. “I…yes. A bit.” Marguerite draped her sodden shirt and tunic over the line to dry, then sat back to enjoy the spectacle of a man trying to remove armor in an enclosed space with his eyes closed.
Shane got the surcoat and chain hauberk off and finally opened his eyes to look at his mail. “I need to hang this,” he muttered, “and oil it as soon as I can.” He looked up at the clothesline, then back down at the hauberk.
“I don’t think that’ll support it,” Marguerite offered.
He glanced toward her, probably involuntarily, and must have gotten an eyeful, because he jerked his gaze back so quickly that she was surprised he didn’t get a neck spasm.
“No,” he said. “No, it…err…no.” He draped the chain over the stone box, looked at it, sighed, moved it a bit, then sighed again and sat back on his heels. “If the gods will it, we will be in the highlands tomorrow and I can treat it properly.”
“From your lips to Their ears,” said Marguerite. “How much fuel do we have for the fire?”
“Enough to get through the night, so long as we are not extravagant with it.” He sounded apologetic. “That is, I do not think we can build it up much further than this.”
“Ah, well,” said Marguerite philosophically. “I suppose we’ll just have to find some other way to keep warm.”
Shane looked over at her, clearly startled. Then his eyes dropped below her collarbone, came back up immediately, and he cleared his throat several times.
If I sit around and wait for him to make a move, we’ll probably both freeze to death. Hell with it, she thought, and kissed him.
His lips were ice cold as she flicked her tongue across them and for a moment she thought she had made a complete fool of herself, but then his mouth opened under hers and he was burning hot and his hands slid into her hair and tilted her face up toward his. His hands were also cold and her skin was cold and she pressed her cold breasts against his equally cold chest and the only warmth in the world was between their mouths, and for a little bit, that was all she needed.
When it finally ended—when her back wasn’t going to let him bend her over his arm like that any longer, and when breathing through her nose was no longer enough air—he pulled back, his eyes wide and almost alarmed.
“I…" he began, and Marguerite put her fingers across his lips to stop whatever incredibly paladinly thing he was about to say next.
“If you shut up,” she said, moving to straddle him, “and don’t argue with me, we can get warm and incidentally have really incredible sex. Or you can keep wallowing in self-loathing and we can freeze to death. Your choice.”
His eyes were a thin ring of ice around dark wells. He swallowed hard, and said, slightly higher-pitched than normal, “Am I allowed to wallow in self-loathing afterward?”
That was either a joke or an unexpected amount of self-awareness. “I wouldn’t dream of trying to stop you,” she said.
She was already out of her clothes, and fortunately he’d removed his chainmail already. She got his pants untied and lifted herself up on her knees long enough for him to wrench them off.
There was no question of readiness. He was already rock hard beneath her. Probably had been since the minute she kissed him. He hissed as her hand closed around his cock—well, no wonder, her fingers were probably like ice. His certainly were as he slid them across her breasts. She could have etched glass with her nipples even if he hadn’t been touching her.
He lowered his head to cover one with his mouth. “Ah!” she said, feeling her breath go out in a gasp. “Sensible. Warming.”
He made a small, amused noise and switched to the other one. Marguerite inhaled sharply and realized that she was in danger of losing control of the situation. And I have no plans to give that up just yet.
She lifted herself up on her knees again, worked him into place, and sank down his length with a purely hedonistic groan. There. Now, let’s see if I can make his eyes roll back in his head…
She found the angle that pleased her the most and rode him ruthlessly while his fingers sank into her hips and he gasped her name. She wasn’t sure if his eyes rolled back or not, because he had them tightly closed, head thrown back.
“Marguerite,” he said hoarsely, “I can’t…I’m going to…”
She smacked a hand down in the center of his chest and growled, “Don’t you dare, paladin.” His eyes snapped open in surprise and he stared up at her. “Not until I’m—ahh!—
done with you.…ahhh…”
A great threat, and she didn’t even last to the end of the sentence. She was too keyed up and her body was too desperate for release. And hell, she’d wanted the gorgeous holy bastard for far too long. Everything clenched suddenly, impossibly tight, and she fell forward against him, shuddering.
He must have felt it—not surprising, people back in Archenhold probably felt that—and taken it as permission because he bucked his hips hard against her, lifting her up and driving her back down, and then, with hilariously desperate courtesy, he said, “Excuse me—” and lifted her up, turning to spend himself away from her body. Polite of him. Probably not necessary, but polite anyway.
Then he curled up around her, no longer cold but deliciously warm. He had the presence of mind to grab his cloak and pull it over them both. It was still damp and steaming gently from the fire, but it held the heat in, and Marguerite fell asleep with her fingers still stroking the roughness along his jaw.
Shane wrapped himself around her, trying to keep the cold out with his own body, and knew that he had made a terrible, glorious mistake.
About five minutes as the crow flies, and about two hours as the crow walked, in a similar shelter partway down the mountain, two people sat as far apart as it was physically possible to sit. The fire box had not been so well stocked and the fire had lasted less than twenty minutes before guttering down to embers.
Finally, one of them cleared his throat and said, “It would probably be warmer if we—”
“I’d rather freeze to death.”
“Fair enough.”
Shane woke with his arms full of Marguerite, which was a marvelous way to wake up. He savored the moment as long as possible, until his lower back informed him that he was on a stone floor and if he didn’t move right this minute, there would be dire repercussions.
He tried to shift unobtrusively, but Marguerite woke immediately. She blinked up at him, down at her state of undress, then said, “Huh!” in a tone that managed to be both surprised and smug.
“Sorry,” said Shane reflexively.
She shook her head. “I’m not. Although I can think of better surfaces to do that on.” She disentangled herself, while Shane tried to rub his lower back in as manly and attractive a fashion as possible.
It was past daybreak and the fire was cold. The sky was clear overhead, and Shane dared to hope that they wouldn’t get rained on again. A bird called somewhere on the hillside, answered by another one, which seemed to offend it. They called back and forth, increasingly outraged, for several moments, while Shane dug through their supplies and produced a slightly squashed loaf of bread and a small, battered apple.
Marguerite felt the hem of her shirt, sniffed it and grimaced. “Well,” she said, “it’s dry, at least. Even if it smells like burnt sheep dung.”
“Mine will, too,” Shane offered. “So at least we won’t offend each other.”
She nodded and stretched to pull the shirt off the clothesline. It did fascinating things to her body. Shane’s eyes traced her body downward, and paused at an unexpected row of lines across her hip. “Are those stretchmarks?”
He immediately wanted to sink into the floor of the shelter at his own tactlessness. “Not that they’re—I’m not saying they’re bad—I just noticed—”
Oh, well done. Perhaps you can map out all of her skin blemishes next.
Marguerite laughed and put a hand over one breast to hold it out of the way so she could look down at her hip. “Here?” She traced one of the silver-red marks. “They are, yes.”
“Ah.” He had a strong urge to drop to his knees and press his lips against one, but that seemed extremely presumptuous, given the circumstances.
One corner of her mouth crooked up. “In answer to the question you are carefully not asking, no, I’ve never been pregnant. It just happens sometimes. Surprised you noticed. Most men never look any lower than the breasts.”
The word pregnant rang in Shane’s brain, but was drowned out by the phrase most men. He had a sudden desire to go and talk to these other men. Perhaps bounce their heads gently off the pavement a few times.
Stop that, you ass. She took you into her bed once, that’s all. You have no right to even expect it again, let alone feel jealousy.
“Ah,” he said again. The word pregnant was still trying to get his attention, and finally did, accompanied by sudden panic. “Err…last night, we… I didn’t…um… I tried not to…but that doesn’t always…”
She laughed and dropped her shirt down over the marks. “I did. Silphium powder. I never take any risks with that.”
No, of course she wouldn’t. Nor would she trust anyone else to take them for her. The thought woke both admiration and an odd, diffuse kind of sadness in him. Who does she have to depend on? Is there anyone?
Perhaps she mistook his silence for concern, because she smiled at him. “It’s very reliable. I am very much not cut out to be a mother.”
“I would think that you could be almost anything you wanted.”
Her laugh had a little roughness around the edges, but seemed genuine enough, if rueful. “Oh, I’ve tried. For a while there, I thought maybe I could just sell perfumes for a living. But something always drags me back.” She paused, staring at nothing in particular. “Anyway, this would be no life for a child. Besides, I have an absolute horror of pregnancy.”
Even Shane could recognize when it was time for the voice. “It can be very dangerous,” he said gently.
“The original Marguerite died of it. Both her and the child. I decided early on that I didn’t wish to tempt that fate.”
There was a note of finality that Shane had no desire to push. “I…err…I don’t have any children either. As far as I know.” He cleared his throat. “That is, no one ever came to the temple to say that I might have fathered their child.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Sometimes. After a battle, if you’ve helped people, some of them are grateful. Um. Very grateful.” He realized, unaccountably, that he was blushing, which was completely ridiculous, given what they’d done the night before.
Marguerite’s eyes danced and he knew she was about to say something hilariously cutting, when a familiar voice drifted up from the path to the shelter.
“If you’re going to close your eyes, at least take hold of my hand so you don’t walk off the damned cliff.”
“I have no desire to hold anything of yours,” another, equally familiar voice snapped back.
“I promise, I’m not going to enjoy it. I just don’t want to see you splattered all over the landscape on my watch.”
Wren’s reply was too low for Shane to make out. “No, but that overmuscled brother of yours would,” Davith said, clearly in answer, “and I’d rather not give him another excuse to punch me.”
Marguerite sighed. “Well, it was fun while it lasted,” she said, bending down to kiss Shane on the forehead.
What does that mean? That was fun, let’s do it again sometime when other people aren’t around? That was fun, now let us never speak of this again?
Davith’s head crested the trail, followed a moment later by Wren. Davith looked up, saw the shelter’s occupants, and let out a heartfelt groan. “Thank all the gods. You’re here. Now this abominable child will be someone else’s responsibility.”
“Child?” Wren put her hands on her hips. “I’ll have you know I’ve been widowed for longer than I was wed!”
“My congratulations to your husband on his excellent timing.” Davith collapsed dramatically on the floor of the shelter. “I’m dying,” he said, his eyes closed. “Please burn my body so at least I’ll be warm.”
“Are you hurt?” Shane asked, ignoring the man and focusing on Wren, who looked indignant but otherwise intact.
“We’re fine,” said Wren. She exhaled gustily. “Spent the night in a shelter a bit like this one on the lower trail. Ours had thatch, though. I’m pretty sure we can be out of the mountains in a couple of hours, though.”
“Wren,” said Marguerite, “you are my new favorite person.” She brushed off her cloak. “I can’t wait.”
Shane hastily dragged on his armor. He’d have to sit down and go over it with oil and a stiff brush at the first opportunity, but getting out of the mountains sounded like a marvelous idea.
“You are well?” he asked Wren in an undertone. Despite Marguerite’s assurances, he had worried for them.
“Sure,” she said. He looked at her steadily and she finally rolled her eyes. “Fine. It was incredibly awkward and there is no good way to say, ‘I think you’re an asshole but I’m sorry I tried to kill you.’ But we lived and nobody fell off a mountain and died.”
Shane nodded. He was the last one out of the shelter, and paused on the threshold. “I wish there was some way to replace the fuel we used,” he said. “Or pay for what we took.”
“That’s why it’s there,” Wren said. “It’s for anyone who needs it, that’s all.”
“I know. Still. In case someone else needs it, I wish I could help.”
He started down the trail. Ahead of them, Davith put one hand on Marguerite’s shoulder, leaned down and murmured something in her ear. She gave a rueful laugh and swatted at him.
Jealousy struck Shane so hard that it felt like a sharpened stake piercing his chest, as if he might look down and see blood. He took a handful of deep breaths, trying to settle himself after the unexpected assault. What is this? Why? I have no right. She is not mine. I am not hers.
Like hell you’re not, whispered the little voice that usually cried failure. You are hers completely. She’s just not yours. Best get used to it.
He did not want to get used to it. He wanted to lay claim to her and snarl at any other man who came too close. It was nasty and primitive and it boiled in his chest, wonderful and horrible.
He had no right to feel that way. More than that, feeling it was dangerous. Jealousy was fear, plain and simple, fear of abandonment, fear that one would be judged in comparison and found wanting.
Can’t imagine why I’d feel any of those things, he thought dryly. It was just a damn shame that knowing you shouldn’t feel something didn’t make the feeling go away.
The Dreaming God’s people taught that jealousy was the kind of crack in a soul that a demon could exploit. The Saint of Steel, perhaps more practically, pointed out that a jealous berserker was a very dangerous thing.
I cannot afford to feel this. I cannot. Look at what happened when Davith broke Wren’s heart. She nearly killed him, and I know they hadn’t so much as kissed.
And if I snap because I’m jealous or heartbroken, who’s going to stop me?
“You doing all right?” asked Marguerite, touching his arm. Her eyebrows rose as he jumped, startled. “Something wrong?”
“Just—ah—thinking.” He hadn’t even noticed her dropping back. Saint’s teeth, if this is what I do now when I bed a woman, it’s probably for the best that I don’t get much opportunity. We could be attacked by an army while I was staring off into space. “Sorry,” he added. “Distracted, that’s all.”
He wasn’t sure if she believed him. He couldn’t tell. That’s part of the problem, isn’t it? You can’t ever tell. She’s too good at hiding her responses. You have no idea if she would like more or if that really was just two people staying warm.
You could just ask.
What, right here, with Davith and Wren looking on?
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Marguerite asked.
“Fine.” He picked up the pace. “We should get going.”