Strongman

by Denise Rossetti

  As they disappeared around the corner, Mirry’s deep voice floated back. “Not even Pindar’s seen the scroll. Sorry, I lost track of time in the excitement.”

  “Believe me,” murmured Jan, “you’ll be excited once I get you home.”

  Mirry’s voice deepened to a husky rasp. “Promise?” he said and then Fledge giggled and they were out of earshot.

  Fort and Griff stood in complete silence.

  The tumbler blew out a breath. “Twister take me!” He sank onto to the van’s lowest step as though his knees had turned to water.

  “I know what you mean. Move over.” Fort squeezed in beside him. He scratched his beard, ran a hand through his hair ‘til it tufted. “Lufra, I need a drink!”

  “Me too. Gods, they’re lust on legs.” Griff huffed out a laugh. “Or on the wing. Little Fledge. Who’d have thought it?” He relaxed, leaning companionably against Fort’s shoulder. Nothing in that, nothing at all, but when Fort sighed and stretched out his long legs, the tumbler’s firm thigh pressed against his. Everything below the waist sprang to attention.

  Shit, not again!

  Fort levered himself to his feet. “You coming? I’ll buy.”

  “In that case…” Griff’s smile glinted up at him. “I’m your man.”

  Fort gritted his teeth. Lufra, he needed to get laid!

  Chapter Three

  Feolin—Religion—Lufra:

  The patron deity of the Feolin, Lufra is a goddess of love in all its forms. She may be depicted as Maiden, Mother or Crone. However, her most popular aspect, particularly among Feolin men, is as a divine Harlot, the Lust Dragon—the personification of sexual excess.

  In summary, Lufra embodies the eternal female principle.

  Excerpt from the Great Encyclopedia, compiled by Miriliel the Burnished.

  Shit, he needed to get laid! Griff sat at a stained wooden table at the back of the tavern tent and tried not to watch the muscles in Fort’s strong, brown throat move as he swallowed. Twister, how stupid could a man be? He’d seen the danger flare in those hard eyes. Fuck, he was going to get himself killed if he didn’t stop pushing. Last night, alone in his own modest wagon, he’d marked each hour with a twist or a turn, and now his skin felt too tight for his body, preternaturally aware of every shift of broad shoulders or brawny thigh, of the smell of the other man’s skin, the sweep of ink-dark lashes as he blinked.

  Griff sipped his ale cautiously. He’d never had much of a head for liquor and he had no doubt a man Fort’s size could drink him under the table. Right now, he needed all the wits he possessed.

  He knew the impression he gave—feisty, cocky, opinionated. Promiscuous. No question but he loved to fuck. In his opinion, a good, hard cock and the perfect receptacle for it were the two greatest gifts of the gods. He sighed with the memory of pleasure, of velvety breast-flesh and honeyed cunts, hot and tight and slick. Women. Ah, yes!

  And he didn’t need even the fingers of one hand to number his male lovers. Three.

  So why was he sitting here, with a ruthless warrior he was almost certain didn’t want him, longing to smooth his thumb over that scarred brow? Ridiculous to be so intrigued, so drawn, like a foolish furrymoth to a candle.

  But now he knew things—such fascinating things—about Fortitude McLaren. The way desire turned his beautiful eyes to smoke, made his cock rear in his trews, fat and wicked. His nipples were dark as roberry brew and when water hit them, they crinkled. Griff licked his lips, tasting ale, imagining something quite different.

  Fort had to be the most dangerous man he’d ever met and that included the Aetherii with the impossible name and the gem-hard eyes. Jan…whatever. He was also alone, in a way Griff had not encountered before, self-contained, with a control as hard as winter iron. And lonely, so very lonely.

  Yet when he’d smiled at Fledge, relaxed and open, the breath had rasped in Griff’s lungs. If Fort would smile at him like that… In all honesty, there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for such a prize.

  He shook his head ruefully. A fool, a poor, besotted fool. That’s what he was.

  “What?” asked Fort’s deep voice.

  Griff’s hand jerked and ale slopped over his wrist. “Nothing.” He licked it off.

  Silence.

  Fort shifted on the bench. “I should thank you.”

  Griff shrugged. “Forget it.”

  “No.” For the first time, Fort touched him voluntarily, reaching out to squeeze Griff’s shoulder. “I’m grateful.”

  Very carefully, Griff placed his mug on the table. Shit, his fingers trembled! At this rate, he’d skewer some part of Katahaya tonight in the Big Top and Cizmar would snap his neck like a dried twig. As for Ansel… He shivered. Ansel was the subtle sort.

  Don’t die not knowing. Drowning, he gazed into cool gray eyes and risked it. “Tell me about your Bondmate,” he said.

  He half expected Fort to freeze him with a glance, but instead the big man shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “She died,” he said. “Twenty years ago.” But his face had shuttered.

  “I’m sorry.”

  More silence.

  “You…uh…didn’t marry again?”

  The broad shoulders shifted. “I joined a mercenary company, the first that passed through Feolin.”

  “What was one of the Brethren doing in Feolin in the first place?”

  “Enough questions.” Fort drained his mug and rose, fluid and economical in his movements for such a big man. “I’m going to shift my things.”

  “You know, you’d almost make a fine tumbler,” said Griff, watching.

  “Uh-huh.” The brow went up. “But?”

  “Too tall, too big. Though you’ve got strength and flexibility.” Scrupulously, Griff smoothed all expression from his face. “You’d do as a strongman, the one at the bottom.”

  “Lufra save me,” Fort muttered, but his lips quirked as he turned away.

  An almost-smile. Just for him. Triumph curled warm in Griff’s belly. He buried his nose in his ale jug to conceal the silly grin. When he looked up Fort had gone.

  He caught up well before the roustabouts’ tent and reached up to tap one shoulder. “I’ll give you a hand.”

  “No need. I travel light.” Fort strode on, cutting a swath through the gathering crowd of evening Fairgoers.

  Wisely, Griff said nothing. But he lengthened his stride to keep up.

  * * * * *

  “This is exquisite.” Griff squinted at the last of the brew cups he was putting in the cupboard. When he held it up, the lamplight shone through the translucent porcelain, illuminating the swirling, abstract design etched into it. “I can’t believe you’ve kept the set intact.”

  “That’s Sereian china.” Fort unbuckled the straps around his bedroll. “Beautiful, but tough as boots. You could throw it at the wall and it’d bounce off.”

  “Really?” Griff grinned and hefted the cup.

  “Don’t.” Fort reached over his shoulder and lifted it out of his hand. “Or I’ll bounce you.”

  “Promises, promises,” murmured Griff.

  Fort’s head jerked around, but the other man had turned away to examine the workings of the wobbly brazier and he couldn’t make out his expression.

  He’d meant to send the tumbler away, but in the end, he’d got lazy and let Griff please himself. And apparently, it pleased him to stay.

  With the roustabouts, Fort was still conscious of the burden of command, the distance a captain had to keep from his men. But Griff’s company was unexpectedly pleasant, even restful. He wouldn’t be sending the tumbler out to die, wouldn’t see him return, pale and still, with blood on his lips. Or worse, screaming and writhing, his guts spilling out over his desperate fingers, while Fort struggled not to breathe the stench, his gruff words of comfort hollow and meaningless. Useless, fucking, totally use—

  “What is it?” Strong hands gripped his biceps, steadied him. “Are you all right?” He felt the heat of Griff’s body all along his side, the w
armth of a slim, sturdy leg pressing into the back of his thigh.

  He shrugged the other man off. “Of course.” His fingers brushed against smooth wood. Gratefully, he lifted the small figure of the Goddess out of his bedroll and handed it over his shoulder. “Here. Put Her in the worship niche.”

  Griff stroked the sandaled foot of the seated deity with one finger. “She’s lovely. Lufra?”

  “Depicted as the Maiden.” Fort’s heart lightened a little. “She’s my lucky piece. We’ve been together more than twenty years. See the flowers in Her lap?”

  Griff turned the little Goddess over and over in his hands. It wasn’t hard to see the questions forming in his quicksilver mind. But all he said was, “A rare artist.”

  A smile tugged at Fort’s mouth. So Griffid Ringman was actually capable of discretion. Praise Lufra indeed. He rolled his shoulders, feeling some of the tension leak away. “He was like a father to me. A blacksmith.”

  “Truly? Then he had a light hand with wood.”

  Fort twitched the bedroll straight on the mattress, smoothed the blue silk ‘til it lay flat. “He made one for Brin, one for me. Then he died.”

  “Who’s Brin?”

  “The blacksmith’s son. Haven’t seen him in years, but he still owns the best vranee ranch in Feolin. I worked for the family when we were no more than randy lads, the pair of us.” Fort turned. “The only man I ever met who could beat me. Bigger, faster, stronger.” He grunted, remembering. “Well, most of the time.”

  “Twister!” Griff’s sloe eyes widened. “What did he look like? A mountain?”

  Fort allowed himself a slow, evil grin and a hint of pink bloomed on Griff’s cheekbones. “Dark, dark as sin. Good man.” He let his insolent gaze skim the contours of the tumbler’s body, from the square shoulders to the trim waist and muscled thighs. Even the bulge of his crotch. “Flirt with Brin and he’d break you in half.”

  Griff cocked his head to one side. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, opening his eyes very wide. “You haven’t.”

  Gods, what a nerve! Fort couldn’t help it. A chuckle rumbled in his chest. Two seconds later, he broke off, startled. Frowning, he tried to remember the last time he’d laughed like that, without thinking.

  “You should do that more often.” Griff leaned casually against the cupboard, but his chest rose and fell as if he’d been running. “Even with that godsawful beard—”

  Fort rose, looming over the other man. “What the fuck,” he demanded, “is wrong with my bloody beard?”

  “It covers your face,” said Griff calmly. “As I’m sure you intend it to do. Time to stop hiding, Fort.”

  “Hiding?”

  Griff straightened, which put him virtually in Fort’s arms. Setting his jaw, Fort refused to give an inch. He could smell the warm, masculine scent of Griff’s skin, see the pulse ticking in his throat. “How old are you?” the tumbler asked abruptly.

  If truth be told, he wasn’t so short after all. He must be on the tall side for an acrobat because his head reached Fort’s shoulder, his lips about level with his pounding heart.

  “Forty-one, give or take,” Fort said absently. “You?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  Griff ducked under Fort’s arm and made for the door. “You bought the drinks. I’ll buy supper,” he said over his shoulder. “Be back in an hour, after the performance. Why no meat?”

  “Why the questions?”

  “If you don’t ask, you never know. Griff’s—”

  “Yeah, I know. Griff’s motto.”

  “Does meat disagree with you?”

  “Gods, you’re like a biteme.”

  “So my mother says.” Griff spun around and stood on the first step, leaning into the wagon with his hands braced on the doorframe. “So why?”

  “Not since my first raid on a Hssrda slave camp.”

  Griff reared back as if he’d been slapped. “Oh.”

  Fort felt a certain vicious satisfaction. “I don’t drink much either.”

  “That adds up. You might lose control.”

  Fort was still searching for a retort when he realized the other man had disappeared into the night. Stalking over to the door, he yanked it shut. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t think he’d felt so…so…unbalanced in years, swinging between amusement and exasperation, embarrassment and enjoyment. Shit, his guts were one dark, spiky tangle, all conflict and confusion!

  Slowly, he relaxed back against the wall. He hadn’t led a successful mercenary company by being a muddle-headed fool—about himself or about others. Griffid Ringman had the gift for friendship, for connection, Fort knew he lacked.

  He’d only ever trusted one person completely and Bekah had gone and died on him, taking the babe with her. So long ago now, he sometimes had trouble remembering her face. But he knew beyond doubt her dark, merry eyes would be the last image of her to fade from his memory. He’d first seen her across a Feolin market, arguing cheerfully with the merchant who’d owned the caravan he’d traveled with. She was so alive, so free and open with her tanned legs flashing beneath her swinging skirts. For a lad come directly from the Straight Church, she’d been shocking, fascinating, beyond him to resist.

  Even now, he thanked Lufra for the chance that had brought a Feolin-bound caravan his way, before his father and the local Elders’ Court and the public bullwhip caught up with him. After what he’d done…

  Disciplining his breathing, Fort rose to light the brazier and put on water for roberry brew. His movements practiced and precise, he lined up the Sereian pot and two of the small cups.

  For the first time, he became conscious that out here on the outskirts of the Fair, near the menagerie, sounds were muted. The dull roar of a medium-sized crowd, the occasional high-pitched shout of a barker from the concourse. The shabby little wagon rocked when the wind got up, but inside it was snug and warm, full of golden light. Smiling a little, he filled the pot. Then he turned to the worship niche.

  Fort rested the pad of his forefinger on Lufra’s dainty foot and gazed about him with pleasure. He hadn’t had a place of his own, his things around him, for twenty years. Not since the two-roomed hut he’d shared with Bekah, behind Brin’s ranch house. His smile grew wry. Goddess, he must be nesting, clucky as a rasa bird in breeding season!

  But he knew what was due and to Whom. And it wasn’t the stern Ruler God of his childhood. Fort closed his eyes. Holy Lufra, I thank You for this place, this life. Hold Bekah and the child close in Your arms. Stretch Your hand over my mother and Gracie and Prue and Constance and Silence. Wherever they are now, in this life or the next.

  He hesitated, seeing sloe eyes, fierce with concentration, the smooth turn of the wrist, the glittering, deadly blades. Curling his whole hand around the little Goddess, he added an addendum. Him too, Holy Mother. Guide his hand and keep him safe. And the woman, wossername. Ah yes, Katahaya.

  At first he thought he’d imagined it, the warmth at the base of his spine. But it spread, as though a vast palm was pressed against the small of his back, the heat licking from one vertebra to the next and trickling back down into the cleft of his buttocks, pooling in his testicles, his cock. His heart picked up pace until it thundered in his breast. He had the impression of starry fields, cold and infinite, of an all-encompassing Presence, deeply amused, carelessly affectionate. You can’t hide, little one. Not from Me. Not from the Lust Dragon.

  Fort slid down the wall, landing with a meaty thump that jarred his spine and made the wagon shudder. His eyes flew open. Nothing had changed. Steam rose from the roberry pot in a gentle curl, a vran whickered from the menagerie.

  He shook his head. Imagination. Had to be.

  Fort gulped two cups of roberry brew, one after the other, until his pulse was as steady as his hands.

  Then he rummaged through his old pack ‘til he found his shaving kit. He peered into the cheap, clouded mirror, tilting it for the best light. Cool gray eyes stared back at him, th
e nose with the bump where his first sergeant-at-arms had broken it, the scar over his brow. A Hssrdan ClawCorporal had near as dammit taken his head off with its halberd, the scaly shit. Fort’s mouth curved with cruel satisfaction. He’d lost count of the Hssrda he’d killed and he’d never had a single regret. Not from the moment his company had marched into the first slave camp.

  With an effort, he wrenched his thoughts away and reached for the scissors. Hide? Fortitude McLaren wouldn’t hide. Not even from his Goddess.

  But Griff was going to be a problem, that much was clear. Fort arranged a small towel under his chin. With a sigh, he began clipping his moustache.

  When he forgot to flirt, the tumbler was good company—clever as a quartermaster’s whip, entertaining, surprisingly perceptive. The sort of friend a man could trust to get his back. And sweet Lufra, Griff had been kind to him. Kind!

  Surely he was too formidable, too frightening, too damn cold, to invite kindness? Why would Griff even think he’d welcome it? But the tumbler had walked right through the barriers as if they were mist.

  Fort paused and laid the scissors aside. He’d never believed in fooling himself. When he looked down, the real nature of the problem made itself uncomfortably apparent.

  It was him. He was the problem.

  Because the very thought of Griffid Ringman made him half-hard. Fuck, he thought savagely, there’d scarcely been a moment spent in the tumbler’s company when he hadn’t been conscious of his gods-be-damned, stupid cock! He spread his knees, giving himself room, breathing hard.

  Why? Why in all the icy hells had this happened to him? And why now?

  It was humiliating, shameful, that was what it was. Twenty years as a mercenary and he’d had any number of opportunities for manlove. For buggery, he told himself brutally. Sitting here now, in the lamplight in his own wagon, he could think of half a dozen men who would have bent over for him, and gladly.

  Deliberately, he called them to mind, one by one, lingering on those he’d thought the most attractive. Not even a twitch. His erection subsided.

  That was more like it. Grimly, he picked up the mirror and the scissors and began on one side of his beard. As the whiskers fell away, his jawline emerged, severe and solid, uncomfortably reminiscent of his father’s. Sobriety McLaren would have taken Griff out to the barn and thrashed him ‘til his back was a bloody ruin.