by Beth Bolden
“You must see what we discovered,” she said, and refused to say anything further as she held out an arm to assist Rory in descending down to the tunnel below. Within moments, Anya and Diana had followed him, and his eyes slowly growing accustomed to the dim light from several torches, posted a few dozen feet apart down the length of the dank sewer.
“Follow me,” Diana said, and picking up one of the torches from the makeshift holder, led them in a direction that Rory was fairly sure was opposite of the one they’d taken that fateful day.
“How did you find it?” Anya asked.
“We started here, in the sewer, as that seemed the most obvious method of entry from the castle itself,” Diana said as they picked their way down the waterlogged stone. “It did not take us very long to find it.” She shuddered, and Rory was sure, with a growing sense of dread, that it wasn’t because she was cold, even though there was a distinct chill in the air down below.
Finally, they emerged into a central meeting of several of the large pipes, and there, at the very end of the most forward tunnel, stood Marthe, a bleak look on her face.
“Your Majesty,” she said, inclining her head. “I have found what you requested.” She gestured, indicating the large metal door that had blocked Sabrina’s lair off from the rest of the tunnels.
“Should we not go inside?” Rory asked.
Marthe hesitated. “Your Majesty, we can collapse this tunnel and everything in it, and ensure that the likelihood of it being found and anything inside it ever being used again would be extremely slim.”
“But you said earlier, just yesterday in fact, that you thought we should use it to expose Sabrina as the dark witch that she was,” Rory objected. He’d been hoping that with the execution of her plan, he could enact his own, and ensure that his and Gray’s future was as happy and joyful as he’d always hoped it would be. But now instead Marthe wished to close all the evidence away? Hide it?
“Before you make the decision, you should see inside,” Marthe said, her voice as hard as the stone walls surrounding them. “And we should hurry.”
Anya placed a hand on the sword hilt on her belt and Rory began to comprehend why Marthe might have changed her mind.
He followed Marthe, pulse thudding dully, into the darkened chamber, secretly (or perhaps not so secretly) terrified of what he would find.
The room itself was fairly basic and non-threatening, with no corpses lying around or blood splashed along the walls. Merely a few old, battered wooden tables, covered in glass jars filled with a creepy assortment of animal parts and some rather more innocuous-looking herbs, and parchments scattered every which way. An enormous deep black cauldron stood in the middle of the room, its interior crusted with burned-on bits that had Rory shuddering.
“This, Your Majesty,” Marthe said, pointing to one of the tables, “was what concerned me the most.”
Rory stepped over to the table. On it was a vial of some substance, and it was open and clearly fresh, as it had not yet dried out in the container. Next to it was a large stone mortar with a matching stone pestle. Rory put a single fingertip inside, and felt the wetness of whatever mixture had been in process. “You interrupted someone,” Rory said softly. “Someone knows about this place and has been using it since Sabrina’s demise.”
“Or it could be Sabrina, back from the dead,” Diana piped in fearfully.
“She’s dead, Gray burned her to ash,” Anya answered flatly. “But this is clearly one of her sycophants, trying to continue her evil work.”
“Unfortunately,” Marthe added, “the person fled before we could get a good look, and it was so dark and the terrain so uneven, it was impossible to follow them. However”—she pointed to a scrap of parchment next to the mortar—“they were using one of her recipes. You know it’s not her, because look, see the handwriting?” Rory peered closer, and made out his aunt’s distinctive handwriting, though he did not recognize the language, and then the very different notations that had been made next to some of the lines.
“Someone is trying to take her place,” Rory said in a hard voice. “No, we cannot expose this. We must destroy it. Everything in it. And I must go get Gray, now.”
Marthe frowned. “Is it such a good idea to leave the castle at this time of unrest? Surely we could send a messenger to bring Prince Graham back to Beaulieu.”
Rory had known she would suggest that; after discovering this lair, she wouldn’t want him to leave the relative safety of the castle. But was it truly safe when someone within the walls was attempting to practice Sabrina’s particularly warped version of magic?
“We will be quick. I will travel light, with only a small guard. After all, the person who opened this chamber will be here, and not in the Valley.” Rory could see Marthe was unsure, but she finally nodded her approval. He hadn’t necessarily needed it, because he was the King, after all, but it was certainly easier if she agreed.
“Hopefully we caught whoever was here mid-spell, and they will be unable to complete it,” Anya said ominously.
“Hopefully,” Rory repeated, but he did not feel particularly hopeful. He felt afraid, and until Gray was back, safely within these walls, and they were again united, he wouldn’t sleep easy.
Chapter Five
Telling Gray about Marthe and Diana’s discovery hadn’t been the first thing he’d wanted to lead with—there were definitely other subjects he was dying to discuss with Gray—but after Rory’s confession, that was all Gray wanted to hear.
“Tell me everything,” he said, pulling Rory towards the farmhouse, as Anya directed the guard towards the stables. “What do you mean, she isn’t dead? I fried her.”
“You did,” Rory agreed. “We all saw it. But, Marthe found a room, deep in the catacombs, near where we snuck in using the old sewer tunnels, where Sabrina performed her magic spells. And it seems that someone else is using it.”
Gray stared at him, as Rory sank into one of the chairs near the fireplace. Gray’s old home might be very simple, but it was comfortable. “Someone else? Who?”
“Unfortunately, they seemed to have run off just before they were discovered. But,” Rory sighed, “I do have my guesses.”
“Aplin or Rinard,” Gray said in a hard voice. “Of course it would be them. It surely has to be Rinard.”
“Perhaps not. I have my concerns about both of them.”
Gray sighed, and began to pace back and forth. “I won’t disagree with you. But why were Marthe and Diana searching in the catacombs in the first place?”
This was less easy for Rory to admit, because so much of the explanation why touched on the other reason he’d been desperate to talk to Gray.
He held out his hands towards Gray, who came nearer and took them in his own, clasping tightly. Rory’s heart beat a little faster, and even though he knew this was the right thing to do, he still felt a frisson of nerves. “It was actually Marthe’s suggestion. She said many of the nobles didn’t fully understand what Sabrina was capable of, and perhaps I should show them what she was truly like. It was good timing, since I was looking to curry favor with the court, because I’m planning to announce a new proposal that might not be popular.”
Gray frowned. “Is that really the best idea right now? Even if you can convince them Sabrina was evil, the risk might not be worth the reward.”
He couldn’t have known it, but his words gave Rory the strength—the certainty—he so desperately needed. “The risk,” he told Gray seriously, “would be worth every bit of the reward. At least I hope so.”
“What could possibly be worth it?”
Rory stood, and tugged their still connected hands in the direction of Gray’s room, where he knew the bath was set up. “Let’s take a bath and talk about it, more privately,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about your bathtub since we left Beaulieu.”
Gray laughed, his expression was baffled. “You have marble tubs the size of whole rooms in Beaulieu; why on earth would my tub be worth dreaming about?”
; “Because you’re in it,” Rory said, closing the door behind them and wrapping his arms tightly around Gray’s neck. He rose on his tiptoes and kissed Gray square on the mouth. From the moment their lips touched, Rory realized that they hadn’t been kissing nearly enough. Touching, either. Or really talking, when it came down to it, but tonight, at the very least, other than one important question, he didn’t intend to do much talking. Touching and kissing? That was another matter entirely.
Rory’s fingers made quick work of the buttons on Gray’s stained shirt, and he quickly shoved it aside, resting his palms against Gray’s heart, beating hard in his chest. He pulled away, momentarily entranced by Gray’s damp red-tinged lips. He didn’t believe it, but he was so handsome. Gray was always telling him that he was the beautiful one; the most stunning man he had ever seen. But Rory had been looking at Gray that way from the very first moment they met, and he had no intention of ever stopping.
“Bath,” Gray said breathlessly. “I thought you wanted a bath. I know I need a bath. Harvesting corn is no minor job.” He hesitated. “I wanted to finish this afternoon so we could leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Rory said firmly. “Bath now. Talk now.”
Gray started working the pulley system, bringing water from the cistern to the bathtub. “What is this new plan of yours? You should’ve talked to Evrard about it.”
“I don’t think I need to. I think … I know now, at least I think I know, what you were trying to do the other night, when you …” Rory hesitated.
“When I proposed,” Gray said flatly.
“Yes, when you proposed,” Rory responded softly. “I didn’t know then. I was too overwhelmed and drowning in my own problems to see it, but now I see what you were trying to do. And it would be a good start, but I think we can improve upon it.”
Gray shot him a quick, pointed look. “Improve upon it?”
This is it, Rory’s subconscious unhelpfully supplied. Now you find out if you waited too long. If you refusing to answer the other night was the nail in the coffin of your relationship. Carefully, he dropped to one knee. His riding breeches were stained and dirty, his tunic had not fared much better, and his hair was mussed from the ride and from Gray’s own fingers. But hopefully what his attire lacked, he could make up for with his words. After all, words were his thing.
“I love you,” Rory said. “I do want to marry you. It would give me the greatest happiness in the world if you would do me the honor of becoming my husband. But something that would make me even happier—and you too, I hope—would be if you would take the throne of Fontaine with me. Share it. Rule with me, Gray. I don’t just want you to be my consort, I want you to be my partner. My equal. My king.”
There was no other word for Gray’s reaction than complete shock.
“You … this is what you want?” he asked, and Rory could only nod in agreement.
“But, every time I asked you, you … you put me off!” Gray answered. He sounded frustrated and Rory couldn’t say he blamed him. Rory had been blind, and had a lot to apologize for.
“I’ve not been treating you right, not for awhile now. I wasn’t thinking of you, and all the adjustments you’ve had to make since you came with me to Beaulieu. And when I did, it became so obvious to me that the solution to so many of our problems was to stop trying to handle them alone and share them.”
Gray crossed his arms over his bare chest, but didn’t say anything. The water continued to fill in the tub, and Rory, feeling awkward that he was still kneeling with no answer in sight, finally stood and walked over to the vessel, dipping his fingers in to test the temperature of the water. Rory supposed he couldn’t really blame Gray for being angry, for wanting to make sure Rory wasn’t merely trying to placate him with empty promises. And perhaps Rory did deserve a little payback for his own non-answer to Gray’s proposal.
Finally, he spoke up. “This will not be a popular choice for you, as King,” he said softly. “You are taking an enormous risk here. We could do this more slowly. First, an engagement. Then marriage. Then gradually involving me more in sharing your duties until you finally appoint me as your equal. We don’t have to do this … I’m not going to leave you just because I’m frustrated.”
Rory couldn’t deny he’d considered a plan very similar to Gray’s suggestion. It was slightly terrifying, trusting to chance and his very newly won ability to govern his people, that they wouldn’t become frustrated and find a new ruler to take his place. “Gray,” he said, reaching out to him again, and pulling him close, pressing their bodies together. “You were born to be a king, and more importantly, you were trained to be a king. What kind of husband would I be if I chose to diminish that part of you? Not a very good one. I would not have the first choices of our committed life together be half-hearted compromises.”
“You do mean to do this, then, fully. No turning back.”
It might have felt more difficult than it was, except that Rory knew how much they could accomplish if only they worked together, if only they married Rory’s knowledge with Gray’s strength. “I am as fully committed to this as I am committed to you,” Rory vowed.
Gray stared at him for a long, measured moment. “I love you,” he finally said, and leaning down, kissed him soundly, passionately. Lifted his mouth briefly and smiled. “And yes, of course I will marry you.”
Relief and happiness cascaded through Rory. He reached up and cupped Gray’s bristled cheeks, kissing him again, and then again. “You won’t regret this,” he vowed. “I swear that you won’t.”
Gray was smiling now, as widely and as brightly as Rory had ever seen. “I haven’t yet,” he confessed. “Even all those times we ended up fighting because men lose their heads around you.”
“They do not,” Rory scoffed. But Gray’s gentle teasing, after a week apart, and what felt like months where they barely saw each other, was a balm.
“They absolutely do,” Gray said, and he was definitely grinning now. “But then so did I, so I can hardly blame them.”
“You did?” Gray had always seemed so sure, so confident, so purposeful, that it felt strange for Rory to consider that it was him, and not circumstances out of Gray’s control, that had been enough to change his path.
Gray bent down, his dark blue eyes growing serious, as he swept a hand through Rory’s hair, pushing it back gently. “I thought you were everything I hated, condensed into one person, but then I discovered who you really were, the man underneath the Autumn Prince, and it wouldn’t have mattered if you were an emperor or a beggar, I was yours. Heart, soul, and body.”
Rory couldn’t help the glimmer of a smile that escaped him. “Body?” he inquired hopefully.
Laughing, Gray scooped him up and, depositing him on the edge of the tub, made quick work of his clothes and boots. Rory slid into the tub and watched expectantly, with his blood racing and heat building in his stomach, as Gray shed his own pants and boots.
He was every inch the warrior that Rory always fantasized about: all that smooth golden skin covering muscle that bunched and flexed as he leaned over to untie a stubborn lace. When Gray raised his head again, his gaze had darkened. “I like you watching me,” he said softly, but with clear erotic purpose. His cock was growing harder, and Rory watched with rapt attention as Gray’s hand gripped it, stroking from root to tip and back again. “But I think I like you touching me even more,” he admitted.
“Then come here,” Rory pleaded, and Gray did as requested, stepping into the tub and positioning himself opposite Rory.
Reaching out, Rory was surprised when the other man batted his hands away. “But …” Rory pouted. Hadn’t Gray just said he liked Rory touching him?
“Wash first,” Gray insisted, and he was already scooping out the soap, suds trailing across his broad chest. Rory shut his mouth and followed suit, washing up quickly and efficiently. The moment the soap returned to the dish, Rory was pushing off from one side of the tub, floating over to where Gray sat, waiting, his eyes g
leaming with so many possibilities that Rory felt breathless.
When Rory finally settled on his lap, knees on either side of Gray’s thighs, they both let out a sigh. “Better,” Gray said, and that was the last word he said for awhile, as Rory leaned down and kissed him thoroughly, tongue slipping inside his mouth and exploring every inch that he’d missed over the last few weeks. His fingers, trying to grip Gray’s damp shoulders, slipped, and their heads nearly knocked together. Gray gasped and then suddenly, without warning, picked Rory up, his powerful muscles straining as Rory wrapped his legs, water streaming off them, around Gray’s waist.
“Bed,” Rory agreed, answering Gray’s unspoken question.
It had always been hot and perfect between them, even when they’d been in a half-frozen lake, and it was just as perfect now, but now, as Gray lay down on the bed and Rory crawled up his chest to continue kissing him, it wasn’t just unrestrained lust. There was tenderness and care between them. Every time Gray touched him, fingers sure on his skin, Rory experienced an echo of every bit of love Gray felt. And hovering behind every kiss, every touch, every gasp and every moan was the knowledge that they would be doing this for a long time, and every moment of that forever, they would be together.
“Please,” Rory begged as Gray’s touch fleetingly brushed against his own hard, leaking cock. “Please touch me.”
“As my king commands,” Gray teased, but this time his fingertips didn’t just graze his skin, but settled with purpose against the cradle of his hips. “How did you want me to touch you?”
Rory, panting and half-crazed with want, opened his legs, spreading them wide in an open invitation.
Invitation received, Gray slicked his fingers up from the bottle by the bed, and when he slid the first finger inside Rory, he threw his head back and moaned. No matter how much they did this, it always felt so good, somehow even better than it had the first heart-stopping time they’d indulged.
“You feel so goddamned perfect,” Gray ground out, his voice growing low and intense, gritty around the edges. Another finger joined the first one, and as they delved deep, touching that electric part inside him, Rory gasped.