She nodded and focused on the candle.
He pulled off his ruined kaftan and examined the scorched spot on the back. It would need a patch. Candlelight brightened the scene, revealing an oil stain near the burn.
Em gasped.
Quintin turned quickly, expecting to find some new disaster. Instead she was staring at him with hungry eyes. Her gaze roved over his body, making him acutely aware of his bare arms and torso. Warmth spread through him in a confusing mix of embarrassment and desire. He was torn between holding his kaftan up like a shield and throwing it to the floor so she could look her fill.
“You’re beautiful,” she said, gliding toward him with one hand outstretched.
He dropped the kaftan.
She smiled. “You look like a devotee to Taric.”
He let out a breathless laugh. “Still a follower of Fermice like all good auditors.” Though being compared to the God of Earth and Flesh was a heady notion.
She brushed her fingers over his biceps.
His skin jumped at the touch. Desire raced through his body to the pit of his belly. He had never guessed his arm could be so sensitive, so erotic.
Her hand curled around him, testing his muscles.
So strong. Her thoughts drifted through the touch.
Fermice grant him wisdom, he had neglected to replace his mental protections, and she must have forgotten as well.
The candle’s flame danced as she placed it on the credenza. She pressed her palm against his chest. An image of her lips closing around his nipple gusted through his mind. He captured her hand against his skin, her heat branding his heart.
He stared deep into her eyes, remembering their kiss on the waterfront. She had been so soft and sweet in his arms, filling his senses and leaving him dizzy with longing. He blew the memory into her mind but couldn’t be sure how much she understood.
His air gift was a poor choice for conveying such an emotional experience. Water was the element of the blood, of the heart. Thin, cerebral air could only capture words and images.
Still her eyes widened. Kiss me. Please.
I want to do more than kiss you.
Good. She ran her hand up his arm. Her fingers slid over his shoulder to curl around the back of his neck and bring his head down. She tasted like spiced cider and smelled faintly of the jasmine haunting his dreams.
He wrapped his arms around her to pull her tight against his chest. When his lips parted, instead of plundering his mouth with her tongue, she shifted the angle of the kiss and sighed.
He drew her breath deep into his lungs, twining their air and minds more intimately together. Her thoughts swirled like flower petals in a gust of wind, bright and fleeting images of passion.
She pulled away from his mouth to lave the pulse point in his neck. His head fell back to give her better access. Her burning desire for their bodies to be entwined seared his brain.
Eager to please, he slid his hands down to cup her bottom. He lifted her up and pressed his knee between her legs. The feel of her skin against his was intoxicating.
She moaned. The breathy, needy sound propelled his passion higher. Her pelvis rocked against his leg in a rhythm as old as time. Erotic fragments of her thoughts flickered through his mind, merging and mixing, building on his own fantasies until real and imagined touches blurred into one.
When their mouths met again, he thrust his tongue deep, mimicking their shared desire. The vision of entering her was so vivid, his cock pulsed with need.
Her entire body shuddered as she scraped her teeth across his tongue.
It would feel so good to have you inside. Her thought was accompanied by a wave of frustration and a stab of loneliness.
His arms tightened around her. We’re together. Don’t be lonely.
Tonight is an illusion. Soon I’ll be gone. Forever.
Pain and something akin to panic speared him.
She softened the kiss, subtly shifting away from him. “We have to stop, Quintin. This is madness and continuing will only lead to heartache.”
From a deep reserve he found the will to let her go, though his heart howled and demanded he cling to her. “You’re right,” he said. “Of course, you are right.”
Quintin turned away, taking deep cleansing breaths to establish his mind protections. He hoped she remembered to do the same. They needed no more accidental thought sharing. He pulled a folded kaftan out of his credenza, choosing one in a lighter shade than his usual auditor brown. The voluminous garment covered his body, hiding the lingering evidence of his ardor.
When he felt collected enough to look at her, he noted how she remained near the door, arms crossed over her stomach, her mouth a pinched white line.
“Why don’t you sit down?” He touched her elbow to urge her toward a trunk doubling as a bench near the window.
She flinched and curled away from his fingers.
He dropped his hand and backed up.
All done kissing? Elkart asked.
Em shuffled over to the bench. She slipped off her sandals before pulling her feet up onto the smooth lid. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees.
Yes. All done kissing. If he were wise he would gather her beans and send her on her way before he made the mistake of touching her again.
Why you sad? Elkart sidled up to the trunk and sniffed at Em’s feet. You both sad. Don’t humans like kissing?
We like it too much. He nudged Elkart out of the way to squat down in front of her. She looked like a forlorn child, and guilt gnawed at him for putting her in such a state. “Would you like something to eat? My mother left a pot of curry here for my supper. There is more than enough to share.”
One of her hands tugged at a loose thread on the edge of her chiton. “You don’t have to feed me.”
“I want to, if you’re hungry.” He placed a gentle hand over her fingers. “Let me take care of you, Em. Only for tonight.”
She raised her gaze to meet his, and for one horrible moment he thought she might cry. Instead she managed a crooked smile. “Then, yes, please, I would like some curry.”
“Good.” He gave her an encouraging smile before standing and crossing to the credenza.
Elkart trotted after him. Dinner?
Let me feed our guest first. Quintin lifted the lid off a round ceramic crock, releasing a gingery cloud of steam.
The waccat sat down on Quintin’s foot with a huff.
Ignoring the uncomfortable weight, he dished out a bowl of curry and yanked his foot out from under the waccat’s rump to carry the bowl to Em.
The great cat bumped Quintin’s knee with his head as he walked across the room. Feed me.
Patience, Elkart. Quintin managed to hand the bowl to Em without spilling it all over her, despite Elkart’s interference.
Closing her eyes, she breathed in the curry’s aroma. “This smells wonderful. Your mother made it?”
“Yes.” Quintin gestured at a bead curtain in one wall as he returned to the sideboard with his waccat bouncing at his side. “She owns the house and grounds. I rent this room from her.”
He uncovered a dish of meat for Elkart and set it on the floor.
Tail lashing, the cat crouched next to the bowl and devoured his meal.
As Quintin straightened, an odd pattern of shadows wavered across the wall. He glanced over at Em, to find she had moved to kneel in front of the low table opposite the door and was busy lighting the candelabra there.
She motioned at the floor next to her, the gesture oddly elegant. “Won’t you join me for supper?”
“I would be honored.”
Chapter 11
Quintin’s hands shook as he hastily served himself a bowl of curry. He would have to take the dishes out to th
e garden and wash them himself to conceal Em’s presence from his mother. A small price to pay for sharing a meal with a beautiful woman.
Setting his bowl down on the altar, he folded himself onto the floor next to Em. His knee jostled against her. Heat flooded him. He scooted away with a muttered apology.
“No harm done.” She shifted to give him more room and took a bite of curry.
He fiddled with his spoon. He wanted to say something witty and charming but rhapsodizing about her beauty would probably make her uncomfortable. And it wasn’t as if he could ask her about her life in Farbank.
“With a name like Quintin, you must have a passel of siblings,” she said after a pause. “Do any of them live here, too?”
“No.” A bitter taste filled his mouth at the thought of his so-called brothers. As if any of them would so much as set foot in such humble surroundings. He pushed aside old resentment and tried to be matter-of-fact as he recited his history. “My father had four other children from his first marriage, though I’m my mother’s only child. This homestead belonged to my maternal grandmother. My mother and I moved back in with her after my father died. Later my mother inherited the homestead and so here we are.”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
He shrugged. “My mother has been quite happy to have this place to call her own, and it suits me well to live here, too.”
“No, I mean I’m sorry your father has turned to ash.”
“Oh.” He poked his spoon at a carrot floating in the curry. “It was a long time ago. I was very young when he died and have few memories to haunt me.”
“The pain never goes away, does it?”
Something in her tone caught his attention. “Is your father dead?”
“No, Fermena protect him.” She pressed her thumb to her forehead, heart and navel.
Wincing, he mimicked her gesture.
She stirred her curry without taking a bite. “My mother died when I was twelve,” she said at last.
“My sympathies.”
“She had been ill for a long time. It was for the best.”
“But the pain doesn’t ever go away entirely.” He echoed her words.
“I’m glad her suffering has ended, yet I still miss her.” She fingered a leather cord at her neck. “My mother was gone from my life too soon. Sometimes I wish I had one last chance to talk to her, to ask her about all the things I was too young to understand before she died.”
“Yes.” He glanced over at the waccat pushing his dish around on the floor as he licked it with his broad tongue. “If my father had lived, my life would have been very different. I would have been different. Would I be a Hand?”
“Surely the traits and qualities that drew your waccat to you would not have been changed by the circumstances of your upbringing.”
“Perhaps,” Quintin agreed, not wanting to explain how eager, how desperate he had been to bond with Elkart. “My upbringing certainly was very different as an only child pampered by two lonely women, rather than a youngster scrabbling to keep up with four rough and tumble older siblings.”
“What did happen to those children?” she asked, her tone one of idle musing. “With their father dead and their stepmother abandoning them?”
“My mother did not abandon them,” he said sharply. He took a breath and continued in a more moderate tone. “They were much older and uninterested in her guardianship.”
Which was a gross understatement. Though Quintin had been young when his father died, he vividly remembered the shouting, the tears and hateful insults that had preceded being expelled from the only home he had ever known. After they had settled at his grandmother’s cottage, Quintin had finally dared to ask what ‘whore’ and ‘bastard’ meant, only to be firmly told such language was not welcome at Jardin.
“If she was half as good of a cook then as she is now, they were fools to let her go.” Em pointed her spoon into her bowl. “This curry is delicious.”
He smiled, appreciating how deftly she turned the conversation. “Cooking is one of the things my mother does best, as well she should since it is how she earns her living.”
“Does she work at one of the taverns in town?”
“No, she sells produce at a stand in the marketplace. Mostly fresh herbs and spices which is why her food is so tasty. She’ll sell vegetables, too, when the crops are bountiful.”
“She can support herself by gardening?”
“She can. She also trades with her neighbors for eggs and milk and such. I help with expenses, as well. It isn’t an extravagant life, but it is a good one.”
Em’s hair glinted red in the candlelight as she turned to survey the room.
Quintin followed her gaze. The furnishings were simple, the room unadorned since all his luxuries were tucked out of sight. Yet it was clean and dry and his alone. How did it compare to wherever she slept in Farbank?
She frowned down into her bowl. “I suppose an Auditor’s salary can help a lot with the upkeep of a house.”
“I do what I can, since she takes good care of me.” He waved at the curry pot. “And I haven’t even provided her with any grandbabies to spoil.”
“Does she hound you for them?”
“Not exactly, though she occasionally drops broad hints about how I’m old enough to settle down and get married. I think she’s concerned about my happiness.”
Em sighed and stabbed her curry with her spoon. “Lucky you.”
“What? Is your father itching for a babe to dandle on his knee?”
She laughed. “No, no, he already has a grandson.” The humor faded from her eyes. “I don’t think my happiness is at the forefront of his mind when he says it’s high time I wed.”
Why would her father pressure her to wed when she already earned her own beans, however ill gotten? He furrowed his brows. “What does he hope for? Someone to tame your wild ways?”
“Perhaps.” Her lips curved in a rueful smile. “Mostly, he is looking for his own gain, not mine.”
Her words reminded him she was not here to enjoy his company. He owed her cacao. He gestured at her nearly empty bowl. “Will you want more?”
“No, though your mother’s cooking is superb.” She scraped the last of the curry out of her bowl and licked the spoon.
His groin tightened as he remembered all the things they both imagined her doing with her tongue. He stood and picked up her bowl to cover his reaction.
“I could help wash up.”
He held the dishes out of reach. “No, no. I’m taking care of you, remember. Why don’t you relax here while I gather your pay?”
After he took the dishes to the credenza, Quintin opened his trunk and pulled out his best coverlet. As he spread the thin material over her, she gave him a wobbly smile. Tightness filled his chest. He forced his feet to back up a step to resist the temptation to stroke her glorious hair.
Perhaps gleaning some of his thoughts from his face, she dropped her gaze and ran a hand over the embroidered fabric. “You are the kindest of men.”
“Did you bring your own sack to carry your payment or should I find one for you?” he asked quickly in an attempt to steer the conversation to safer ground. He did not want the memory of her passionate embrace tainted by any comments about his avuncular nature.
“If you have one to spare . . .”
He nodded and busied himself collecting the cacao he owed her. Twenty measures was a fair payment for her work, though the amount was nearly all of what he kept in his room. He pulled out the delicate scale he used to calculate his mother’s tribute each season. As he weighed the beans, he was struck by how much risk she took for so little reward.
“Are the twenty measures your portion?”
“What?”
“Your contact takes part of yo
ur pay, right? For finding you the job?”
“Yes, the beans usually go through him.”
“Then are the twenty measures what you were owed, or is it the full amount?”
“It’s what I’m owed.”
“How much is the full amount?”
“I’m not sure. We don’t discuss it.” She pulled the blanket close. “Whatever he’s being paid, it’s not enough.”
“You run most of the risks.”
“Do I? Yet here I am.”
While her contact was in the stocks. Quintin poured twenty measures into a pouch, before piling more beans on the scales. “I’m going to give you five extra measures for your contact. You can give a little something to the Daughters of Mercy for his care if you wish.”
Her eyes widened. “You are not at all what I expected a Hand to be like.”
He laughed. “You should meet my year-mates. We’re as varied as any other group of people.”
“Perhaps.” She traced a line of stitches with one finger. “The tales I remember growing up always painted Hands larger than life, heroes one and all.”
“We’re only human. Though we do try to do the right thing.” He held out the pouches of cacao to her. “And isn’t me giving you beans to help your friend the right thing to do? Isn’t it what you would expect of a Hand?”
She had a queer look on her face as she reached out from under the quilt to accept the pair of pouches. “While I appreciate your generosity, I don’t know if giving extra beans to an outlaw for her compatriot in the stocks qualifies as the right thing to do. Isn’t helping outlaws and such against your vows?”
“Justice tempered with mercy is the way of the Troika,” he said. “Some Hands are devotees of Marana. Giving them beans for their work is both just and merciful. It’s not as if I’m offering to break him out or anything. That would be against my vows.”
Taxing Courtship (The Hands of Destin Book 1) Page 8