“Arill forbids grave raiding,” he finally ground out.
“Do you think she’ll smite you?” Oria almost regretted baiting him when he rounded on her.
“Did I laugh at you when you explained that your dual magical nature was anathema to your people?” he demanded. “Even though it makes no Arill-cursed sense when you are clearly all the more powerful for it?”
“Maybe that’s why it’s anathema,” she replied, softly and pointedly. “Maybe our cultures make rules to prevent our worst natures from taking control. You say Arill’s taming hand stopped the Destrye wandering and raiding—maybe the injunction against grave-robbing was simply a rule to stop your greedier ancestors from causing more grief by unearthing bodies and ashes simply to get the good stuff they were buried with.”
He shook his head at her irreverence, but put his hands on his hips and studied the stone beneath the niche that whispered of the mask behind. It called to her, this ancient object of power. The Báran priests and priestesses didn’t talk much about infusing inanimate objects with sgath, but that could be because the cities themselves served that purpose. She’d felt bereft ever since losing hers.
“Why do you want it?” he asked again.
“I’m really not sure. I have a feeling.”
“Are you sure this ‘feeling’ doesn’t have something to do with pride, with getting back what they took from you, what you think of as your rightful rank as priestess?”
“It is my rightful rank!” she fired back. Lonen gave her a mild look, raising his brows at her vehemence.
“Because his words didn’t strike a nerve at all,” Chuffta commented from the other room.
“Did I call you?”
“No. That’s the beauty of my superior abilities. I can be ready to offer advice and tend the fire in the other room.”
“Just don’t burn the place down because you’re distracted by eavesdropping on me,” she grumbled at him, and he sent her an affectionate thought, despite her crankiness. The exchange made her take a steadying breath, which her Familiar had no doubt intended.
Lonen had gone back to studying the sepulcher, but with a sense of patient waiting emanating from him. It grounded her in an unexpected way to feel more of his emotional presence, to again catch the edge of a thought. It felt beyond good to have sgath flowing through her, however mildly, to see the world again in the resonances beyond physical sight. She liked the power of it, far better than the weakness of being without. If that made her as power-hungry as her brother, as the worst of the sorcerers and sorceresses of Bára, then so be it. She’d manage somehow.
This is how I’m meant to be. For better or worse, I am this as much as Buttercup is a warhorse and Lonen is a warrior.
“And I am a Bringer of Fire!” Chuffta added an evil cackle.
“I worry about you. I truly do.”
“I love you, too,” he replied, and she realized he’d fallen into their same habit of using the expression of love as a way of offering forgiveness or appreciation. Which she supposed it was. And if anything could save her from becoming like her aunt Tania—whatever it was that she had done—then Lonen’s love, even in the form of nagging reminders about her prideful ways, would be it.
“I understand your point,” she said to Lonen, “and I agree it’s valid for you to caution me.” There. That sounded very adult and reasonable.
“Chuffta agreed with me, did he?” Lonen didn’t look at her, instead squatting to examine the stonework more closely, running his fingertips along the mortar between, but his lips twitched suspiciously.
“Fine. Laugh. Yes, he did. But, Lonen—” She moved into the edge of his vision, which brought her closer to the niche. The mask was there. Oh yes. Calling to her. “You know that before I left Bára I was but a newly made priestess, so there’s a great deal I never learned. Still, something in me is certain that the masks are more than a demonstration that we can see without physical eyes. The masks are too solidly a part of the practice of sorcery. Why would they have been so determined to take my mask away for my magical crimes, if not to hamper me in practicing it?”
Lonen glanced up at her, nodded crisply. “Makes sense. I think I can get it out of there.” He stood, uncoiling in his smooth strength, and took her hand, turning her back toward the cabin.
“Do you need certain tools?” she asked, confused.
He let go her hand and snaked his arm around her waist under the cloak. “Tools will help, yes, but I’m also waiting until morning to attack this test my sorceress wife has set me.”
“It’s not a test,” she retorted.
“In the stories, the witch always sets challenges for the hero to overcome before he can claim the beautiful princess. In my case, I happen to have both in one. And I intend to enjoy my wife this evening, while I have her all to myself.”
“If we’re going by the stories, then you shouldn’t get to enjoy the reward before you successfully complete the test.”
“Good thing this isn’t a story then.”
“Yes, because I’m not a witch.”
He snugged her against him, shutting the door to the drafty chapel. “Neither are you a princess, my queen.”
He’d set the stage for romance, which made her feel unaccountably shy. They’d truly done so little together sexually, though the enforced intimacy of travel, injury, and illness had made them familiar with each other’s bodies in a way she’d never expected before her wedding. She’d had a naïve young woman’s ideas about marriage—mostly about high-minded ideals and a sort of silk-draped, candlelit cleanness to it all.
Though little of her marriage to Lonen had worked out that way, he seemed to have read her mind and created something of that romantic ideal in the little cabin. The inviting bed spoke volumes, along with the candles burning softly. The table for two, with wine waiting. The delicately scented blossoms.
Lonen turned her, smoothing his hands over the fur cloak. “Are you warm enough to take this off?”
She nodded, unable to speak around her suddenly thick tongue. One day she’d feel easy and natural with this man, but that day had not yet come. With his gray eyes intent on hers, he undid the fastening, taking the cloak away. Though she still wore her layers of skirts and fur-lined gown, she shivered a little, feeling naked.
“Would it be easier to eat without the gloves?” he asked.
It would be, so she stripped them off, too, putting them into his expectant hand. He took them over to the bed, setting them on a table next to it—and next to several other things she couldn’t quite make out. He caught her curious look. “You’ll need them later,” he said, with that cheerfully lustful grin that warmed her as if he’d caressed her between her legs.
“I’m going to keep Buttercup company,” Chuffta said. “Don’t let the fire burn down because you’re all distracted frolicking with your mate.”
“You don’t have to go. It’s cold out there.”
“Buttercup lets me sleep on his back—he’s very warm. And you need privacy.” Chuffta flew up to Lonen and hovered expectantly.
“Thanks, man,” Lonen said, not arguing in the least. “I’ll let him into the stable. Go ahead and sit, pour us some wine.”
His brief absence gave her a moment to gather herself. She trusted Lonen utterly. When he’d pleasured her to consummate their wedding, he’d been exceptionally careful not to touch her skin. In fact, the lengths he’d gone to—and the sexually scandalous game he’d constructed around it—made her face go hot at the memory. As did her behavior at the oasis when she’d tried to seduce him and he’d refused her, for her own good. He no doubt had something in mind for tonight to let them safely enjoy each other. She let herself relax. Enough with fretting.
Anticipation, however, only warmed her further.
The door opened and Lonen returned, bringing a cloud of icy fresh air with him that helped cool her cheeks. Still, she kept her face studiously averted, lest he glimpse too much of her salacious thoughts—she wasn’t t
hat relaxed—and belatedly poured the wine into the hammered metal cups. If she ever made it back to Bára or one of her sister-cities, she’d bring back a case of glasses. Wine didn’t taste the same drunk from metal or wood.
Lonen sat, giving her an opaque look, then lifted his mug in a toast. “To my beautiful witch-queen—may I never fail in the challenges she sets me.”
“I’m not drinking to that,” she said on a laugh.
He made a mournful face. “You wish me to fail?”
“I’m not a witch and I’m not testing you.”
“No? Let’s see how I do anyway.” He retrieved something from the fire, putting on a pair of leather gloves to carry it, then set it on the table, removing the metal lid to display the contents. The scent of rich broth, roasted vegetables and cream rose out of it, and she lifted her gaze to his expectant one in delight.
“How did you do this?”
“Baeltya had the cooks assemble several casseroles like this and set them outside to freeze. We need simply warm them in a fire. Can’t let you backslide in regaining those gorgeous curves.”
She wrinkled her nose at him, but accepted the generous helping and dug in. “What about you? Don’t you need meat to rebuild those mighty thews?”
He grinned easily, ladled still more onto her plate, then fetched another metal container from the fire, opening it to release a meaty aroma. “Baeltya made her plans for me, too.”
“We’re well taken care of, then.”
Comfortable silence settled between them as they dug into their respective meals, the delicious flavor and welcome nourishment of the hot meal hitting her stomach making her voraciously hungry. Snacking as they rode had felt satisfying enough, but nothing like this. Lonen kept dishing more onto her plate until she sat back, groaning as she realized she’d eaten the entire thing. She splayed her hands over her distended belly. “I can’t believe I ate so much.”
Lonen eyed her with amusement, using the last slice of the warmed bread they’d shared to soak up the last juices of his. “Don’t pretend you have anything like a pot belly. I’ll be happy if I can get you out of concave.”
“You’ll see plenty of belly on me if I get pregnant,” she retorted.
He went still. Then set his utensils aside, laced his fingers together, and propped his chin on them, gray eyes both grave and cautiously alight. “Is that a possibility?” he asked in a careful tone.
She tried not to blush, she really did, but to no avail. Still, the excitement of her realization in the chapel made it relatively easy to overcome any shyness at such a frank conversation with him. “Maybe so.”
“Because you warned me, when we agreed to this marriage, that you would never bear me heirs.”
“That was when I thought we’d never be able to have sex of any kind, and you’ve found plenty of ways around that.”
His grin went wolfish. “I did warn you,” he pointed out.
“You did,” she agreed, feeling somewhat wolfish in kind. Him, wending into her. Or perhaps all herself, and her desire for him. “And since you’ve ably demonstrated your inventiveness in that arena, then I feel compelled to point out that Odymesen and his sorceress managed the deed. ‘Bore him many fair-haired sons.’ I assume she provided the world with a few daughters as well, and they simply weren’t worth mentioning.”
Lonen was staring at her, thunderstruck.
“Didn’t catch that, did you?” Being the one to tell him gave her a decided thrill. Happy news for a change. “That’s the problem with you barbarians. You’re always focusing on—” she broke off with a little shriek when he pounced on her, lifting her out of the chair and carrying her to the bed.
“You were saying?” he asked politely, rapidly undoing the fastenings of her gown.
“I—I’ve forgotten,” she stammered, losing the thought entirely as the fur-lined velvet parted, exposing her breasts, the nipples hardening almost painfully at the sudden chill.
Lonen’s eyes were hot, gone silver with lust when he lifted them to her face. “Cold?”
“Not enough to cover up.” She wanted this. Wanted his gaze on her and more.
“Good. Take that off.” He reached for her gloves on the table, watching her as she shrugged out of the upper part of the gown, pulling her arms out of the tight sleeves, then pushing the whole thing down to puddle at her feet. He raised a brow at the petticoat layers still belling around her. “How many of those do you have on?”
“A lot. I lost count,” she admitted. “But I was warm.”
“Put these on and turn around.” He handed her the velvet gloves again, then began untying her underskirts one by one when she did as he bade.
“I love it when you get all bossy,” she teased him but it came out breathless, especially as the last of her underthings came off to his yanking, leaving her naked but for the tall boots and the elbow-length scarlet gloves.
“I know you do,” he answered, in all seriousness, his voice throaty. “Bend over and put your hands on the bed.”
She did, then gasped as his hands—cool and a little rough—ran over her bottom and then up her waist and belly to grasp her breasts. Looking down, she saw he’d donned gloves similar to hers, but made of thin leather. He snugged his groin against her rear, his erection pressing neatly into the cleft of her buttocks, rocking there.
“Is this all right?” he asked in her ear. Still dressed, he pressed his body all along hers, one hand massaging her breast, the other sliding down her belly, pushing against her mons.
“Yes,” she breathed. It was working. She received a lot of input from him this way, but not the overwhelming kind from skin-to-skin contact. His exuberance, that simmering male arousal and strength filled her empty spaces, dizzying her. “It’s good,” she murmured, indulging in shimmying against his grip. “Another test passed.”
“I’m so glad to hear it, witch,” he growled. “Now spread those pretty thighs for me.”
“I’m not a—” She squealed when he slapped her bottom, hard enough to sting. Perversely it made her sex heat that much more and she spread her thighs on a moan—dropping her head when his gloved hand dove into the opening, dragging through her slick tissues with nerve-shattering results.
“That’s a good girl,” he crooned in her ear, grinding his hard cock through his leather pants against her cleft again. “You’re just a tame witch, aren’t you? My tame witch.”
“I’m not a—” She cried out and shuddered when his gloved fingers pinched her nipple.
“Admit it,” he demanded. “You’re mine. My tame witch.” His other hand stroked between her legs, making her frantic.
“Yes,” she nearly sobbed. “I’m your tame witch.”
“Because you need this from me,” he gentled his touch, teasing her nipple now, pushing the tip of a gloved finger inside her. The fever pitch of her arousal only intensified.
“I do. Oh, Lonen, please.”
“I like it when you beg.” He sounded all satisfied male. “You’ll be doing a lot of that. Lie back on the bed and spread your legs for me.”
“My boots and…”
“I like them. Leave them on. In fact…” He walked away, then came back. “You can stand up and face me.”
With some chagrin, she realized she’d remained where he’d last positioned her, and stood up, her face hot. With a quirk of a smile he draped the shadowcat cloak over her shoulders, fastening it again at her throat and bidding her to lift her hair out so it streamed down the back. The cloud of soft fur teased all along her skin, another stimulation. Lonen ran his gloved hands over her, stopping to tease her nipples, stroking the skin of her thighs above the furry stockings, dipping finger into her aching sex.
“Your skin is a white like this fur,” he murmured. “Except for this pink.” He tweaked a nipple so she squirmed. “And this copper.” He cupped her mons with his hand, lifting her to her toes, so she grabbed ahold of his shoulders. It brought them nearly nose to nose, his breath mingling with hers, hot silver
eyes boring into hers. “My prize. My tame, captive witch.”
“I want to touch you, too,” she got out rocking her hips against his hand. “My warrior king.”
“Then do it. Touch me. Tend to me.” He let her down, leaving her sex empty and wanting. So she hurried to undress him, dropping his clothes to the floor in her haste, but taking the time to run her hands over his shoulders and chest muscles, down the flat of his abdomen, the velvet of her gloves snagging the whorls of hair. Standing again on her tiptoes—Lonen’s hands going to her waist to steady her—she reached behind his neck to pull the leather tie from his hair. When she went to toss it aside, he stopped her, taking it from her and setting it carefully on the bedside table.
“It’s the one you saved for me, in Bára, after I left,” he said, as if explaining.
“That didn’t mean anything…” She trailed off at the look he gave her, possessive and pleased.
“It did. It meant you thought about me like I thought about you.” He wound a hand in her hair, tugging her head back, gently and remorselessly, so she had to look into his face. He trailed a gloved finger over her lips, his eyes following the movement. She smelled her own musky arousal on it. “It meant you wanted me, and waited for me to return.”
She nearly protested, but that was all true. Though it had seemed unlikely that she’d ever see him again, even impossible, she’d kept the tie, dreaming over how he’d felt in her mind, and maybe fantasizing a little about her Destrye warrior.
His face tightened, reading something of that in hers. “Finish undressing me, witch.”
Desire coiling hard in her again, she knelt to pull off his boots, then unfastened and tugged down his leather pants, helping him step out of them. His cock, freed, stood out from its deeper nest of hair, and she took a moment to study that part of him. From this angle his man jewels were more visible, hanging full and turgid beneath. Hesitant, she glanced up, to find him watching her with heavy-lidded, slumberous silver eyes.
The Forests of Dru Page 17