Hunter's Season

by Thea Harrison

  After glancing into the bucket, she looked up at him somewhat shamefaced. “I just don’t want you to hurt yourself any further.”

  “I appreciate that,” he said, warmed by the evidence of her caring. Deliberately, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, a full, firm, yet brief caress. All too soon, he pulled away. The sensation of her lips, softened in surprise, was branded on his mouth.

  She stood absolutely still, her lovely dark eyes very wide.

  He would not smile. It might reveal too much triumph. He sidestepped neatly around her and went to the basin to pour water into it. Then he went outside again. By the time he returned, she had hunched over the grilling steaks and she did not look up.

  He made three more trips to the well before she set the steaming steaks on the table, and he surveyed the results of his effort with satisfaction. He had drawn plenty of water for the evening dishes. Then he turned to the table. She had created a salad of greens, fresh vegetables, apples and berries, lightly dressed with oil and herbs, to accompany the steaming sweet potatoes and steak.

  She also looked exceedingly spooked.

  This would have to be a gentle hunt, or his prey might skedaddle.

  As he took his seat at the table, he said gravely, “Thank you for another wonderful meal.”

  Unaccountably, she flushed as she sat as well. “I do not know how to cook the complex delicacies you are no doubt used to eating.”

  He kept his gaze on the contents of his plate. “Do not confuse what you imagine my lifestyle must be with what you witness at the palace. I much prefer meals like this on a daily basis.” He sensed rather than saw her relax a little. They ate in silence. Now that he had turned the corner, he could almost feel the return of health and vigor with every bite of the healthy fare. As he finished, he said, “I would like to take advantage of that bathing alcove this evening, if I might.”

  She said quickly, “Of course. I’ll draw water and put it on to heat while I do the dishes.” She glanced up at him and then away, her gaze skittering off like a frightened mouse. “You will carry some scarring from those wounds. It will be good for you to soak in a hot tub with a little oil poured in the water.”

  He nodded. He would fetch his own bath water if he could, but he had already reached his limit. “If you would be kind enough to draw the water, I will wash the dishes—no, I do not want to hear it, Xanthe.” He added that last in a stern, no nonsense voice as she began to speak. “We have already agreed upon this.”

  She closed her mouth with an audible click of her teeth. After a moment, she muttered, “Agreeing in theory and watching it in practice are two different things.”

  He said in a very gentle voice, “But you would not deny me anything that is good for me, would you?”

  “Of course not,” she replied in a strangled whisper, while she looked at him exasperation. He bit back a smile.

  By the time he had washed the dishes and put them away, his bath water had heated to a comfortable temperature, and he soaked in the silken, lightly oiled bath until the water had cooled. Then he washed all over, luxuriating in the sensation of cleanliness.

  In the pile of clothing Niniane and Tiago had brought for him was a long, warm robe, which he donned afterward. Mercifully his aches were retreating as he healed, but after supper and the light exercise, the bath had done him in.

  As he pushed aside the curtain, he saw that Xanthe must have used the basin to wash as well, for her hair was wet and slicked back, and she had donned a soft dark purple shirt and trousers. Full evening had set, and the warmth from the fire mingled pleasantly with the coolness of the air that wafted in from the still open door.

  She sat in one of the armchairs, looking at the fire contemplatively, which lit her profile with golden light. Desire glowed deep within him, banked in its own hearth and waiting for the right opportunity to spark into a blaze.

  Something had been tickling at his awareness for some time, but he only now paid attention to it. He frowned. “There is something of Power in this room.”

  “Yes,” she said. Her gaze flicked to the mantle. “I will show it to you, if you like.”

  Did she look guilty? He wondered why.

  He walked over to look curiously at the items on the mantel. There was a pipe lying in a clean flat pottery dish, a beautiful piece of crystal, a small polished copper bowl and a wooden box.

  “Do you smoke?” he asked, surprised. He had never smelled tobacco on her.

  “No. That was my father’s pipe.”

  Power emanated from the box. He glanced at Xanthe who hovered nearby, watching him closely. “May I?”

  She took a deep breath, her fingers twisted together, and nodded.

  He lifted the box up, handling it with care, and examined it from all sides before he opened it to look at the deck of cards inside. “There’s a tale to tell here.”

  “I got it from Duncan and Seremela,” she told him. “Seremela’s niece had stolen it, and they didn’t want to be responsible for it. I said—I said I would take care of it.”

  “Did you?” He turned over the first exquisitely crafted card and looked upon the fierce, golden face of Love. Then he turned over the second card to look at the sharp, ruthless visage of Law. “These cards are really quite extraordinary. You don’t have any clue as to their origins?”

  She shook her head. “I think—I think the right thing to do is to take them to one of the gods’ shrines,” she said softly.

  He raised his eyebrows. Her voice was filled with something complex, but he could not decipher what it was. He set the cards carefully back in the box, closed the lid and set the box respectfully back onto the mantel.

  “I am no expert in items of Power, but if you are unsure about these, then offering them to the gods at one of the shrines would be appropriate.” He turned to put his hand on her shoulder, spreading his fingers over the finely sculpted shape of it, gently rubbing her through the soft cloth of her tunic. Giving in to temptation, he said quietly, “I have a very selfish desire to fall asleep listening to your voice. Can I coax you into reading to me for a little while?”

  She swallowed and told him huskily, “I would be glad to.”

  His conscience stirred and grumbled. She had done so much for him already. He squashed it, choosing the selfish act, choosing to explore everything he could with her. He wanted to hear her voice. She had agreed. Experience told him that she certainly knew how to say no. He could not both hunt her and simultaneously protect her from himself.

  He walked into the shadowed bedroom, drew off his robe and laid it at the foot of the bed, and slid naked between the sheets. As the cool linen slid across his skin, an image came to him of Xanthe, spread underneath his body, her face tilted up in agonized pleasure, and as tired as he was, his penis stiffened again and throbbed with urgency.

  He ignored it. Now was not the time to act. As disconcerted as Xanthe had shown herself to be over the attraction that grew between them, he suspected it was too soon for her. He did not want to initiate anything prematurely. They each deserved better.

  A chair scraped across the floor. He called out, “Why don’t you leave it? There is more than enough room for you to sit on the bed.”

  A pause, then she said, “Very well.”

  He lit the lantern on the bedside table while she shut and bolted the cottage door. By the time she stepped into the room, he lay back on the pillows with the covers pulled up to his chest. He watched her from underneath lowered eyelids as she moved to the pile of books. Her long body moved with a grace that caught at his throat. He longed to touch her with reverence and tell her how much she was coming to mean to him.

  “Which book would you like for me to read?” she asked.

  “I don’t care,” he told her. “Why don’t you pick one that you’re interested in?”

  “All right.” She hesitated then chose a Dark Fae story and settled on one corner of the bed, leaning back against the headboard with one leg bent and tucked under
neath her.

  He closed his eyes as she began to read. The liquid notes of her voice filled the room, shaping words that created a story, but he did not care about that. He merely listened to the sound of her voice, the intonation and inflection, and the cadence she gave to each sentence, as if he was listening to a solo musician. It was incredibly soothing.

  She halted, faltering into silence, as he turned onto his side and nuzzled her thigh, resting one relaxed hand on her knee. He refused to pull away or regret the move, and after a pause she resumed the story, her voice much softer.

  After a few moments more, a light, gentle weight came down on the back of his head. She rested her hand on him as she read.

  Naida had not been affectionate. They had maintained separate bedrooms, coming together for sex but never sleeping in the same bed. He had accepted that about her. Some people simply weren’t.

  He was affectionate.

  He smiled and slipped into a doze.

  Sometime later, he roused as the bed shifted and Xanthe began to ease away. Without really thinking about it, he tightened his hand on her knee, murmuring, “Stay.”

  She drew in a quick breath, the slight sound seemed loud in the silence of the bedroom. She said softly, “I thought you had fallen asleep.”

  “I did. You moved.” His voice was gravelly.

  “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  He yawned and rolled onto his back, then opened his eyes to look at her. She wore an uncertain, vulnerable expression that squeezed at his chest. She would never be one for the cynical dalliances that the nobility indulged in. He lifted his hand to her, she took it and he pressed her fingers.

  He told her quietly, “The bed is large, and there is more than enough room for two. You could even sleep with the covers between us if you like. No matter what you may have been used to in the past, I would feel better knowing that you weren’t on the cold hard floor, but it is entirely up to you. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable in any way.”

  She was silent for so long. As he waited, he urged her, do it. Choose to do what you really want.

  At last she whispered, “I’ll stay.”

  Tension had gathered in his limbs as he waited for her to decide. At her words it released, leaving a lingering lightness that felt like joy. He slid over as she shrugged out of her trousers, revealing long, gorgeous pale legs. Without looking at him, she lifted the top quilt and slipped into bed, leaving the sheet and a cotton blanket as a privacy barrier between them. The last thing she did was blow out the lamp before she settled with a sigh.

  He kept his breathing soft and even, even as desire flooded his body.

  Then she said in entirely prosaic exasperation, “Rats. We should have eaten up the rest of the clotted cream at supper, and I forgot all about it.”

  He lay frozen for a moment, all thought suspended. When he burst out laughing, she chuckled too.

  He rolled over, and despite the barrier between them, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her. She came willingly, fitting herself to him, one arm tucked around him as he guided her head onto his shoulder. He pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering over the caress and stroked her still damp hair. She nuzzled at his bare shoulder, breathing deeply as she settled and, muscle by muscle, relaxed.

  Holding her gave him a feeling of incredible rightness, comfort and relief. When he slept, for the first time in a very long time, there was no pain.

  When he opened his eyes again, it was full morning and he was alone. Disappointed, he laid a hand on the pillow she had used. It was still warm. She had only just left the bed.

  His body had the memory of holding Xanthe through the night. At one point, she curled onto her side and he moved too, curling behind her to spoon with her, one arm wrapped around her waist. She had laced her fingers through his as he buried his nose in her soft, silken hair.

  Now she moved around in the other room. The quiet sounds were already comforting and familiar. Cautiously he tried a full body stretch. The muscles in his back still gave a twinge, but the warning no longer seemed filled with dire consequences. He should start some exercises today.

  He rose out of bed, reveling in the sense of his returning strength, and slipped on a clean pair of trousers. Then he left the bedroom to commence stalking the woman he meant to make his lover.

  She knelt at the hearth, laying wood for a morning fire. Her hair was loose and tousled, and her cheek was creased from the pillow linens—and there, it happened again. She had grown even more beautiful to him.

  I’m falling in love with you, he thought. And damn, it’s a deep, deep fall.

  Falling in love with her wasn’t a decision; it was a full mind-body, transformative experience. Backing away, choosing not to explore the opportunity—that would the decision. And he wasn’t about to throw any of this away. It was too rare, too enriching. She was too fine of a treasure to be so disregarded.

  Besides, he hungered for her, for everything she was. For her dedication and loyalty, for the sensuality of her long, lithe body, for the fullness of emotion he caught shimmering in her eyes when she looked at him.

  She straightened and pushed the hair out of her face in a self-conscious gesture as he walked over to her. He pulled her into his arms, tilted up her face and kissed her. Not a quick kiss this time, but a slow, searching explorative caress.

  His lips remembered the shape of hers and were eager to mold to them again, while his heart thundered and his entire body hardened, and he felt immersed in a coursing river of emotion, in her. Breathing deeply, he fisted one hand in her hair, wanting to deepen the kiss but waiting for some kind of sign.

  Kiss me. Kiss me back.

  Her arms came around him, hands flattening greedily against his back even as she pulled her head away. She muttered, “We shouldn’t be doing this—”

  He flashed back fiercely, “Fuck that.”

  He never cursed. The shock of it bolted across her face. Then he realized how tightly his hand had clenched in her hair. He willed himself to pry his fingers open, to loosen his hold and stroke her hair gently. His hand was unsteady.

  She stared at him, her gaze clear open down to the bottom of her soul.

  “Xanthe,” he said between his teeth as a horrible thought occurred to him. “Have you made promises to someone else?”

  Her expression turned even more shocked. “No!”

  “Then if you say a word about me being the Chancellor or you being a guard, I might just throttle you. There is no place for that here, between us. I am just a man who wants to kiss you. Do you want to kiss me back? That is the only consideration of any relevance in this moment. If you do not, just say so and I’m sorry I assumed too much—”

  She lunged up on tiptoe, her arms snaking around his neck, and kissed him hard.

  There it was, what he had been looking for, her full-bodied, full-hearted cooperation. He closed his eyes and sank into her mouth, spearing into her as deeply as he could go.

  What they created together was a wild storm of emotion. This time when she pulled back, she was shaking all over.

  He loved that.

  “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”

  He was not prepared to let her off the hook. He cupped the nape of her neck, holding her in place as he leaned his forehead on hers. He said in a low voice, “You will stay in the bed again with me tonight.”

  She licked her lips and said, “Yes.”

  He pressed her further, one hand gripping her hip. “And there will not be a sheet or a blanket between us.”

  Her dark gaze searched his. Her eyes were such a lovely, deep color, filled with clarity, intelligence and depth. “No blankets, Aubrey.” Her fingertips stroked over his lips. “Except for the ones we pull over us both.”

  He released a long, pent-up breath and pressed a kiss against her fingers.

  She shook her head. “You have knocked everything sensible outside of my head again. I think I was starting to fix breakfast.”

  He purred, “We
could always go back to bed right now.”

  She lost all of her composure again. “I—you—seriously?”

  He laughed, a throaty, delighted sound. She sounded almost panicked at the thought. “Forget about breakfast, or even bed right now. Why don’t we step outside for some fresh air. We could even go for a walk. The river is close, isn’t it?”

  She took a step back to eye him, her gaze turning assessing. She smiled. “You’re really doing better.”

  He nodded. “I’m still stiff, especially in my back. But it’s much better now.”

  “An oiled massage would help with a lot of that stiffness.”

  That demon of lunacy took over his tongue. He said, deadpan, “I think an oiled massage would take care of all kinds of stiffness.”

  Hot color washed over her cheeks. She added, strangled, “Certainly, that is, if you—think you might—I meant especially on that wound on your back to loosen up the muscles.”

  He shouted with laughter. “By all the gods, woman, how did you survive in the army for so long?”

  Her embarrassment turned into a glare. “I’m not like this with anybody else!”

  His laughter faded. Warmed, he cupped her cheek and rubbed his thumb over those soft, unusually full lips. “Really?”

  She nodded dumbly.

  “I cherish all of it,” he whispered.

  Clearly she was not used to compliments, for she showed none of the polished deflection practiced by so many of the ladies of his acquaintance. Every word he said affected her deeply; he could see it in her eyes.

  She was an assassin, and she had survived not only in Urien’s palace for decades, but she had also survived Thruvial’s household. Yet with him, she did not barrier any part of herself or use the many tools that must exist in her repertoire. Instead she revealed to him a heart of glass, fragile and beautifully faceted in every way, luminous with light.

  He could not remember ever feeling so touched, or so honored.

  “Come,” she said. “I’ll show you my favorite spot by the river. We can even fish if you want. I like fish for breakfast.”