Denis knew as well as he that they needed to watch for something unusual—veering from the norm—rather than a full-frontal assault. With the addition of the borrowed Sheburat guards, the camp should be well-protected.
“Sounds good.” A shiver ran up Efren’s spine as he said the words. But it did sound like a good plan. They didn’t have the resources for more, and it was unlikely they’d need it anyway.
While there was still daylight, Denis had scouts checking a short way into the woodland, looking for signs that anyone was lying in wait, and identifying potential trouble spots.
Efren clasped Denis’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it.”
All around him, people were busy erecting tents, building fires in the pits, and laying out their dinner, such as it was. The jerky and dried apples wouldn’t compare favorably to the lunch spread, but it would fill their bellies and replenish their energy.
* * * *
Marcelo
Marcelo wasn’t so much sore as he was weary. He’d spent enough time in the saddle that his muscles were used to that exercise. He rubbed the back of his neck after placing the stack of folded picnic blankets in the back of a supply wagon.
Around him, others were winding down, too, except for the security force. Some had retired already, to get in their sleep before later shifts, and others had spread out and were patrolling the campground’s borders.
Efren was again speaking with Denis. How much danger were they really in? King Deverick of Gagel had seemed like such a jovial, grandfatherly type of man the three times Marcelo had met him. Yet, Marcelo couldn’t fault the logic of Efren’s suspicions regarding Marcela’s death, and his mother had quickly come to the same conclusion. Both Efren and Queen Giselle would have a better idea of King Deverick’s true nature than he.
Efren nodded to Denis, then turned and caught Marcelo’s gaze. Marcelo blushed at the instant and sincere smile Efren directed at him.
A tingle zipped across Marcelo’s skin. He was tired, but he wasn’t too tired to wonder about what might or might not happen once he and Efren retired to their tent for the night. These tents weren’t nearly as extravagant as those with which Sheburat’s royalty traveled. He could barely stand within, so Efren would have to stoop, and the bedding was simply padded bedrolls on the ground. Apparently Zioneven’s royalty traveled much lighter.
Which wasn’t a problem. Just because Marcelo was used to a plusher setup on the rare times he’d traveled with his family, it didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of handling fewer luxuries.
It was the lack of privacy that concerned Marcelo. The tents were arranged in close proximity to one another, and even if he stifled his vocal responses to Efren’s touch, the act itself was somewhat inherently noisy.
Did that matter? Would other couples come together knowing they could be heard? Would they expect such noises to come from the newlyweds’ tent and wonder if it didn’t?
Marcelo returned his husband’s smile and stood still while Efren approached. Long, steady steps that exuded the strength of the man taking them.
Warmth spread through him, despite the chill of the evening air. He lifted his chin. Why was he worrying about what would be expected anyway? He just needed to trust Efren to do what was right within Zioneven’s customs and follow his lead.
“My darling.” Efren guided one of Marcelo’s hands to his lips, and Marcelo didn’t even try to suppress the delicious shiver that swept over his skin. He liked the way Efren’s eyes lit when Marcelo bared his enjoyment of Efren’s courtesies.
“Dearest,” Marcelo murmured. The word slipped through his lips without thought. He barely had time to second-guess the prudence of the endearment because Efren promptly placed his free hand at Marcelo’s jaw, and moved his mouth from Marcelo’s wrist to his lips for a soft kiss.
“I like that,” Efren said. Perhaps he’d seen a flash of uncertainty in Marcelo’s eyes.
Marcelo’s lips parted, and a soft sigh escaped. Efren had to care for him in some capacity, didn’t he, to appreciate a tender word? Marcelo melted each time Efren said “my darling” because he cared for the man and wanted to be in his esteem.
“Are you ready to retire, or would you prefer to join those around the campfires?” Efren raised a single questioning eyebrow, but his expression didn’t otherwise give any clues as to which answer he expected or hoped for from Marcelo.
“I’d prefer to retire.” Marcelo decided to go with his honest inclination, although his innate breeding begged to add an addendum. “Unless we’d be expected to socialize? I do wish to make friends among your people, and want to do the correct thing, but I doubt I’d be at my best tonight.”
“Of course. I think we’ll be forgiven for not joining in, and we’re not the only ones calling it a night.” Efren picked up a lantern and hitched his head. He led them first to the outhouses, then later to their tent.
Their personal servants were both conspicuously absent. Perhaps while traveling, and considering the cramped conditions, their usual ministrations were abbreviated?
But Erich and Dru had left sturdy trays laden with a wash bowl, linen squares with which to cleanse themselves, and dental paste. Neatly folded nightshirts lay beside those items. No privacy screen—there wouldn’t have been room even if they’d wanted to spare the space in the wagons for such a non-necessity. A doubled-up set of bedrolls was the only other item in the sparsely furnished space.
Marcelo swallowed. Much as he was comfortable with his personal servant’s presence and assistance for all his daily hygiene practices, and even after sharing significant intimacies with Efren last night, the idea of washing himself in front of his new husband gave him pause.
However, the idea of not removing the day’s travel grime before sleeping next to Efren was even less appealing, so Marcelo set his jaw and followed Efren’s lead—to act as if there was nothing unusual about their situation. And for Efren, perhaps there wasn’t. Marcelo began with the least-revealing task—to clean his teeth.
Marcelo rinsed and spit into the supplied cup as demurely as he could while performing such an innately indecorous act. Efren managed to accomplish the same with less overtones of priggishness, and Marcelo raised his chin another notch, determined to make it the rest of the way through this simplest of routines without seeming so discomfited.
More than anything, he wanted to assimilate. To fit in. To be accepted as a peer of Zioneven who was capable of properly handling himself in any situation, whether it be mounting a horse unassisted or getting undressed and giving himself a washdown in front of his husband.
His face warmed again at that word. Husband. Would there come a day when it no longer thrilled him? He rather hoped to always be delighted at the thought, although perhaps not so embarrassingly obvious about his excitement. At least not in public.
Marcelo pulled off his shirt without waiting for Efren to do so first. Efren seemed to have already discerned Marcelo’s desire to be more self-sufficient when it came to mounting and dismounting his horse. Efren had been right there, making sure Marcelo didn’t injure himself or the animal, but he’d backed off a mite with his assistance during the second half of their day’s travels.
Although he couldn’t quite put his finger on how Efren gently encouraged him to do so, he felt it in his bones—a growing yen to assert himself. Growing up, any inclination he might have had to show initiative had been so effectively dampened, Marcelo couldn’t remember ever trying, so Efren was a refreshing change.
Marcelo dared to sneak a peek as Efren ran a wet linen over his chest and under his arms. If anything, the flickering lamplight made the definition of his muscles even more prominent. Marcelo’s breath caught, and he quickly diverted his gaze. It wouldn’t do to become aroused unless Efren had plans to…
Was there more than one way for couples to come together for mutual gratification? Needless to say, no one had ever explicitly explained anything sexual to him, but once he’d matured, and had “discovered” himself and a
chieved that glorious, but messy, end using his own hand, a small pot of the balm that was typically applied to his skin after bathing, and a couple cleanup linens, had discreetly shown up on his bedside table each night.
So he already knew the ultimate goal could be accomplished without the penetrative act of last night—although not nearly as overpoweringly—but the lack of the preparative implements from last night on the trays in their tent seemed to indicate that wouldn’t happen tonight. But maybe that didn’t mean Efren wasn’t planning something.
How much of the incredibly intimate pre-treatment Erich had provided to aid in the consummation of Marcelo and Efren’s marriage—Marcelo winced at the memory of that prep—had been standard procedure for Zioneven’s nobles in relationships between two men? And how much had been inspired by Sheburat’s standards of what should occur?
Anything happening while in Efren’s arms would be a vast improvement on what he’d once thought to be perfectly good on his own. How wrong he’d been.
Now, Marcelo ran a cool, wet linen over his flushed torso, and slowly blew out a breath. He cast another quick glance at Efren, and found the man gazing back with a serene smile on his lips. Marcelo inhaled sharply.
Efren ran a finger down Marcelo’s cheek. “Relax, my darling. There’s no pressure on us tonight. We’ll make our own rules that we both find pleasing, yes?”
Marcelo barely breathed his reply. “Yes.” And the “dearest” he tacked on was only in his head, more because of his sudden breathlessness than by conscious decision.
Something would happen with Efren tonight. And Marcelo no longer cared if anyone outside their tent could discern it. He was barely mindful of his actions as he stepped out of his footwear and trousers and finished his washup. He did try to avoid watching Efren do the same. He managed not to openly stare, at least, and Efren didn’t appear to mind the blushing glimpses.
The air was chilly, so they pulled on their nightshirts, and didn’t linger before Efren extinguished the lantern, and they slipped beneath the covers of their combined bedroll.
Immediately, Efren pulled Marcelo into his arms. Those strong arms in which he’d felt so safe last night when they’d wrapped around him, and earlier today when they’d lifted Marcelo on and off his horse.
Marcelo melted into the embrace, once again feeling safe. At home. Even on a pad of blankets on the ground, he felt at home. Or at ease, which was how one should feel when at home.
Marcelo slid his hand over Efren’s body, and heat radiated through the fabric of their nightshirts. Marcelo wrapped one arm around Efren’s waist, and with his other hand, clasped the muscled biceps pillowing his head.
They lay together for long minutes, simply breathing as each teasingly trailed his fingers over the other’s body. Efren’s breath puffed lightly against Marcelo’s face.
Perhaps Efren wouldn’t make a move. Was he waiting for Marcelo to do so, or did he wish simply to sleep? A full day on horseback would be tiring for even the strongest of riders.
Marcelo stilled his fingers on Efren’s back, then applied the lightest of pressure, inviting, should his husband care to accept that inducement.
Efren shifted closer—or rather, pressed more tightly against Marcelo in obvious acceptance of his bidding. Marcelo sighed as Efren’s lips sought his.
The movement was soft and slow at first. Teasing, before deepening and increasing in pressure. Efren waited until Marcelo tentatively slipped his tongue along Efren’s lip before pursuing that move himself.
Marcelo’s hand applied pressure lower on Efren’s back before he realized what he’d done. He didn’t regret it, though.
Efren again took over once Marcelo indicated his want. His hand also shifted lower to compel a slow grind before halting. Their kiss broke as Efren drew their nightshirts up their bodies, and they pulled apart to tug them over their heads.
So much better. Simply being in Efren’s arms was marvelous. Skin to skin was a thrill he might never get used to. Hoped never to get used to. He shivered when Efren pulled him into his arms.
“Cold?” Efren’s whispered word sounded husky. Almost raspy.
Marcelo shook his head. The shiver wasn’t due to the chilled air. Nor was he trembling out of fear or revulsion. It was absolutely a frisson of pure delight. He pressed kisses to Efren’s neck rather than answering verbally.
Efren tilted his head, silently giving encouragement. His breath hitched, which meant as much to Marcelo as did the deliberate, reassuring movement. Efren wasn’t only being thoughtful. He truly enjoyed Marcelo’s efforts.
Emboldened, Marcelo moved a hand to Efren’s chest and lightly circled one quick-to-pucker nipple with his thumb. Efren’s heart thumped a strong and steady beat beneath his palm. His own heart beat in unison, the pace steadily increasing.
Efren brought his mouth to Marcelo’s ear. He nipped at the lobe and whispered, “Oh, my darling, have you any idea how irresistible I find you?” Marcelo whimpered as Efren nibbled right below that ear and breathed, “The things you do to me…”
Marcelo panted as Efren’s hand pressed and squeezed Marcelo’s rear with tantalizingly slow regularity.
“The way you look at me…” Efren’s voice was muffled against Marcelo’s neck. “Those coy glances drive me wild with anticipation.”
The gurgle that escaped Marcelo’s lips might have been cause for concern in other circumstances, but clearly Efren wasn’t alarmed by the sound as his tongue drew a path to Marcelo’s shoulder.
“Your delicate touch thrills me to my core,” Efren murmured, but he seemed to understand that Marcelo was instead more stimulated by the greater strength in Efren’s caress as his strong hands on Marcelo’s behind pursued a steady grind.
Long, delicious minutes passed, and Marcelo puffed out ragged breaths between moments when Efren’s mouth covered his. He struggled to remain discreetly quiet, or at least to rein in the moan threatening to unleash from the base of his throat.
His arousal, so heated, pressing and rubbing alongside Efren’s, was fast approaching that point where he would lose his ability to control it. With equal yet confused measures, he both strove toward that point of no return and resisted, wanting to draw out the exquisite bliss rippling through his body.
Efren’s shuddering whimper pierced Marcelo to his core, and his heart raced as they both increased the tempo of their grind, no longer able to draw out their enjoyment of this exquisite, intimate pleasure.
Marcelo buried his face into Efren’s neck to muffle the cry he was utterly unable to check as his whole body braced, then quivered, and he spilled with great, wobbly gasps. Efren tightened his grip on Marcelo’s rear, crushing their hips together as he captured Marcelo’s mouth with his own, groaning into it, and likewise stiffened and added to the mess between them.
As would apparently be his wont, Marcelo tittered a light laugh while they lay breathlessly in each other’s arms.
“I love your unbridled joy.” Efren ran a finger along the smiling creases on Marcelo’s face. “And how you are embracing your new life, which must seem so foreign to you.”
“Unfamiliar, yes, but my future has never been so promising.”
Chapter 3: …Oft Go Awry
Efren
Efren blinked rapidly as he came awake with a start. He stared into the darkness and mentally shook the cobwebs from his mind. What had awoken him? Marcelo lay softly breathing in his arms, as relaxed and peaceful as only the innocent can truly be.
Around him, the night was silent. Too silent? He strained to hear the patrols rustling through the grasses, or the faint trills of their signals to each other.
A breeze swirled through the branches of the trees in the distance, rippling the leaves. Crickets chirped, apparently unconcerned about whatever either was or wasn’t going on in the meadow.
And footsteps. Quiet, approaching footsteps. It must be time for the shift change. That’s what had awoken him. Efren relaxed and nestled Marcelo tighter against him. One at a time
, the guards would come in and wake their replacements.
Except—Efren tensed, then maneuvered his arm out from under Marcelo’s head and eased himself from under the blankets—the footsteps, furtively stopping and restarting, were approaching from multiple directions.
Efren shivered as goosebumps rose on his naked skin in the chilled night air and soundlessly slipped his broadsword and knife from their leather scabbard. He glanced at Marcelo, still sleeping, although less serenely with the sudden loss of the warm body next to him.
Guilt pinged his core as he shook off a strong desire to waken and forewarn Marcelo, but he pushed it down. Marcelo, completely untrained in warfare, would be safer in here. He seemed a heavy sleeper, likely incorporating outside noises into his dreams, unused to a need to be readily alert. He might even doze through the skirmish.
Or was that just wishful thinking? Because there’d be no hope that Marcelo could escape unseen, if it came to that.
Surely it would be better for such an innocent to be killed in his sleep, or with scarcely a brief moment of shock beforehand than to spend minutes quaking in terror, unable to defend himself.
Efren shook off his doubts and quickly pushed out the weighty flap, sword raised ready, and opened his mouth to yell an alert to awaken any of his warriors who hadn’t already sensed the looming danger, same as he had. But the breath he drew to strengthen his voice instead choked him.
He’d never before smelled these fumes, but the pungent, wet-dog odor had been described to him. The material of their tents was heavily treated to keep the toxin producing that odor from permeating the walls and closed flaps.
Icy apprehension slithered across Efren’s skin before settling in the pit of his gut. This was a completely unexpected development. The alchemists from the kingdom of Proye who’d developed this toxin—and unfailingly guarded the recipe—called it “Knockout.”
The Best-Laid Plans Page 3