Assassin's Touch, Iron Portal #1

by London, Laurie

  What the hell was she doing? He hadn’t told her that among his people, serving food to each other was a sign of deep affection. Given the hushed whispers among a few of the women, including Petra, they’d noticed, too.

  Bollocks. He recalled the ogappa he’d given her at the portal without even thinking about it—as if it was the most natural thing for him to do.

  “’Tis quite a shiner you gave your woman, Rickert,” Big Thom said, breaking the unusual silence. Meals were normally much livelier, with the minstrel playing, and people laughing and singing. “She get out of line and you had to set her right?”

  Rickert’s hand stopped, suspended halfway between the plate and his mouth. His skin pricked with anger as he glared across the table. Using dirty fingers, Big Thom wiped a trickle of broth from his chin and eyeballed Neyla.

  She gingerly touched the left side of her face, still bruised from her fall from the cliff.

  “Guess I’d lose my temper around a seasider too, no matter how bonnie she was between the quilts.”

  Rickert dropped the spoon with a clank and kicked over his chair as he jumped to his feet. Neyla’s concerned expression made him actually consider sitting back down.

  “Look at that,” Big Thom said, laughing. “Is it possible she’s tamed the mighty Rickert? Or maybe it’s just some trick to infiltrate the enemy. What lies beneath those skirts, lass? Must be mighty sweet indeed.”

  “You sonofabitch.” Rickert leaped onto the table, causing platters of food to lurch. He tromped over to Big Thom and grabbed the surprised man by the collar. The first blow broke Big Thom’s nose. The second knocked him backward off his chair. “You will not speak to her like that again. If you do, I’ll not be so gentle with you the next time.”

  Though Neyla kept her gaze fixed on her plate, a hint of a smile graced her lips. And when Rickert hopped off the table and returned to his seat, her cheeks were flushed a lovely shade of pink. He’d expected her to cower away from him, but she actually inched closer. Had she liked what he had done? It wasn’t the first time he’d broken Big Thom’s nose and it probably wouldn’t be the last. This wasn’t too barbaric and uncivilized for her?

  Conversation at the table was a little less subdued after everything was put back together, but it still wasn’t quite normal. Big Thom wasn’t the only one who didn’t trust Neyla. Despite Petra’s warm welcome, many of the Crestenfahl residents were on edge. Glancing around the table, Rickert noticed his cousin, Edon, caressing his pregnant wife’s breasts. He couldn’t see Petra’s hand, but he imagined it was resting on the man’s laces.

  Of course. What a brilliant idea.

  They needed to see Rickert treat Neyla as any man would his future bride, and until he did so, they wouldn’t fully trust her.

  He waited until Neyla set down her tankard of ale, then he grabbed her waist and swept her onto his lap. She gasped, opening her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with his lips.

  Ah, yes, they were softer and more pliable than he’d imagined. And she smelled of heatherwood oil.

  He grabbed a fistful of her hair and—what the hell, might as well make it a good show—cupped her breast through the low-cut bodice. His cock swelled as she let out a squeal of protest and squirmed against him. He heard a few chuckles.

  God, he loved an audience.

  “Better act like you like it, lass,” he whispered, “or they’ll never believe you.”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Her voice hissed in his ear.

  If they were naked right now, with her straddled over his lap like this, he’d be buried deep inside her, teasing her nipple with his tongue. But since he’d promised her he wouldn’t come to her bed, this was as close as he was going to get.

  “Aye, we are a bit barbaric around here.”

  “For God’s sake, what kind of people are you?”

  “We’re a passionate people, Neyla, unafraid to express ourselves openly. Haven’t you figured that out yet? Now act like you want me and make it believable.”

  One minute she was struggling against him and the next she was molding her body to his, sliding her arms around his neck. Now that’s more like it. He stroked her thigh through the thick layers of her skirts and scooted her bottom closer.

  People finally started talking—even the minstrel began to play.

  Bloody hell, if only—

  Neyla sucked his earlobe into her mouth, sliding her teeth over it, and he groaned. His erection strained further against his leather breeches, pressing into the softness between her legs. It was torturous that he was this close to her but not inside. He groped for the hem of her skirts. Someone whooped, egging him on.

  Then she bit down, hard.

  He yelped.

  “Shhh,” she whispered against his throbbing earlobe. “Don’t you want to make it believable?”

  * * *

  “Are all female Talents as sinister as you are, lass?” Rickert rubbed his ear as they entered the bedchamber several hours later.

  Good, she was glad he still hurt. Served him right for pawing her like that in front of everyone. Next time, it wouldn’t be just his earlobe. “Only when provoked, but then I don’t know many other Talents, so I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Aye, provoked. Just as I was.” He plopped onto the bed as if he planned to stay awhile.

  “Excuse me? You were provoked? The only thing you were provoked by was your over-aggressive tendencies, that pea-brain between your legs, and your exhibitionist nature.” She didn’t want to think about how his defense of her at dinner made him even more enticing. And for God’s sake, if she had any sort of sense, she shouldn’t be thinking about—

  He laughed and her face grew hotter. Flexing her fists open and closed, she wanted to throw something. Where were those candleholders, anyway?

  “Ah, now that’s the reaction I’ve been itching for. That subservient behavior—although I appreciated your obedience at dinner—just doesn’t suit you.”

  Obedience? The word stuck in her craw like a barbed thorn and she pointed toward the door. “Out. Am-scray. Get into your own room.”

  Ignoring her, Rickert tried to pull off his boots, but his foot kept slipping from his knee. How many tankards of ale had he had?

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. She grabbed the heel of one of his boots, yanked hard, then pulled off the other one. Marching across the floor, she threw them into the other room.

  “You must admit, it worked,” he mused. “People began to relax after that.”

  “Well, I’m so glad you chose to inform me of that important tidbit ahead of time. Do all men here act like testosterone-loaded teenagers?”

  Without answering, he rose from the bed looking steadier than she expected, and opened the window. Cool night air filtered into the room. He stared into the darkness for a few moments, his hands braced on either side of the window frame, before he turned back to face her. “What do you mean, you’ve never met many other Talents before?”

  She sat at the dressing table and fiddled with one of the small bottles lined up along the back. “My Talent was latent until last year, so it’s only been recently that I knew I had abilities.” She didn’t look up when he brushed past her.

  “A year? You’ve been a soldier for only a year?” The sound his feet made on the creaky wood floor was surprisingly intimate.

  “Yeah. Surprised?”

  “Actually, no.” He poured himself a cup of water from a serving pitcher near the door. “It makes perfect sense. I should’ve guessed as much. You’re no soldier.”

  She jerked her head up. That was something Smythe would’ve said. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  “Bollocks. That sounded insulting, didn’t it? I’m sorry.” He rubbed his forehead and flashed her a rueful smile. “What I meant to say was that your eyes don’t have the dead look of a war-weary soldier. You have the eyes of a creator, someone who sees the beauty in things, not a destroyer.”

  “I…I do?” she said, stu
nned at his assessment.

  “I’d have to imagine that witnessing death and destruction is particularly difficult for you.”

  She sat back and blinked a few times as his words echoed in her head. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know this about herself. He was right. Death and destruction did bother her. Deeply.

  Like clockwork, the horror of the train wreck came crashing into her thoughts.

  A young boy’s crumpled body, his mother sobbing next to him. Blood splattered on a subway kiosk. A man missing an arm. The sirens. The smoke.

  She shoved those too-vivid memories aside.

  What surprised her was that this man, whom she’d met not long ago, had summed her up so accurately.

  Rising from her seat, she strolled to the window and gazed into the darkness. Without electric lights from any city, the constellations were brighter here, more significant. She easily found Cassiopeia and Orion.

  She smiled inwardly, relieved that she wouldn’t have to lump him into the same asshole category as Smythe. For some reason, she didn’t want there to be any similarities between the two men, even though they were both soldiers. Rickert could make her infuriatingly angry, and yet he could be incredibly astute.

  “What did you do before the army?” he asked from behind.

  “Nothing. It’s not important.”

  “I want to know.” His tone was soft, but insistent.

  “But—”

  “Tell me.”

  Very well. What was the harm? “I started a clothing design business after college. It’s gone now. They wouldn’t—I couldn’t do both.”

  “They made you give it up,” he said quietly, guessing the truth. “Was that difficult?”

  She shrugged. “It was a silly endeavor anyway.”

  “Bloody hell, lass.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. He looked genuinely pissed off.

  “You owned your own business,” he continued. “You created something beautiful that people desired, using only your hands and your imagination.”

  A little piece of her insides melted. She suddenly wanted to tell him more of what she used to do. “We did a lot of theater work and parties. A few weddings. Some of the stuff we did was so...” She turned back to the window. Worthless, her father would’ve said.

  “Theater work, Neyla? How interesting.”

  She liked how he said her name, as if he’d been saying it for years.

  “There’s a festival every summer where all the local artisans gather and—” His voice fell. “Well, of course, you’ll be gone by then.”

  They were both quiet for a moment and she attempted to swallow past the lump in her throat. She should be happy that she’d be home, but somehow she wasn’t.

  “Do you miss it?” he asked finally. “Your shop?”

  She nodded, but didn’t trust herself to speak. There was no point in telling him that seeing the beautiful garments and fabrics over here reminded her just how much she missed that part of her life.

  He came up behind her, his presence heating her skin. “May I? You will never get these wee buttons unfastened.” Without waiting for a reply, his fingers brushed her neck as he swept her hair to the front. “I remember when I bought this, on one of my journeys to the South.”

  “You...you bought this?” For whom? she wanted to ask, but couldn’t. When he’d brought the gown to her earlier, she’d assumed he’d borrowed it from someone. Her stomach twisted knowing she was wearing something he’d originally purchased for one of his lovers. Had he undressed someone else like this? Was that why he knew these buttons were difficult?

  “Not the gown, the fabric,” he corrected. “Along with many of the other things we can’t get here. When I’m not…on duty, I travel a lot and pick up things the people of Crestenfahl need. Lord Tierney’s wife and daughters make clothing to sell at the various markets and festivals, and I bought this bolt of fabric for them.”

  Relieved that she wasn’t wearing a former lover’s cast-offs, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of his fingers as they moved along her spine. His breath whispered against her skin and goosebumps prickled her arms. She hadn’t expected a warrior to have such a gentle touch. The time and care he took with each button felt deliberate. As though he was waiting for her to explode with desire.

  Well, it was working.

  When he spoke again, his voice was a hoarse whisper. “I had no idea I’d see it...like this. I picked the dress out in the market yesterday, hoping it’d fit.”

  She was strangely touched that he’d bought this specifically for her.

  By the time he got to the final button, a trail of need stretched from the nape of her neck and down the curve of her back. Would he slide the dress from her shoulders now? Would she cave and make love to him if he did?

  A delicious heat pooled low in her belly. Of course she would. Why try to deny it? He hooked his thumbs on either side of the opening and she held her breath.

  “I think you’ve been sadly misinformed, little soldier,” he said in her ear. “It is not my people trying to conquer your lands. It is the other way around.”

  What? Why was he mentioning that now? Her shoulders tensed up. She didn’t want to think about the conflict between their worlds. They were simply one man and one woman who were about to enjoy the pleasure of each other’s bodies.

  She felt him step back. Assuming he was unlacing his breeches behind her, she let the fabric of the dress slide down her arms. When it puddled at her feet, she turned to face him. She was shocked to see him on the other side of the room.

  “Good night, Neyla.”

  Good night? She stood there, blinking. He was leaving? But why?

  A sudden hollowness materialized in her stomach, as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Crossing her arms over her chest, she tried to think of something to say to get him to change his mind.

  But before she could, he was gone, and the sound of the closing door sliced straight through her heart.

  Chapter Seven

  Although the village of Greenway was smaller than Crestenfahl, the market had to be ten times larger. Dozens of vendors lined each of the narrow, twisting streets—walkways, really, that spun off from the main square—selling everything from spices and handwoven baskets to earthenware bowls and colorful carpets. The scents of cinnamon and lavender filled the air, along with others Neyla couldn’t identify. A person could get really lost if they didn’t know where they were going.

  A number of people stared at her as she and Rickert strolled through the market. Though she wasn’t the only blonde here, she definitely stood out in the sea of dark hair. She wished she was wearing something other than this long dress. Then maybe she’d feel more like herself. She’d borrowed it from Petra, but next time she’d borrow pants.

  Or maybe she’d make her own. Yes, that’s what she’d do. They were here to visit fabric vendors, after all. Depending on what they had, maybe she’d pick out a few yards and start sewing as soon as they got back.

  It wasn’t like she had much else to keep herself busy. She’d done some work with the horses down at the barn until Mr. Riley chased her away. She would’ve loved to learn some of their hand-stitching techniques, but the older women weren’t interested in having her join their sewing circle. Although a few of the younger women, including the very pregnant Petra, told her not to pay any attention to “those crabby old ladies” and to join them anyway, Neyla politely declined, not wanting to make any enemies. One of Lord Tierney’s teenage sons had even asked if she’d like to practice shooting a bow and arrow, which had interested her as well, but if the truth came out about her, it might not sit well that she had been wielding a weapon here.

  She gave Rickert a sidelong glance. He had an air of quiet confidence and strength about him. He’d been scarce lately, so she relished this one-on-one time with him now.

  From her room, she’d seen him a few times down in the courtyard early in the morning, where he led training exercises with some of the young
men. According to Petra, the Iron Guild looked for the best and brightest to join their band of warriors. At the festival this summer, there’d be a tryout of sorts, where interested males could show off their skills. She’d enjoyed watching Rickert’s half-naked body glistening with sweat as he demonstrated various techniques with the swords he kept on his back.

  But as for being alone with him, he’d all but disappeared after that night in her room, and she’d resigned herself to the fact that he was uncomfortable with how close they’d come to making love. He had managed to question her about troop movements and plans a few times, but without her handheld device, she couldn’t point out anything on a map. It was depressing how reliant on technology she was. Without it, she basically knew nothing.

  “Right this way,” he said to her, indicating a row of market stalls.

  “Okay.” She let her gaze linger on him a moment.

  Today, he wore leather breeches and a loose-fitting muslin tunic that somehow managed to accentuate his muscular arms and chest. The white fabric contrasted nicely with his tanned olive skin. His over-the-calf deerskin boots looked soft enough to sleep in. Criss-crossed over his back was the ever-present weapons belt holding his finely made swords—hand-forged in the fires of Balkirk, he’d told her earlier.

  She loved that everything over here was made by hand. It was an art in her world that was long gone. No one she knew knit, cross-stitched, or crocheted anymore—a fact her father had often pointed out.

  This morning, when Rickert asked if she’d like to go to Greenway to check out the cloth merchants, she’d jumped at the chance to be with him again.

  The mission on the other side would be finished soon, and when it was, Rickert planned to petition the courts to send her home. According to Petra, the magistrate was a former lover of his. If he got his way, which she’d have to imagine was likely, Neyla would soon be gone.

  Thinking about that now made her oddly sick inside. Not only would her fate be in the hands of a woman he had once loved, but she and Rickert would soon be parted.