“And that thing, it is filled with clothes?” she asked.
“Yes.” Heath closed the lid and started to pull on the trous.
“That’s more clothes than any of the Plains warriors I know,” Atira said.
“You only have what you can carry on a horse,” Heath said.
“True,” Atira said. “Although there are stories of a Singer whose tent is filled with more than ten horses can carry,” she chuckled. “But those are only words the wind brings, and they can’t be trusted.”
Heath pulled back the blankets on the bed.
“That scent,” Atira said, her voice slightly husky. “It’s nice.”
Heath looked over at her.
She had placed her weapons on the floor within easy reach, then followed the Plains tradition of sleeping naked. She stripped down to her bare skin, and was stretching in the firelight, letting her hair down from the braid she wound around her head. She was being careful not to look at him.
He couldn’t have looked away if he’d wanted to. She was lovely, strong and golden in the firelight. His mouth went dry and his body betrayed him as his desire rose. He’d been an idiot to say that he would not lay with her unless they bonded.
Atira ignored him as she slid into her blankets, but there was a smirk on her lips that told him that she’d seen and she knew, and . . . he blew out the candle and went to his own bed before he did something stupid.
Hells, he’d already done something stupid, falling in love with a warrior of the Plains. What had he been thinking? Heath smiled ruefully as he slid into the cold bed. He hadn’t exactly been thinking, now, had he? In fact, quite the opposite.
The fire crackled, warming the room, and Heath pretended to watch the flames. But his gaze kept wandering over to Atira, sleeping on her side, her face toward him, her hair spilling around her head. He just needed to make her see . . . to make her understand that he wanted her oath, and for her heart to be his alone. As his heart was hers.
Finally, he forced himself to look up at the ceiling, laying there waiting for sleep to come.
The rustle of blankets told him that Atira was stirring, which wasn’t like her. She usually dropped off fast and rarely stirred in the night. So he wasn’t really surprised when her voice came out of the darkness. “Do you think she knew what she asked of him?”
“Huh?” It was about all Heath could manage; he didn’t have an idea of what she was talking about.
“The Warprize,” Atira said. “Do you think she understood what she was asking Keir to do? To suffer?”
Heath turned on his side and looked over at her. He could see the glitter of her eyes in the firelight. “Yes,” he said softly. “I think so. But Lara has the right of it. The child will need him.”
“The theas would raise the child and raise it well,” Atira protested. “Your parents would aid them.”
“That’s true,” Heath said. “But Xyians believe that a child should be raised by its parents. We also believe that life is a gift of the Sun God, and it is not our place to decide if it should end. That lies in the hands of the Sun God, and our duty is to live, to bear our burdens and sorrows, for as long as we draw breath.”
“But to force him to remain . . . to not permit him to follow her to the snows.” Atira’s voice was filled with pain. “So hard . . .”
“If he’s willing to die for her,” Heath pointed out, “why shouldn’t he be willing to make the greater sacrifice to live for the child? A child of two worlds. And if that child is to take the throne of Xy, then it must be raised here.” Heath stared up at the dark ceiling. “But nothing is going to happen to Lara.”
“True enough,” Atira agreed. “She has good hips for bearing. She should have no problem.”
Heath snorted a laugh. “Don’t let her hear that without a token.”
“Why not?”
Heath chuckled again. “It’s not exactly a compliment to Xyian ears.”
He shifted under the covers, trying to get comfortable, and almost missed her next words. “Those of the Plains would understand and accept the truth of it. Xyians are fools.”
Heath shifted again, punching up his pillow in an effort to make it lie right. But he paused in his efforts to growl at her. “Well, if we’re so stupid, how come I was the only guy who had an axe?”
CHAPTER 14
ATIRA WATCHED AS HEATH FIDGETED IN THE depths of his bed. “What did you say?”
“You heard me,” Heath growled. “The only reason Marcus sent me into the forest to gather wood is that I was the only warrior with an axe.”
“We have axes—” Atira protested, but Heath cut her off.
“Only ones that you’ve stolen.” Heath’s voice was sharp, ringing against the stone walls. “Everything you have, with the exception of gurt and gurtle fur, is stolen. Looted.”
“We raid—”
“Exactly,” Heath snapped. “You raid, loot, steal—”
“Steal?” Atira sat straight up. “We do not—”
“Steal,” Heath raised himself on his elbows. “It’s a hard truth, but it is the truth, and I probably should ask for your token.”
She glared at him.
Heath’s eyes dropped to her breasts, and she watched as he turned his head toward the fire and swallowed hard. She felt a rush of pleasure that she affected him that way, even as her anger at his words rose.
“The point is that you make nothing,” he growled. “And gurt and gurtle pads don’t count. The people of the Plains destroy, they don’t create.” Heath rolled onto his side. “I suspect that is part of the change Keir wants to bring to your people.” He glanced over at her. “All I am saying is that the ways of Xy aren’t evil or stupid. You know better than that.”
Atira felt some of her anger fade, but she wasn’t quite ready to concede the battle. “As you say,” was all she said.
The silence fell between them, and all that she could hear was the crackle of the flames and Heath shifting in his bed. The air was laced with the smell of burning wood and old spices. Atira tried to relax into the comfort of her bedroll, but sleep eluded her. Maybe because she was trying hard to ignore the truth of Heath’s statements.
And the Warprize’s request of the Warlord still bothered her. That a bonded couple would plan and commit to each other even beyond the snows . . .
She’d never had an interest in bonding. Never saw any benefit to it, truth be told. Why imprison yourself with promises to any one person?
Heath and his demands of bonding . . . bonding was for special people. There was nothing extraordinary about her or Heath. His demands were foolish.
She sighed as she remembered the look on Lara’s face and on Keir’s. They shared something that stirred her. That made wanting more seem almost . . . possible. Was it?
“Enough of this.” Heath’s voice cut through her thoughts, startling her. He sat up in bed and threw back his blankets. “Lara is right. I can’t get comfortable.”
Atira blinked as he stood and stalked close to stand over her. Those thin trous left nothing much to wonder about, and she felt heat bloom within her as he drew closer.
But Heath just gathered up his bedroll. “Come on,” he said, heading for the shuttered window. “Bring your bedroll.” He snagged up his sword, then turned back to his press. “You’d better wear one of my tunics.”
“Where are we going?” Atira whispered, getting to her feet. Heath tossed her a tunic and then turned to the window. “Where?” she repeated, as she pulled the spice-scented cloth on over her head.
Heath was outlined against the window as he lifted the bar and opened the shutters. “Out,” was all he said.
THERE WAS JUST ENOUGH LIGHT TO SEE BY, although Heath knew the way well enough that he could have done it blindfolded. He jumped over to the roof of the shed and held out his hand for Atira.
She ignored it and landed beside him with ease.
He puffed out a breath at her stubbornness, and then led the way along the roof, back towa
rd the tree that they had climbed. But instead of climbing down, Heath ducked under the branches and along the roof to the next building over. Here the slate was only slightly slanted, and the stone beneath his feet was warm.
“What is this?” Atira asked as she came to stand close, her voice little more than a whisper. From here she could see more of the courtyard, which contained a well and what looked to be a sparring circle.
“The baking ovens,” Heath whispered back, kneeling to lay out his bedroll. “The cooks keep a steady fire going all day, so the stone will be warm for hours. I used to climb out here all the time and watch the stars.”
She hesitated. “We’ll fall.”
“We won’t fall,” Heath said.
Atira looked at the edge of the roof doubtfully. “We’ll—”
“Move slowly and keep your feet pointed toward the edge,” Heath said. “You won’t fall.”
Atira set about spreading her bedroll next to his. “This is what Xyians do when they can’t sleep?”
“Hardly,” Heath chuckled as he stretched out, his feet inches from the edge of the roof. “But I never got caught. The tree blocks the view from the castle, and no one comes out here at night. Mama has a flock of chickens that she keeps in a coop, but they are penned at dusk. As long as we’re quiet, they won’t put up a fuss.”
Atira placed her weapons close, and then she settled onto her bedding, rolling onto her side to face him. Heath admired the way her hips shifted under his tunic, offering glimpses of the shadowed area between her thighs.
He tore his gaze away and stared up at the night sky. The heat of the roof was coming up through the gurtle pads. He should have been relaxing into it, but he still felt tense. Tight.
It didn’t help that Atira was staring at him, her head propped up with one hand.
“I should have the tree cut down,” he said. “If I could figure out how to use it to gain access, someone else can do the same.”
“That seems wrong,” Atira said. “A thing that has grown there for so long dies because it is an inconvenience to you?”
Heath stretched his arms over his neck and arched his back, trying to work out the kinks in his shoulders. “There is truth to that. But it would be foolish to leave it there.”
“Sit up,” Atira commanded.
Heath sat up on the bedding, his legs crossed. Atira settled behind him and started to work his shoulders. “Foolish to suffer when I can work those knots out.”
Heath grunted as she started to knead his muscles. It felt good, and without thinking, he sighed.
“That’s better.” Atira’s voice was a warm whisper in his ear.
“The tree is a weakness,” Heath said. “That wasn’t a fear before, when Xymund was King. But now . . .” He straightened as Atira worked her way down his spine. “Now it needs to be addressed.”
“As does the state of the warriors in your guard,” Atira said. “Detros is a man you trust, but look at the size of his belly.”
Heath shook his head. “Don’t be fooled. Detros may not be young and fast, but he knows the men well, and their strengths and weaknesses. He knows the castle, too. He’d be a good choice to lead the Guard, after—” Heath cut off his words, not sure he wanted to talk about the future. Not now. Not yet.
Atira didn’t seem to notice. She was stroking his arms now, tracing down them with her fingertips. The cloth of the tunic she wore brushed against his skin, and he could smell the spices rising from the warmth of her body. He drew the scent in, breathing deeply.
Atira chuckled, seemingly sure of herself, and her hands rose to his chest, stroking over his nipples.
“I need to know something,” Heath whispered.
“Yes,” Atira said, and it wasn’t a question. Her hands drifted lower, close to his trous.
“If you are so against bonding with me, why are you trying to seduce me?”
Atira jerked her hands back, her anger flaring once again.
Heath looked over his shoulder at her, his blue eyes deep in the fading light.
Atira flushed, but lifted her chin. “Try? I don’t have to try hard. You want me.”
She gestured to the front of his trous. “Deny that.”
“I don’t.” Heath turned his back. “But I want more. Much more.”
“City-dweller ways,” Atira snorted, moving over to her bedroll to sprawl on its length. “Can’t it just be about pleasure? Enjoying ourselves?”
“I desire you, Atira,” Heath said. “You are the air I need to breathe, the very heart of me.” He knelt on his side, propping his head on his hand. “I want more than sex, more than sharing. I want to create a life with you. Sharing our hearts, our laughter and sorrow, our plans. How can I make you see that—”
“I see that your body hungers,” Atira said. “As does mine.”
She reached for his groin, but Heath caught her wrist. “No. Bonding is more than sex. How can I make you understand that—”
“Fine,” Atira snapped as she pulled her hand back. She sat up and pulled off the tunic.
“What are you doing?” Heath growled.
Atira rolled the tunic into a pillow and lay back slowly. “If you will not see to my pleasure, I will take my own.” She arched her back, and cupped her breasts in her hands, closing her eyes as her nipples tightened.
A strangled noise came from Heath’s direction, but she ignored him, keeping her eyes closed. “You were right, the stones are warm, and the air is sweet on my skin.” Atira pinched her nipples, rolling them between her fingers. She drew one leg up, and flexed her hips.
“Can you smell my desire, Heath?” she asked. She eased her eyes open just a bit so that she could see Heath’s face. It might have been set in stone, his eyes glittering as his chest heaved. “Can you taste the salt of my skin on your lips?”
She moved her right hand down, stroking the skin of her belly. “I want your touch,” she whispered. “I want you, deep within me.” She moved her fingers lower, just touching the top of her mound as she let her leg fall, exposing her folds. “But if I can’t have—”
Heath pounced.
He grabbed for her wrists, trying to pin her with his body. But Atira fought back, using his weight against him, rolling them over so that she was on top, flushed with her victory.
Heath growled and rolled them back onto the pads, half on, half off, his leg pressed between her, forcing them apart.
Atira chuckled, and used her hips to flip him again, determined to win.
Heath’s eyes went wide, and she shrieked as they rolled off the roof.
CHAPTER 15
“IDIOT,” DURST SNARLED. “HOW COULD YOU BE SO stupid?”
Lanfer was bent over a table, his leathers down around his ankles. He winced as Browdus poured wine onto his buttocks. “It was necessary. It will throw them off balance.”
“Horseshit,” Durst growled. “You and the Seneschal’s son have been at odds since birth. You brought personal feelings into this for the wrong reasons.”
Lanfer twisted around to look at the man. “And your reasons aren’t personal?”
“Yours is a squabble between boys.” Durst’s tone was cold. “I am avenging the death of my son with a cool head and a steady hand.”
Lanfer winced as Browdus spread open the wound and rinsed it again. “Hold still,” the cleric muttered.
“You can’t stay in the castle,” Durst continued. “We’ll need a reason to get you—”
“I am not leaving,” Lanfer said.
“You won’t be able to sit for a week,” Durst pointed out. “And your man will walk with a limp.” He sniffed. “At least you had the brains not to leave a blood trail to my door.”
“I will be fine,” Lanfer said. “The pain is nothing compared to the healing. My man can take my horses out to the farrier and leave that way. But I am staying.”
Durst lifted his cane and brought the tip up under Lanfer’s chin. Lanfer lifted his head, craning his neck until he winced with pain.
> “You stay only so long as you obey me,” Durst said. “Our plans rely on quiet and subtlety. No one must suspect until it’s too late.”
Lanfer pulled his head off the tip of the cane. “I will obey,” he growled.
“Good.” Durst turned to the man tending him. “How bad is it?”
Browdus shrugged. “I’ve got the bleeding stopped. The wound is small but fairly deep. We can’t risk a healer, so he will have to suffer my ministering.”
“Suffer is the word,” Lanfer said.
“I’ve washed it with wine, and I’ll bandage it as best I can.” Browdus took the clean rags from Beatrice.
“You need to get back to the church,” Durst said. “My wife can apply the bandages to his ass. I don’t trust the Archbishop’s nerves.”
“Best if I keep him far from the court.” Browdus stepped back, taking up his cloak.
“As far as you can.” Durst smiled grimly. “Let there be no reminders.”
“Plans within plans,” Browdus said. “Remember that plans fail and—”
“Rest assured, priest,” Durst arched an eyebrow. “My plans do not call for bedding.”
Browdus flushed, bowed, and went swiftly out the door. “What was that about?” Lanfer asked. He was clearly trying not to flinch as Beatrice packed the wound.
“Nothing you need know of.” Durst limped over to the window. “Just an ill-conceived plan that Browdus came up with early on.” Durst settled into his chair with a sigh. “Admittedly, it was done quickly, with little time for planning. But my web has been woven over months.” He settled back with a sigh. “They will never see the blows coming.”
“I UNDERSTAND THERE WAS A BIT OF A RUCKUS last night,” Lara said as she stepped out of her sleeping chambers. Her eyes were lit up with mischief.
“Did Keir and Atira leave already?” Heath asked, trying to avoid the topic. Bad enough he still had the taste of willowbark tea in his mouth.
Warcry Page 10