by Kim Bowman
“Woman…” he threatened, his voice sharp and clear. “If you touch me one more time, I swear to the gods I will carve you in two right here on this bar.”
The redhead pouted. “The last room upstairs at the end of the hall — you should find it… adequate. ‘Tis three silver a night.”
He dug through his pouch, found the coins, and clunked them to the bar. “Thank you.” He could barely spit at her, for his jaw clenched just as tight as his fists.
“Are you all right?” Brynn asked him.
“I’m fine. There is one room available, but it’s not the best of places.” He took the sleeping Talon from Brynn’s arms. “We will have to share and find another place to stay tomorrow.”
“I shall stay in the stable with the horses, if that is all right with my mistress,” Niall replied. “With this many people there are bound to be thieves lurking in every corner.”
“Thank you, Niall.” Brynn smiled, dismounting. “If you could help with the supplies, I would be forever grateful.”
“Of course.”
“The room is upstairs, the last one at the end of the hall. Come, Brynn.” Marek adjusted Talon so his head cradled in the crook of his neck. He grabbed one of his saddlebags with a free hand and braved the entrance to the inn once again.
He kept to the wall as they passed through, pressing the boy firmly against his chest. It seemed as if every cutthroat, thieving, kill-you-for-your-boots highlander chose the Stoneclave to philander in. No sooner had he made it to the stairs when Niall appeared, protecting them from behind. He carried several saddlebags over his shoulders and glared, intimidating anyone they happened to encounter by sheer size alone.
Marek kicked open the door, startling the mostly naked man and the bar wench he was trying unsuccessfully to debauch.
“What in hell?” The man cursed, rising from the bed in a flurry of skirts, blankets, and bed linens.
“Out.”
“Just who do you—?”
Marek’s eyes tunneled and his fingers noticeably flexed over the handle of his dagger.
“Was just on me way out now,” the man muttered, pulling up his trousers while teetering toward the door.
“Don’t forget your whore.”
“Oh, certainly. Margaret,” the evicted squatter snapped.
The woman covered her exposed breasts with her arm and scampered after him.
Marek shooed Brynn inside. He dug through a bag for blankets, using them to fashion a makeshift bed in the corner for Talon. “Well, you can have the bed, and I will take the floor. Are you hungry? Can I get you anything?” He clasped his hands together. “You need your privacy. Right. I shall leave. I… oh, hell.” Marek rubbed his nape and turned on his heels, exiting the room.
~~~~
She watched him leave, puzzled by his sudden act of propriety. She remembered a time when he teased her with his tunic, hoping for a chance to see her without clothes. Did he no longer find her attractive? They had made love — conceived a child together. Perhaps those days were no more.
Taking the least amount of the grimy bed linens possible in her fingers she inched them from the bed and dragged them across the floor, leaving them in a heap behind the door. She had been spoiled these past few years living quietly in her cottage and away from the bawdy lifestyle of the typical tavern. She had almost forgotten how crude and vile they were. And dirty. Disgustingly dirty.
She was ever so thankful Abby had ordered she bring clean blankets with her for the trip. Unfolding a few from her bag, she spread them on the bed and changed into her nightclothes. She paced the floor, unsure as to whether or not she should climb into the bed or wait for Marek to return. She brought her palm to her lips to stifle a yawn. Honestly, why should she wait up for him? She wasn’t his keeper. He was a grown man. He could do as he pleased. Confused and tired, she put out the oil lamp and climbed into the bed.
Her eyes were closed for only a few moments before the hinges creaked and the lock bolted in place across the door. She heard the clunk of boots being kicked into a corner and the shuffling of cloth on floor. He exhaled, long and slow, breaking the monotony of the silence that seemed to smother her in the tiny, humid room. She focused on his breathing, praying the rhythmic tune would lull her to sleep.
They had the opposite effect. Those long, slow breaths made her wish they were against her skin, caressing her in a way only he could. She longed for his touch, the comfort of his presence next to her. Her skin turned to goose flesh beneath her nightclothes. She had been alone for far too long.
~~~~
Marek rid the blanket from his body, kicking it aside with his feet. The room was hotter than hell and suffocating. She was still awake, and he guessed she found sleep as elusive as he did. She was so close but so untouchable. He could smell the sweet perfume of her sun-drenched hair, hear the crispness of her nightgown crinkle as her chest rose and fell with each forced breath drawn. A war between good and evil battled in silent waves inside him. Curse the gods — what he wouldn’t give to slide in beside her and remove that gown from her luscious skin and taste every inch of it. Every fucking inch of it.
His erection grew hard beneath his pants, and he forced himself to think of anything else. Swords.
Staffs.
War. Women.
Lips. Nipples.
Sex.
~~~~
“Brynn, wake up.” He shook her shoulder, but she wouldn’t break from the fretful dream keeping her locked in its grasp. “Brynn.” Marek shook her again, and a small cry left her lips. Her eyes were wet from tears unknowingly wept, and he smoothed them from her cheeks.
“Please, no, don’t take him from me,” she murmured as her face wrinkled in pain. “No!” She shot upright, nearly knocking Marek to the floor.
He took her by the arms and searched her vacant eyes. “Brynn?”
She trembled beneath his hands.
Her eyes fluttered, returning to consciousness. “Just a dream,” she whispered. “Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream.” She repeated the words as if she needed to convince herself she was truly awake.
“Shh,” Marek soothed, pushing the hair from her face. “Aye, just a dream. I’m here — no harm will befall you, love.”
“Where is Talon?” Brynn scanned the room in a frantic flail of limbs.
“He is still sleeping. I checked on him just moments ago.”
“Oh.”
“What was your dream?”
“Ravens,” she muttered. “It was about ravens. I must get ready.” She pushed his hands away.
~~~~
Brynn dressed, gathered her supplies, and made her way to the stables to ready Talon for the day’s events while Marek sought out Niall. He returned shortly thereafter, food in one hand and towing Niall with the other.
“Niall?” Brynn questioned upon seeing a rather ragged-looking version of her huntsman.
“Shh, don’t speak too loudly, Brynn, your sweetums is still mostly drunk.” Marek snickered, clearly enjoying the headache Niall was sure to have.
“How do you expect to compete like that, Niall? You will find yourself in my tent with both of your arms cut off, and what will that accomplish? You cannot compete with nubs.” Brynn shook her head in disgust and thrust her bags toward the swaying man. “Do you think you can manage to stay atop your horse and accompany me as my escort, or would you rather sleep off your drink here?”
“I’ll be fine with a bit of fresh air, mistress,” Niall reassured. “I will wait outside if that pleases you.”
“Aye, go.” She dismissed him with a wave before pressing a palm to her forehead.
Marek’s scowl morphed into a wide grin when Talon rounded the threshold of an empty stall door. He knelt beside the boy and offered him the package he’d been carrying. “I brought you a bit to eat. A champion needs a fine breakfast to keep his body fit for fighting. Do you remember what I taught you?”
“Aye.” The boy nodded, picking a stray piece of straw from
his tunic. “I shall make you proud, Da.”
“I would never doubt it, Talon.” Marek gave the boy a playful cuff and handed over breakfast.
“Will you compete today, Da?” Talon shoved a roll into his mouth, biting off more than he could possibly chew.
“I would be most content just watching you today, I think.”
~~~~
Brynn found her medical tent easily enough — men formed a line by the entrance with injuries needing attention, and the games had yet to begin. Both ends of the tent were open, allowing a cool breeze to flow through. Three strategically placed examination tables circled a supply table on which she set her herbalist kit, fresh bandages, and needles and thread should the need for them arise.
The men in line paid their coin, and she saw to their minor injuries — all of them from the previous night’s tavern brawl. The rules of the games stated each contestant must be fit to compete, so all prior injuries must be tended. She mended a few gashes, set a dislocated shoulder with the help of a brawny lad, and sent them all on their way.
Curious to know which events her son had entered and hoping to watch a few, Brynn cleaned the remnants of a few unused bandages and then ventured from the tent. She wandered through the crowds, content to hum along with the familiar tunes of the pipers playing in the distance. The scent of a roasting pig nearby teased her insides, and she realized she had skipped breakfast. With the coin from her pocket, she paid the nearest vendor for mulled wine and a meat-filled pastry to munch on while she searched for Talon.
Brynn found him shortly thereafter, waiting for his chance to compete in the sword arena. Talon paced the ground, tossing his wooden sword from palm to palm.
“He’s nervous.”
The familiar smooth lilt made her heart skip, just for a moment. Brynn turned from the split rail fence she leaned against to greet Marek with a smile. “He has waited so long for this. I would hate to see him fail because of his nerves.”
Marek made himself comfortable against the fence beside Brynn and chuckled as Talon tossed his sword, missed, and stumbled into the boy behind him. “I’m beginning to think he gets his clumsiness from you though, aye? He certainly doesn’t get it from me.”
“That boy has been training for the games since he could pick up a practice sword. Granted, he spars mostly against the hound…”
“He hasn’t tossed himself from any cliffs yet, so I think he will be all right.” Marek took a jab at Brynn’s own unfortunate blunder.
She slapped his arm in playful protest. “I don’t see you out there competing, so leave the boy be.”
“I would much rather be at your side, if it pleases you.” Marek tucked a stray curl behind her ear.
The slight touch of his finger brushing the shell of her ear sent her heart aflutter. “It would please me very much.”
The crowd soon hushed so the competitors could hear the rules. The young lads competition would be until first strike to the lower body only. The prize — a real sword. The presenter then went on to explain the rules for the men’s sword competition.
Matches would be won by submission, or the inability to defend one’s self. Swords were to be blunted and any blows to the head would result in immediate disqualification.
“Those wishing to compete should go to the entry tent as the competition is about to begin,” the presenter told the crowd.
“And the prize?” someone questioned from the crowd.
“Ahh,” crooned the presenter. “The best prize of all. The last man standing will win a kiss from any eligible maiden here at the games!”
A gasp erupted from the crowd, most of the noise originating from the mouths of the women.
Marek turned toward Brynn and cocked an eyebrow.
An all-out protest from the women around her made her smile. “Now don’t you be getting any silly ideas in your head.” Brynn bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing.
“I suppose I have to enter now, aye?” Marek let out an unusually long sigh and brushed his palm over his hair as if it were the most difficult decision he would ever make. “It seems to be the only way I’m ever going to be able to taste those sweet lips.”
“Marek… don’t be a fool.”
“Don’t chide me, woman. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“Then why will you not just kiss me now?”
“Ahh, but then it would be stolen, and not earned. A pity kiss.”
Brynn rolled her eyes and planted her hands on her hips. “You don’t even have armor.”
“Well then, my love, I suppose that means I mustn’t lose.” He winked, slapped her backside, then left with pure determination set in his eyes.
Marek jogged off toward the entry tent, leaving Brynn to ponder what had transpired between them. Had she somehow just accepted she would be his prize should he win? He had gone mad. She had seen the damage even a blunted sword could do to unprotected flesh. One hard hit and Marek’s ribs would shatter. She forced the thought from her mind and turned her focus to her son.
Talon patiently waited his turn, cheering on his friends and promptly covering his eyes when the loser of the present match connected with the winner’s fist, his lip cracking and blood splattering in the direction of the crowd. Talon’s eyes grew wide and his little fingers moved to cover his mouth.
Marek would soon return to coach him through his first ever match — the boy would fare well. She shouldn’t worry — but she couldn’t watch, either. She could only pray he wouldn’t need her healing ministrations.
Brynn returned to her tent, a line of injuries surprisingly absent. Without patients to tend, she prepared her things for the afternoon that lay ahead. The sword competition would be starting soon — the line would be sure to grow. Archaeans were brutal, even during matches for sport. They had everything to prove to those around them. Position, strength, honor — all things Marek held to the highest regard. He would die trying to prove himself, and that scared Brynn to her very core.
Her thoughts of Marek were pushed aside when a ragtag group of beaten competitors tumbled into her tent, many with significant bruising and bleeding head wounds.
“It seems we’re all playing by the rules then?” Brynn muttered, applying a fresh bandage to a gash along a man’s temple.
“Gah. No one ever follows the rules. ’Tis the big one, mistress — the one with the inking on his back. Try as we might, no man can best him. He has the look of the devil in his eyes, that one. Determined to win.”
“Or die trying. Press here.” Brynn motioned for her patient to hold the bandage while she gathered linens to dress the wound. She ripped them into strips and tied one securely around the man’s forehead. “All set. Now go get yourself a drink, and you can pay Gràinne on your way out.” Brynn gave the man a parting smile before turning her attention to the next examination table.
The assistant, Gràinne, took the payment and showed the man out, only to usher in the next in line to take his place.
“Hello, Mum.” A discouraged voice filled her ears. Talon had returned.
“So soon?” Brynn stuck out her bottom lip in a playful pout.
“I won my first match, but I lost in the second. I think I need to work on growing first. I was smaller than the other lads.”
“Are you hurt, son?”
“Just me pride, ’tis all.”
“It was your first time, Talon. There will be other games to compete in.”
“Aye, I know. I just wish Da could have been there to guide me.” Talon plopped to the ground near the center of the tent and helped himself to the few morsels left over from Brynn’s noontime meal.
“Was he not there?”
“No, he is too busy beating the men, Mum. You should see him!” The boy jumped to his feet with a sudden vigor and swung his wooden sword in wild arcs around the tent, battling imaginary enemies. “He is the greatest warrior I have ever seen!”
“Gràinne, do you think you shall be all right here for a few moments? I need some fresh
air.” Brynn finished inspecting a bruise on her current patient, decided nothing was broken, and shooed him from the tent.
“Just fine, mistress. Take all the time you need.” Gràinne formed a smile. “It seems to be slowing down now.”
“Thank you,” Brynn replied, dodging Talon’s swinging sword before grasping him by the arm. “Let us go watch your da for a while, shall we?”
“Aye, Mum! I want to see him beat that man to a bloody—”
“Talon, that is quite enough.”
Seeing a group of young lads, Talon slipped away, leaving her to push her way to the front of the crowd. Finding Marek was simple enough — Brynn only had to follow the line of ogling women lining the arena fence. Strangers scowled when she elbowed them from her path, but she was determined to see how he fared. At last, she broke through the sea of bodies and took up residence against a fence rail.
Marek hunched over a stool near the far corner of the arena, clutching a dirty rag to the back of his skull. His head hung between his knees. Patches of gritty dirt mingled with a fine coat of sweat, creating a mud-caked layer of grime. It covered his bare chest, back and arms as if a badge of courage. He must have taken his fair share of falls, perhaps even a few too many blows, and he had done it for her. And for what — to prove himself worthy? She should have just given him a kiss and been done with it.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, his head ascended from its defeated position and turned toward her. He smiled that devious smile, bringing to the forefront of her mind the many sinful things he could do with that mouth.
~~~~
Broken and bleeding, Marek found the strength to continue. She was there now, his pain wouldn’t be all for naught. He suppressed the aching in his skull and downed a gulp of ale before tossing the rag aside to stretch his sword arm. The gods shined upon him — if he won the next two matches, he would be the victor of the sword. The amount of ale the men consumed beforehand might help his chances, as well.