by Sally Slater
“It’s strange,” Tristan said, “thinking your life is going to turn out one way, then finding yourself headed in an entirely different direction. Perhaps I was never meant to have a wife or family.”
For an instant, she was overtaken by a vision of what could have been: she sat at the dais in the great hall of Castle Haywood, her hand clasped around Tristan’s steely bicep. Two children flanked their sides, golden-locked like their father. Sam shook her head, banishing the vision to the furthest recesses of her mind where it belonged. She’d chosen another future.
Tristan rubbed his eyes and shook himself, shrugging off his melancholy like an over-warm coat. “All right, lads. Here’s what we’re going to do now.”
“What’s that?” Sam asked.
Tristan swung an arm around her shoulder. “Let’s get rip-roaringly drunk.”
CHAPTER 17
There were certain advantages—or disadvantages, depending on how you looked at it—to being half a demon. No matter how much Braeden drank, he never felt the effects of alcohol. And though they’d been drinking at the tavern for hours, he was sober as a Sun Sister.
Tristan and Sam, on the other hand, were absolutely tap-shackled.
The first time they broke out into song, Braeden had been amused. By their third go-round of “Dancing with Demons in the Night,” he was grinding his teeth. By their seventh rendition, Braeden began contemplating death, and he couldn’t be sure if their demise or his own was preferable.
After finishing the last verse—for the final time, he hoped—Sam stumbled over to Braeden’s seat by the bar. “Why aren’t you drinking?” he slurred.
He lifted his tankard of ale. “I am drinking.”
“Clearly not enough,” Tristan said, coming to stand beside him. “Barmaid!” he shouted, snapping his fingers. “Another three pints.”
The barmaid scrunched her nose in disapproval. “ ’Aven’t you boys ’ad enough to drink? I’m thinkin’ I ought to cut you off.”
Tristan slid a copper coin across the bar and offered the barmaid a lopsided smile, waggling his eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion.
The barmaid put her hands on her hips. “Two hours back, your smile might o’ seduced me. Now you just look like a sloppy fool, same as the rest o’ these drunkards.” She slid the coin back towards Tristan. “You keep your copper.”
Tristan’s face fell into a pout. “Fine, we’ll take our business elsewhere. Sam, Braeden, let’s go.” He staggered towards the exit, dragging Sam behind him.
“Thank you,” Braeden murmured to the barmaid, sliding across a few extra coins for her trouble. She gave him a pitying look.
“Good luck to you, mister!” she called as he chased after his wayward companions.
Braeden trotted out into the night, spotting them just as they turned off the main road. Breaking into a sprint, he easily caught up with them.
“Where are we going?” Sam asked, panting. The boy had to jog to keep pace with Tristan’s long legs.
“You’ll see,” Tristan said with a wicked grin, ducking into a narrow side street. He stopped in front of an unassuming building at the very end of the street. The half-timbered house was indistinguishable from any other, apart from the painted emblem of a fig tree above the door.
“You can’t be serious,” Braeden muttered, instantly recognizing the emblem.
“Behold, our final stop of the evening,” Tristan said, with an exaggerated flourish of his arms.
Sam scratched at his head, squinting. “I don’t know this place.”
“That’s because you have morals,” Braeden said. And Tristan seemed hell-bent on corrupting them.
Sam looked at him blankly. “What do you mean?”
Braeden just shook his head. He would let Tristan handle this one.
“You’re too good for a demon,” Tristan said, jabbing an accusatory finger into Braeden’s sternum.
He barked a laugh. “Half-demon, if we’re splitting hairs. And it’s not that I’m good—I’m not interested.”
Tristan clicked his tongue. “You need to learn to live a little. Embrace your wild side. Tonight we’re celebrating. Or mourning. I forget which.” He pointed at his trainees. “That’s an order from your Paladin.”
Sam stamped his foot impatiently. “What are you two talking about?”
Tristan clapped him on the back. “Tonight, my boy, we’re going to make you a man.”
Braeden groaned and dropped his forehead into his hand.
“I’m confused,” Sam said, beginning to look wary. “Aren’t we all men here?”
“I am a man,” Tristan said, puffing up his chest. “You are a boy. This will remedy your woman problem.”
Sam’s eyes rounded. “My woman problem? I wasn’t aware I had one.” He narrowed his gaze. “Why do I have a woman problem and Braeden doesn’t?”
“I suspect Braeden has already taken this particular rite of passage,” Tristan said, chortling to himself. He nudged Braeden with his elbow. “Am I wrong?”
Embarrassment heated his cheeks as an unwanted memory flitted through his mind. “No, you are not wrong.”
“That bad, eh?”
“None of your damned business.”
“What are you two nattering on about? What rite of passage?” Sam demanded.
“Your virginity, Sam,” Tristan said bluntly.
Sam tripped over his own two feet, his sluggish reflexes kicking in just before his face hit pavement. “W-what makes you think I’m a virgin?” He could barely even get out the words.
Tristan guffawed. “Your face is the color of a tomato. I’d stake my life that the only sword you’ve ever wielded is the one beside your hip.”
“So crude,” Braeden murmured.
Ignoring Sam’s sputtering, Tristan continued, “Worry not, trainee, we’ll rid you of that encumbrance this eve.”
“H-how?” Sam said, a hint of alarm in his voice. “I’m not much good with women.”
“I assure you, these, ah, girls are a guarantee.”
“What do you mean?”
Braeden rolled his eyes. “Gods, Sam, you are an innocent. Our dear Paladin has brought us to a whorehouse.”
Tristan sniffed. “I prefer the word brothel. It sounds more refined.”
Sam inhaled a sharp breath and tried to cover it with a yawn, stretching out his arms as wide as they would go. “You go on without me. I think I’m too tired. My face hurts a bit, too. Besides, I’m out of coin. I’ll just turn in—”
“Nonsense,” Tristan said. “It’s my treat. Consider it a reward.”
“I’d rather not—”
“Don’t be ungrateful, boy,” Tristan said, gripping the collar of Sam’s tunic. “Are you coming, Braeden?”
Sam all but dug his heels into the ground as Tristan dragged him towards the brothel. Braeden didn’t understand why Sam was so reluctant. The whores wouldn’t fear his touch, not like they would Braeden’s. Perhaps Sam, in his innocence, had equated sex with love. He snorted at the idea. Love was a woman’s fantasy, and certainly not for the likes of him. “I’m coming,” he said, tugging down on his hat.
Despite the late hour, it took only a single knock before a servant greeted them at the door. The servant was a hulking brute of a man, his broad shoulders filling the entire doorway. “The madam’ll be wiv you in a moment,” he said after a cursory inspection, angling his large body so they could enter the building.
Braeden had to hand it to Tristan—for a “brothel,” the interior was quite elegant. The owner obviously had an upper crust clientele in mind, and the décor straddled the line between tasteful opulence and tawdry. The furnishings in the foyer were clearly of an expensive make, but the red and black color scheme belonged no place other than a whorehouse. A smattering of candles cast the room in a dim light, meant to seduce the senses. Incense mingled with the smells of perfume, cologne, and sex.
A statuesque woman emerged through velvet curtains at the back, the no-nonsense gait of her walk and
conservative neckline of her dress indicating that her wares, at least, were not for sale. “Evening, gentlemen,” she said, weighing and measuring their worth with intelligent, beady eyes. “I am Mistress Rowena. What’s your pleasure?”
Tristan fished out a handful of gold sovereigns from the pouch at his belt. “I have coin to spend and three men in need of a warm bed.”
The madam arched a dark, penciled brow. “It’s a warm bed you seek or a woman to warm it?”
Tristan grinned. “I think you know my meaning.” He jingled the coins in his palm for emphasis.
Mistress Rowena eyed the money hungrily. “Aye, I think I do. Any preferences? Special requests? Will you be together or separate?”
“Separate, definitely separate,” Tristan said quickly. “As for special requests, do you have a girl who’s good with, ah, inexperience?”
Mistress Rowena raised both eyebrows. “Inexperience? You, milord?”
“No, no, not me.” Tristan moved a few steps closer to Mistress Rowena, and leaned over conspiratorially. “The short lad. It’s his first time.”
She tilted her head to better look at Sam. “Is there something wrong with him?”
“I can hear you, you know!” Sam said, glaring at the Mistress Rowena. “And there’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Of course there’s not,” Mistress Rowena said soothingly. “I have just the girl. Are you partial to blondes?”
“N-no preference,” Sam said, his face pale and glistening with sweat.
“And for you, milord?”
“Brunette. Petite. Someone with a bit of fire to her,” Tristan said, frowning a little. “You’re up, Braeden.”
Braeden sighed, and removed his hat. “I’m not particular,” he said softly. “Someone who isn’t skittish, I suppose.” He turned the full force of his gaze on Mistress Rowena.
She shuddered with revulsion and took a faltering step back. “What are—” she halted, glancing sideways at Tristan. “As you wish. I’ll see who I can find. I’ll have to charge you extra given your . . . affliction. And if there are any injuries—”
“There won’t be.”
“So you say,” she said, sniffing. “All right, then. I’ll be back in a moment with your girls.”
Braeden closed his eyes and willed himself elsewhere. Despite what Tristan had said earlier, Braeden wasn’t a saint. He had urges, like any other man, and he had acted upon them, sometimes in ways he wasn’t proud of. He wished he were more like Sam, innocent and not yet jaded by the fairer sex. Perhaps Sam would be spared from the cruelty of women. Sam’s whore wouldn’t cry like the girl Braeden’s master had brought to him for his first. Braeden had been fifteen, and the whore nearly ten years his senior. He had been shy, nervous; he knew his master had paid her well, but in his boyish pride, he had wanted nothing more than to please her. She fulfilled her duty in silence, tears streaming down her face. And when they’d finished, she had vomited, proving that none of her disgust had been feigned. He’d tried to help her, to hold her hair back as she emptied the contents of her stomach, but she’d shoved him away. “Don’t touch me,” she had said. “I’d rather die than be touched by you again.”
A light touch on his chest shook him free from his memories. “Mistress says I’m to be wiv you for the evenin’, love.”
Braeden opened his eyes and waited for the whore’s reaction. Her skin fell ashen beneath her rouge, and she let out a little frightened squeak. She wanted to run; he could hear it in the frantic beating of her heart and see it in the twitch of her muscles.
He sighed. Some things never changed.
CHAPTER 18
The cold splash of reality was enough to sober Sam up. Faith in blood, now she was obligated to spend the entire night in bed with a whore.
The girl Mistress Rowena had brought her was pretty in the conventional way, with delicate features, pale blonde hair, and a willowy, almost frail, form. She wore an ethereal white gown that Sam supposed was intended to be virginal, but the thin fabric revealed more than it hid. No proper lady would ever be caught in such a dress.
She bobbed a curtsy, her lips curving into a demure smile. “Follow me, master.” She glanced up at Sam through lowered lashes, a seductive tease. Underneath her lashes, her eyes were cold and dead. Sam shuddered.
Sam followed the girl up the stairs towards the private rooms, her hands slick with sweat. The prostitute’s white dress floated in front of Sam like a flag of surrender. There were no two ways about it: Sam was buggered. How would she explain to the girl why she wasn’t interested in her affections? Or explain to Tristan in the morning how her night had been?
Dread warred with hope that she would somehow avert disaster. It was foolish, unfounded hope, but she clung desperately to it nonetheless.
The whore pulled a key from her bodice and pressed her ear against one of the doors. “This one’s ours,” she said after a moment, unlocking the heavy bolt with practiced ease. “Right this way, master. Or is it milord?”
“Just Sam is fine.” Remembering her manners, she asked in a strained voice, “And by what name should I call you?”
She tossed Sam a flirtatious smile. “You can call me whatever you like, love.”
Sam cringed inwardly. This was not going to end well. “What’s your given name? I’d like to call you by that, if I may.”
The prostitute scowled, but hid her reaction quickly. “Lucy.”
“Lucy’s a fine name.”
“It’s boring,” she retorted with a spark of anger. She pushed the door open, ushering Sam inside.
Soft candlelight bathed the chamber in a romantic glow. Rose petals were strewn on the floor and covered the quilt of the massive, canopied bed, the real centerpiece of the room. And though the nights had yet to turn cold, the hearth crackled with an inviting fire.
Despite the precariousness of her situation, Sam was tempted to laugh. Tristan must have paid good money to see her brought properly to “manhood.” She was almost sorry to disappoint him.
Lucy sashayed across the room to the canopied bed, arranging herself to her best advantage. She patted the mattress beside her. “Take a seat, Sam.”
Sam sat down on the opposite end of the bed.
Lucy patted the mattress again. “I won’t bite. Not unless you want me to.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks at the whore’s bawdy proposition. “I think I’m fine for now,” she squeaked.
Lucy sighed, scooting closer to Sam. “There’s no reason to be nervous. I already know you’re a virgin, so you don’t have to pretend otherwise. Just tell me what you like, and we’ll make your first time a memorable one.”
If it were possible to die of embarrassment, Sam would have dropped dead on the spot. She flushed scarlet from the base of her neck to her hairline. “Would it be all right if we just talked?” she asked desperately.
Lucy swept her blonde hair over her shoulder and smiled archly. “Talk? Whatever you desire, Sam. Would you like to hear about what I’m going to do with your—”
“No! No, I meant, just talk,” Sam said in a strangled voice. “Like—” she searched the room frantically for an idea. Her gaze landed on a wooden bookshelf. “What do you like to read?”
The prostitute folded her arms beneath her breasts. “I can’t read.”
“Oh,” Sam said, biting her lip. “Well, what do you do when you’re not . . . working?”
Lucy snorted. “You really don’t know how to talk to a woman, do you? No wonder you’re still a virgin.”
Sam ought to have taken offense, but Lucy was right. She didn’t know the first thing about talking to a woman, not as a man. She’d never paid much attention when she’d been on the receiving end. “What about your family? Are they well?” she asked, grasping at straws.
Lucy rolled her eyes. “I’m a whore, not some noblewoman you met at the fair. You and me, we don’t talk about family.” She stood up from the bed, her hands skimming over her curves. “This is what we talk about. You like what
you see?”
“Errr,” Sam said, completely at a loss. “You look lovely?”
“Compliments, that’s the way to a girl’s heart,” Lucy said, nodding with approval. “Or into her skirts, as may be.”
Funny, Sam had always felt uncomfortable when the men at court had given her compliments. They’d always seemed so contrived, like they’d expected something from her in return. Looking at Lucy, Sam was inclined to believe that most men did have expectations.
“You are very beautiful,” Sam said stiffly. “Your hair is . . . long and silky.” She’d wax poetic about Lucy’s toes so long as it kept them talking and out of bed.
Lucy fanned herself with her hand. “You’re a regular poet.” Reaching behind her, she undid the buttons of her gown till she stood in nothing but her chemise. If the gown had been indecent, the chemise was downright scandalous, leaving little to the imagination. “Your turn,” she said to Sam.
“I’d really rather not.”
Before Sam could register what she was doing, Lucy crossed in front of her and knelt between her knees, caressing her jawline. Sam winced; the skin was still tender. “You’re a right pretty one,” Lucy said in low, seductive tones. “I bet the rest of you is as pretty.” She reached for the top of Sam’s tunic, deftly unfastening the top two buttons.
Sam slapped away her hands in horror. “Stop that!” she hissed, jumping to her feet. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might burst right through her shirt.
Lucy’s face grew pink with frustration. “Your master says I’m to see to you no matter what. And he’s already paid Mistress Rowena on your behalf.” She rose from her knees and slid up Sam’s body. “So I ought to do what he says, don’t you think?”
Sam held her at an arm’s length. “I just want to talk!”
“Sure you do, love. But we can talk with fewer clothes, no?”
“I’d like to keep mine on, thank you,” Sam said firmly.