Tempted by Ruin (Sons of Britain Book 4)

by Mia West

  “Present it?”

  “Silly contest.” Palahmed lifted the fox and studied it. He hadn’t set out to nab a fox. He hadn’t nabbed anything—Arthur and Bedwyr held those honors for the day—but then he’d spotted it creeping into the chicken yard. A swift stone had stopped it in its claw-tipped tracks. “Is it surprising?”

  “The fox?” Bedwyr asked. “Or you competing in a contest a fox would win?”

  “Never mind; don’t answer that.”

  Bedwyr grinned at him. “Safir?”

  He tipped his head. Close enough.

  “Good luck, then.” Bedwyr said a few words to Arthur, then branched off their path toward the tannery, situated outside the wall by a decent distance, thanks to the reek of the piss pits used to cure the leather.

  “What’ll you do with it?” Arthur was eyeing the fox curiously, the bend of his head echoed perfectly by Medraut, who sat on his shoulders.

  Palahmed wondered what Medraut knew of his parentage. The lads had been raised to consider Arthur and Bedwyr their uncles, and for Galahad that was true. Palahmed supposed the adults had decided if it became apparent that wasn’t the case for Medraut, they would address it then. But moments like this, when the lad echoed Arthur’s shape—only smaller, like a noon shadow—Palahmed wondered if the time of reckoning would come sooner than later.

  When he realized they were staring at him, he shook himself out of his reverie. “Not certain.” He lifted it again. “Tail might make a nice collar.” He tried not to imagine how the fine cinnamon fur would look wrapped around Gawain’s throat.

  Tried and failed.

  “See you at supper, then.”

  He watched them go on ahead, envying Arthur’s easy stride and the trusting manner with which Medraut rode along, enjoying the extra height. He’d carried Safir like that, long ago, though they’d been much closer in age. He missed it. Was this what getting older would be: instance upon instance of nostalgia, of longing for things past and feeling this sweet pain over them?

  He hoped to live a long life. Foolish for a mercenary, perhaps, but he knew enough to understand that always looking back was no way to travel forward.

  Something to focus on in the present—that was what he needed. He picked up his pace, and the fox’s snout bumped his knee.

  “You’re it, my opportunistic friend.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Gawain ploughed through his supper, glad to have something to do that wasn’t admitting his failure.

  Yes, it had been only a silly contest. Yes, it hadn’t even been his idea. And yes, he’d had plenty of experience coming up short when it came to meeting expectations—especially Palahmed’s.

  But that was the worst of it. When they finished eating—or sooner if Safir got bored—he’d have to raise his empty hands and admit there’d been no eels for the catching. He’d be damned if he’d reveal he’d grabbed the idea of an eeling out of desperation the day before. He was embarrassed enough without admitting that.

  Because Palahmed had caught something. Gawain spotted it the moment he’d entered Elain and Gwen’s private dining chamber, the furry heap under Palahmed’s chair. The fox looked as if it had curled up for a nap with its tail over its nose. The other men hadn’t set out to catch foxes, so there it was: Palahmed’s claim to victory. Surprise, Gawain thought, and then scooped up another spoonful of stew.

  Which came to a halt short of his mouth.

  May the most surprising catch win.

  That’s what Palahmed had said. What Safir had laid down as a challenge. And Gawain had, in fact, caught something surprising.

  Several somethings.

  He glanced over at Palahmed. His shoulders looked less rigid than usual, and he was smiling at something Elain had just said. It did nice things to his face, rounding some of its harsher angles. What would happen to that smile if—

  A loud thump made him flinch, and stew fell from his spoon to plop onto the wooden table.

  Safir, sitting next to his brother, was pounding the table with his palm. And grinning at Gawain. Everyone broke off eating and talking and looked at Safir.

  “My brother and Gawain had a bit of a contest today. Shall we see what came of it?”

  Nods and smiles all ’round. Wonderful.

  Safir turned to Palahmed. “Age before beauty.”

  Palahmed set down his cup. His dark eyes met Gawain’s for a moment, unreadable, before he leaned down and lifted the fox carcass for all to see. “Saw it trying to sneak into a chicken yard. Got it with a lucky stone.”

  His long fingers were wrapped around the little beast’s tail. Gawain wished he’d seen that moment, when Palahmed had drawn his sling and fitted the stone and then arced it high over his head. It would have stretched his tall body even taller and with a swooping grace that only came with practice.

  He realized with a jerk that the man was looking at him. His eyes were intent again, his chin set maybe a touch high, and Gawain felt his cheeks blush. Palahmed knew he’d brought nothing to dinner.

  Safir was watching Gawain too, with something very close to a dare on his face.

  Well, then.

  Gawain laid his spoon in its bowl. “We didn’t find any eels. Too much melt. In fact, mostly we floated boats. Gally almost won. Safir didn’t.”

  Palahmed gave Safir the sort of look only an older brother ever bestowed on a younger one.

  “I did catch something, though, and I didn’t expect it.” He rose from his seat and rounded the table. The weight of all their gazes felt heavy, though not enough to ground him. As he neared Palahmed’s chair and his increasingly perplexed expression, Gawain felt unmoored, as if his rope had slipped the iron cleat anchoring him to a dock. When he came to Palahmed’s chair, he set one hand on its high back. It helped.

  Palahmed’s eyes were black, and a touch uneasy. It was odd to stand over him when it was usually Palahmed who loomed.

  That helped too.

  “Shall I show you what I caught?”

  Palahmed scanned his shirt, as if looking for something hidden.

  Slowly, Gawain leaned down and kissed his forehead.

  When he straightened, Palahmed had gone still, staring at Gawain’s chest.

  “Caught that from Elain,” Gawain said. Before he could lose his courage, he planted a kiss on the man’s right cheek and another on his left. His skin felt smooth and warm above his neatly trimmed beard. Gawain wanted to linger there but said, “From Gwen.” Then he laid a soft peck right on the tip of Palahmed’s long nose. “From Gally.”

  Down the table, Galahad giggled. Palahmed’s gaze flicked in that direction, then around the table, person to person.

  Gripping the back of the chair, Gawain set his other hand to the man’s jaw, turning his head to face him. Palahmed’s eyes were wide now, and for all Gawain knew, he’d thrash him for what he was about to do.

  But a challenge was a challenge, and he wasn’t in the habit of backing down from one. Leaning close, close, too close, he set his lips to Palahmed’s.

  They felt stiff, frozen in shock. Gawain gave them a little push and then nipped one. Palahmed’s head jerked in Gawain’s hand and his lips parted, breath hot and stuttering. Tilting his own head, Gawain pressed in, licking into the man’s mouth and over his tongue. It occurred to him, hazily, that he should remember how this felt, how it tasted, because he was about to be shoved off and shouted down. And so he delved deeper, swiping and swallowing, storing every sensation for a later lonely moment…when a strange thing happened.

  Palahmed’s fingers slipped into his hair and pressed him closer.

  He couldn’t help it: he groaned. It was a quiet groan, and maybe no one heard it, but he was pretty sure Palahmed at least felt the rush of breath because his tongue woke up and pushed against Gawain’s, swirling and sucking, and his hand was firm at the back of Gawain’s head. Soft lips, ticklish mustache, and he tasted like everything strong and powerful and good. Everything Gawain had known he’d find. Everything he’d craved
for six fucking years.

  He broke the kiss.

  For a long moment, he remained there, bent close and breathing hard, and so did Palahmed. Then, abruptly, Palahmed let him go and pulled back. His gaze skipped around the table again, sharp and suspicious, and Gawain could see him ticking each person off a mental list.

  Not Elain.

  Nor Gwen.

  Nor Gally.

  Nor any of the three who’d gone hunting with him. Which left…

  His eyes slid to Safir.

  Who looked extremely pleased with himself. He smacked the tabletop again and smiled broadly. “I’d say our hawk won that contest. Wouldn’t you, brother?”

  Color rose high in Palahmed’s cheeks, something Gawain couldn’t remember seeing before. Maybe because he’d never stood so close. From this near, he could also see Palahmed’s pulse tick low on his throat. He had the insane urge to suck on it.

  Stepping away before he did something truly unwise, he snatched the fox from the flagstones and bowed to Palahmed.

  “Better luck next time,” he said and left with the taste of the man still on his tongue.

  Chapter 6

  Arthur was already awake when the knock came on the door post, but he turned into Bedwyr’s chest anyway. “Will you get that?”

  Bedwyr snorted. “No.”

  “I got it last time.”

  “You didn’t.” Bed pinched his arse. “I did.”

  Right. Different approach. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “You’ll sprawl out and take up the entire bed.”

  The knock sounded again, then a muffled, “Uncles?”

  He pushed his nose into Bed’s neck and let his hand wander south. “It’s just the lads. We can put them off.” He squeezed warm, thick flesh.

  Bedwyr caught his wrist. “We put them off enough.”

  He sounded unhappy. Arthur rose to find Bed’s brow in its stern set.

  Bed pulled him down for a kiss, but only a brief one. “Answer the door.”

  He grunted and groaned as he rose, determined to push his point. If they answered every knock, they’d never have any peace. Bed caved enough to chuckle at his petulance, and pinch him once more. He sent Bed a silent warning of what he was in for when he’d dealt with this interruption, then opened the door.

  Medraut stood in the corridor outside. “Uncle,” he said after a moment.

  The address caused the same worm-wiggle in Arthur’s gut as it did every time the boy used it. But they didn’t know yet, not for certain. His hair was still as black as when he’d been a babe. Uthyr’s grandson. Bedwyr’s nephew. At least they knew that much. “Awfully early, don’t you think?”

  “You have a visitor.”

  “The sun, just up over the hills?”

  “Lord Rhys.”

  Arthur straightened off the door. “In the hall?”

  Medraut nodded. “He wants to talk to you and Uncle Bedwyr.”

  He turned to Bed, who was reaching for his shirt.

  “Tell him we’ll be right along.”

  Medraut ran off, and Arthur searched the clothes on the floor for his own. “Remind me: when was the last time Rhys came to us at dawn?”

  Bed gave him a wry glance.

  “Right.” He stepped into his trousers. “Never.”

  ~ ~ ~

  When someone sat down on the bench next to him the following morning, Palahmed was surprised Safir had come back for more. He’d lit into his brother like a torch the night before over his prank. But when he looked up, it was Arthur.

  “Don’t worry,” Arthur said, “I won’t try to kiss you.”

  “Amusing.” He took a drink, mostly to hide the fact it had affected him at all. To them, Gawain’s stunt had been merely a continuation of their bickering. He couldn’t afford for any of them to know how the sight of Gawain leaning in had shocked him rigid, how the first touch to his lips had felt like a cool wave he’d been waiting for. How the rough-slick swipe of Gawain’s tongue over his had obliterated his self-control as swiftly and completely as a sandstorm. With any luck, his response—clutching Gawain’s hair to hold him in place—had come off as a bid to meet the challenge, that the way he’d deepened the kiss and perhaps twisted the young man’s shirt in a fist had been merely a belligerent raising of the stakes.

  Not what it had actually been: his body acting of its own accord, desperate and grasping. Hungry.

  “Bread?”

  He accepted the heavy hunk of dark bread Arthur held out to him. “Bit early for you, isn’t it?” When they were in town, he didn’t usually see Arthur or Bedwyr until well after the sun was up. Not that his own restless sleep should be any sort of measure.

  “Had an early visitor. Well, two, but first things first.” Arthur broke off and nodded across the hall. Bedwyr was just coming in. Behind him walked Gawain.

  Palahmed straightened his posture, masked any trace of the thrill that curled up his spine at the sight. Tearing off a morsel of bread, he popped it into his mouth as if he hadn’t a care.

  Bedwyr sat down on the bench across from them and nodded to Palahmed. Gawain took a seat beside the man. “Morning,” he said.

  Arthur responded in kind, as if the lad’s voice weren’t rough with sleep, his curls wild with a night’s dreaming.

  “Morning,” Palahmed said.

  Gawain’s green gaze flicked to meet his, and he cocked his chin, but then he took up the bread loaf and busied his hands.

  “Rhys paid a visit this morning.”

  Palahmed looked at Arthur, surprised. Rhys would’ve had to leave his own town before dawn for such a visit. “What prompted that?”

  “The Saxons aren’t waiting for spring to make trouble.”

  “They’re moving now, during the thaw? What, are they not miserable enough?”

  Gawain snorted, but when Palahmed glanced at him, the lad schooled his features.

  “They aren’t moving men,” Bedwyr said. “They’re negotiating new alliances.”

  “With?”

  “The north.”

  At that, Gawain’s hands stilled. He swallowed but said nothing, looking from Bedwyr to Arthur.

  “Rhys has a mission for us,” Arthur said.

  “With a specific target,” Bedwyr added, and then turned to Gawain.

  All color seemed to drain from the hawk’s face, until his skin looked paler than milk.

  Palahmed had never seen such abject dread on a man’s features, not even before a skirmish. Some instinct rose inside him to ease it. “The Saxons are meeting with Lot?”

  “Not yet,” Arthur said. “Word is they wintered at Eidyn.”

  Eidyn was in Caledonia, far north of the dead emperor’s wall.

  “Made themselves quite at home,” Arthur said. “But as soon as the northeast seas calm, they intend to sail farther.” He looked at Gawain. “To the Orcades.”

  “The northeast seas never calm.” Gawain’s voice was no longer gravelly. Now it was soft but with an unmistakable edge, like a dagger under a cloak.

  “Which is why Rhys came to us,” Arthur said. “He knew you would know that.”

  Gawain stared at him, palms flat on the table now, and Palahmed had to restrain himself from setting his own hand on top.

  “They aren’t going to wait,” Bedwyr said. “But we can travel more swiftly and get there before they do.”

  “And do what?” Palahmed asked, because Gawain looked incapable of speech.

  “Ensure Lot’s loyalty.”

  Good God. He’d heard heavy words before, but these felt like great stones suspended in a fraying net.

  Across the table, Gawain’s hands curled into fists. “Why would Rhys think they’re for Lot’s? The Orcait are piddling, rocky islands. Convenient for nothing but freezing your arse off. And who cares what Lot does?”

  “Rhys cares,” Arthur said. “And he’s not alone,” he added when Gawain looked ready to argue. “But even if he were, it’s not just the Orcades at stake. Word is th
e Saxons are prepared to expand Lot’s domain if he cooperates.”

  “They should save their dogs’ breath,” Gawain said with a humorless chuckle. “Lot doesn’t stoop to cooperate.”

  Bedwyr tapped a knuckle on the table. “Even if they offer him everything down to Eidyn?”

  A chill flashed over Palahmed’s skin. He’d spent enough time in Rhys’s council chamber to be familiar with the maps. If it was true, Lot stood to rule an area larger than Cymru. “That’s a vast offering. Hold—have the Saxons taken control of it?”

  “No, but they’re confident they can help Lot take it.”

  “How confident?”

  Bedwyr’s smile was grim. “Confident.”

  The mainlanders. No one knew how many Saxons remained in their homeland across the sea. Sometimes it seemed there was an inexhaustible supply of them.

  “Why should Lot trust their offer?” he asked. “If they can hand him Caledonia, why wouldn’t they keep it for themselves?”

  “That’s the risk,” Arthur said. “Rhys doesn’t care if Lot’s domain grows. He tends to keep to himself. But if the Saxons take it over…”

  They would control most of Britannia.

  Gawain looked at Bedwyr. “Why’d you fetch me here, cousin?”

  Bedwyr’s expression was as stern as ever. “I think you know why, cousin.”

  The lad shook his head. “Whatever pull you imagine I’d have with him…” He trailed off. Swallowed. Visibly braced his shoulders. “I wouldn’t. I don’t. He’s more likely to set his hounds on me than listen. Even to reason.”

  “We need you to try,” Arthur said. “We’ll be there with you.” When Gawain wouldn’t look at him, Arthur said, “Rhys asked us to do this because we have you. And because your mother is Bedwyr’s aunt.”

  “One you barely remember,” Gawain said to Bedwyr.

  Instead of responding, Bedwyr looked at Palahmed. “We need a fourth.”

  “I fight with Safir.”

  “I fight alone.”

  He and Gawain blurted the words simultaneously, and then they were all just staring at each other. Though the look between Arthur and Bedwyr was making Palahmed uneasy. “What?”