Tempted by Ruin (Sons of Britain Book 4)

by Mia West

  Arthur turned to him. “Rhys wasn’t our only visitor this morning. We saw Safir too.”

  A slim blade of ice slipped under Palahmed’s skin. “Couldn’t talk him into it?” He tried for lofty but achieved only breathless.

  “He turned us down.”

  “Smart man.”

  “He was leaving.”

  Palahmed stared at him. “What do you mean, leaving?”

  Arthur glanced at Bedwyr before looking back to Palahmed. “He said he was for Hibernia. Said he’d told you he was going.”

  Hibernia. “That was a joke. A stupid threat to make me—” He swallowed his next words. Never mind what Safir had been trying to make him do. Nothing the other men at this table needed to know.

  “Stupid, maybe, but not a joke. He sailed at dawn.”

  Palahmed searched his memory for any hint from Safir that he’d been serious. Anything he might have said or done more recently to prepare him. But there was nothing, no words, no plans, only that ridiculous prank, the sole purpose of which had been to embarrass him, to drag his humiliating longing for Gawain into the light—

  His heart seemed to cease beating.

  No.

  Oh, no.

  It hadn’t been a prank. Safir had been trying to prepare him. Because he knew that, when it came down to it, there were two men for whom Palahmed would risk his life for no coin at all. One of them had left at sunrise.

  The other sat across from him now, eyes wide and wary, like twin summer meadows under the dark cloud of his hair.

  “I’ll do it,” he said.

  “What?” Gawain breathed, as if Palahmed had betrayed him.

  “I’ll be your fourth,” he said to Arthur. Meeting Gawain’s gaze was more difficult. “You have my sword.”

  Gawain stared at him. “I don’t—” he choked, clearly frustrated. Palahmed could see beyond that, though, to something the hawk would never admit, not to him: he was frightened. Deeply and thoroughly, if the tremor in his hands told any truth. For some reason, the prospect of returning home terrified him.

  That, at least, Palahmed understood. “You may not need it. Nevertheless, you have it.”

  All sorts of sentiments warred on Gawain’s face.

  In the end, though, his shoulders slumped, resigned. “When do we leave?”

  Chapter 7

  It wasn’t going to work.

  He hadn’t spent fifteen years in Lot’s hall and come away with any illusions about the man’s character. He might be Gawain’s father, but that had been the work of a single spurting thrust and not a damned bit more. If these three thought a visit from his long-gone second-born was going to sway Lot from making a lucrative alliance, they were fools.

  All right, not fools. They just didn’t know Lot. Arthur and Bedwyr should’ve had some notion what they were up against. They’d had the pleasure of Agravain’s company, after all. Long ago, so long he could scarcely remember it, he’d looked up to Agravain. His older brother had been everything he’d wanted to be: strong of arm, quick with the correct answer, and confident—so confident—and the object of Lot’s pride because of all that. No surprise, then, that Agravain had slowly and surely become more like their father, until he could hardly meet Gawain’s eye. The last time any of them had seen Agravain, he’d been nearly as stony as Lot, and completely uninterested in the fate of Cymru.

  That Bedwyr and Arthur hadn’t immediately turned down this mission was a fucking wonder for the ages.

  And if they thought Gawain’s mother was the way in… Gods. They had no idea. If Lot was ruthless, Morgawse was his perfect mate. Manipulative, remorseless, and single-minded. Everything she did, she did in service to her husband. Oh, she had her secrets; unfortunately, Gawain was privy to a few of them. But they were inconsequential when it came to Lot’s power, so blackmail wouldn’t even be an option when attempts at persuasion failed.

  In short, they were fucked.

  And he had a couple weeks’ sea journey to anticipate this excellent outcome. At least there was work to be done. As soon as they’d boarded the ship, he’d approached the captain and asked where he should begin. The man had judged him too short to be of much use in rowing, but there was plenty else to do, carrying rations of ale to crew members, minding the cargo, rinsing the slop buckets. He didn’t mind. Anything to keep his mind off the moment he would set foot on Lot’s lands again.

  But menial tasks did nothing to free his thoughts of Palahmed. If Arthur and Bedwyr had caught him by surprise with this mission, Palahmed had been blindsided. He knew the man was close to his brother—on missions and campaigns, they were rarely apart from each other. But even having witnessed that for almost seven years, it hadn’t truly sunk in how much Safir meant to Palahmed. When Arthur told him Safir had left, he might as well have told him he wasn’t coming back. Shock had wiped the man’s expression blank, followed by a look of loss that had hit Gawain’s gut like a cramp.

  Then Palahmed’s words—You have my sword—and all Gawain’s air had left him, as surely as if he’d been punched. He’d made some stupid, half-formed protest, the sort of knee-jolt thing a mulish boy would say out of pride. And he was proud—he’d admit that.

  What he would never admit was what Palahmed’s words had actually done to him. Rather, what they’d undone inside him. He’d spent years pining for the man, dreaming deep, deep down in his stupid heart that Palahmed might someday swear his protection to him. And then, on the heels of learning he was to face Lot again, Palahmed had said the words.

  It had taken every drop of restraint in his body not to crawl across the table and into his lap.

  Pathetic.

  It wasn’t as if Palahmed had said it out of affection. They didn’t even like each other. Even odds the man would as soon knock him flat as he would willingly spend time in his company. And Gawain had only cemented that when he’d surprised him with those kisses the evening before. Palahmed had responded—another moment that had twisted Gawain’s heart in a hopeful clutch—but it had only been his way of saying, Two can play at this.

  So Palahmed’s offer to shield hadn’t meant anything. He’d only just discovered a Safir-shaped hole at his side and acted to fill it as only a career mercenary would. With a new shieldmate.

  Gawain looked over the rail at the restless gray sea and wondered how many people he would disappoint before this mission was done.

  He made his way down the center of the ship, dipping into the ale bucket, offering the ladle to each man. Most said nothing, only drank and took up their grip again. Arthur and Bedwyr gave him nods.

  Two rows in front of Arthur—on the aisle, where the taller men sat—was Palahmed. As he shared the ale around, Gawain found it difficult not to sneak glances at him. He’d only ever seen the man fighting or between fights. When he wasn’t handling his sword with enviable ease, he kept himself still. Sometimes the stillness was a stiff thing, like a spiked wooden wall keeping everyone out. Sometimes the stillness was movement but of a quiet sort like walking and thinking. But as much time as he’d spent around Palahmed, they’d not yet been on a boat together, and it was striking. For a man who’d grown up in a desert, he looked awfully at ease on the sea.

  Or on a ship, anyway. His rowing technique was as natural as if he’d been born to it. Which made it all the more impossible not to stare—at the way it stretched his arms long, brought out the muscle in his shoulders and thighs, and made the long, dark queue of his hair swing behind him. As Gawain got closer to him, he tried to rein in his ogling, but his eyes were greedy, drinking up the strong grace of the man’s body as thirstily as the sailors slurped the ale.

  When he finally reached him, he had to speak to get his attention. “Ale?”

  Palahmed’s rhythm stuttered at the interruption, and he looked up at Gawain as if he needed a moment to place who he was. Then he cleared his throat and nodded. “Please.”

  Gawain handed him the ladle, full, and watched, transfixed, as he drank it down.

  So
me of the men were sloppy about it, sloshing the ladle so much they spilled half its contents. Not Palahmed. He was careful, and nearly every drop made it down his throat on three smooth swallows. Only one thin rivulet escaped the edge of the cup to drip down his beard and into the open neck of his shirt.

  Gawain’s tongue ached to lick it up.

  Palahmed handed back the ladle. “Thank you. Are you well?”

  “Of course.”

  Those dark eyes skipped over the heads of the other men before meeting Gawain’s again. “Any trouble?” he said, his voice low.

  “No.”

  “Good.” Palahmed nodded and took up his oar again. Satisfied he’d protected Gawain from peril, it looked like.

  As if he didn’t have seawater in his blood. As if he wouldn’t know how to handle himself around a ship and its crew without a self-appointed nursemaid.

  Arrogant arse.

  He moved to the man across the aisle and struck up a conversation, lingering and listening as if the fellow’s opinions about the currents and the wind and that particularly dark cloud on the horizon were the most fascinating things he’d ever heard. He offered him a friendly second ladle of ale before moving on to the next row, and then thoroughly enjoyed being in Palahmed’s line of sight. For the most part, the man avoided looking at him.

  But a few times Gawain felt that dark gaze on him, pressing into his skin like warm, smooth fingertips. He ignored it as much as he could, but he couldn’t resist every moment. When he gave in and looked over, Palahmed would glance away quickly, as if he’d been in the process of looking toward something else anyway.

  Which was fine. Gawain didn’t need a nursemaid.

  He needed a plan.

  ~ ~ ~

  Bedwyr stepped onto shore and rolled his shoulders. “Thank the fucking gods,” he muttered.

  Arthur grinned at him. “Was it so bad?”

  He took in the land rolling away from the inlet, still tinged in its winter browns but blessedly solid under his boots. “Splendid, if you enjoy your guts swapping places with your lungs.”

  “Come now. You were fine. Didn’t miss a stroke.”

  Having an oar to cling to had been the only thing keeping him from bawling like a calf. “I never miss a stroke.”

  Heat flared in his cub’s eyes. “There you are.”

  Unfortunately, it’d be some time before they could coax that spark into a flame. There was cargo to unload. The ship was one of Rhys’s, and while it could have sailed them swiftly and directly up the western coast, Rhys didn’t control a small trade empire for nothing. No trip wasted, he’d said, and he’d meant it. This was only the first of several ports they would call in to deliver and receive goods.

  It was an efficient operation, and they carried this port’s goods to the receiving clerk in less than an hour. The man was slim and serious, counting crates and barrels, then making fastidious marks on his wax tablet.

  Bedwyr elbowed Arthur. “Remind you of anyone?”

  “I wonder how Philip’s doing.”

  “Philip?” Palahmed asked.

  “Our old tutor,” Bedwyr told him. “Came from Gaul by way of the East. Born a Greek.”

  The mercenary’s handsome features went unexpectedly harsh. “Greek?”

  “Yes?”

  Palahmed spit to the side. “Where are we to camp?”

  Bedwyr pointed down the inlet. “Just around there, they said. It’s sheltered by the trees. Fairly flat.”

  Palahmed nodded to Gawain. “You ready?”

  “For what?” Gawain frowned at him.

  “To make camp,” Palahmed said, sounding impatient.

  The young hawk’s frown became a full-fledged scowl. “I’ll be along in my own time.”

  Bedwyr exchanged a glance with Arthur. This trip north was threatening to feel twice as long as it actually would be.

  “I’ll go with you, Palahmed,” Arthur said. “Early birds get the softest moss.”

  Bedwyr watched them stride away. From behind, they looked like a matched pair, tall and strong, the queues of their hair swinging in tandem across their shields. He turned to Gawain. “I won’t mention my envy of their long legs if you don’t.”

  His cousin’s mutinous expression eased. “It’s a bargain.”

  “Arthur’s right about the moss, though. You might like sleeping on sharp rocks…”

  “He’s just so fucking imperious,” Gawain grumbled, then added, “Palahmed, not Arthur.”

  “More reason to claim the best spot before he does.”

  Gawain snorted. “True enough.”

  They set off toward the campsite at a pace more reasonable for regular humans. Rhys had given them each a small amount of coin for necessities, and they were tempted almost immediately by a fellow selling skewers of crackle-skinned fish. A woman next to him sold them parcels of cheese. Now that he was on land, Bedwyr’s appetite was back. He tore a hunk off his fish and grinned at Gawain.

  “You’re in a good mood.”

  “Happy to be alive.”

  “In general?”

  “No, after that fucking boat.”

  “What about it?”

  Bedwyr took a bite of cheese, and mimed the pitching and rolling of the thing.

  Gawain stared at him. “You’re joking, right? That was practically a pleasure outing.”

  “Sometimes it’s like you speak a completely different tongue.”

  Gawain laughed and a string of northern gibberish spilled from his lips.

  “As I said.”

  Gawain smiled and looked out over the inlet. “I don’t remember not being on boats. If I hadn’t heard my mother tell it herself, I’d believe I was born on one.”

  Bedwyr had only a foggy memory of his aunt Morgawse. Dark hair, wide smile. He supposed she’d resembled his father in those ways. “What is she like?”

  “My mother?” At Bedwyr’s nod, Gawain said, “She married Lot.” He shot a glance at Bedwyr. “Willingly.”

  Not only willingly. Enthusiastically. Rebelliously. At the time, Bedwyr’s grandfather, Emrys, had ruled their region of Cymru. He’d nurtured several matches for his only daughter, but then she’d met Lot.

  Uthyr hadn’t spoken of it often, and never outside his own house, but Bedwyr had gathered that Morgawse had flouted her father’s authority and run off with the arrogant young lord from the far north in the middle of a harvest festival. Emrys had flown into a rage, declaring her dead to their people and threatening death on anyone who uttered her name. Then he’d drunk himself into such a precipitous decline that Uthyr had wrested control of the region from him to save them all.

  That was Uthyr’s version of events, anyway.

  “Will she be glad to see you?”

  Gawain considered that. “Don’t know.”

  “She was the one who taught you Cymrish?”

  “Aye. In secret, though. Lot didn’t want his sons speaking it. Always said it sounded like cats gagging.”

  “Charmer. I can see why my aunt fell for him.”

  Gawain gave him a speculative look. “She’ll be glad to meet you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  The lad studied his face and smiled. “You look like Uncle Uthyr. She talked about him sometimes—usually when Lot was gone off the islands. She’d stare into her hearth in the evenings and tell me about him. Sometimes…” Gawain pursed his lips and grunted.

  “Sometimes?”

  “It’s stupid.”

  “What is?”

  “The way she talked about him, he was like a god come to earth. Untouchable in battle, unmatched for courage. Sometimes, it was as if…as if Uthyr was the man she’d wanted, not Lot.”

  Well.

  Gawain’s gaze slid to his, and his mouth curled up on one side. “Have I mentioned how much you look like your father?”

  “If you’re about to suggest I seduce my own aunt, I’ll chuck you in that river.”

  Gawain grinned and shrugged. “It was worth a go.”
/>   They were nearing the area where they would make camp with the ship’s crew. He could make out his cub’s bright hair as he moved among the still-bare trees. “Arthur will have his own questions for you. You’ve never said much about it—about Lot or the place you grew up. But the more you can tell us, the better our chances of success.”

  “What would success look like?”

  Good question. At this moment, not knowing what they faced and having only secondhand accounts of Lot to go on, simply surviving the mission sounded like a good measure. “Rhys wants to stop the spread of Saxons.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m just the hired man. So are you.”

  “So our wants mean nothing?”

  Bedwyr studied his cousin, whose eyes shifted about, over the water, up the bank, into the trees. “Are we still talking about Lot?”

  Gawain glanced at him and sighed. “Look, I’ll do my best. But having me along is as much a hindrance as a help. Lot despises me.”

  “You’re not alone here.”

  “I know. Just wanted to tell you now so I don’t disappoint anyone later.” His gaze flicked back to the woods.

  Bedwyr was in no position to give advice on love matters. Or even uncomplicated desire matters. He’d had to be trapped in a shepherd’s hut with Arthur for weeks before he’d dared explore his own. But he did have about eight years on the young hawk, much of which he’d spent watching Gawain and Palahmed circle each other, growling. He’d wagered they wouldn’t give in ’til the autumn, but he’d lost better wagers before. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  The lad’s mouth twisted wryly. “Are we still talking about Lot?”

  Bedwyr smiled to have his own words lobbed back to him. He waited, though; that usually worked.

  No exception this time. “The worst would be to drag a man north on a hopeless mission and prove to him—finally and completely—that my arse isn’t worth shielding.”

  If Gawain had said that to any random man in Rhys’s hall, they’d have taken it for a simple compatibility question between warriors: to fight side by side, or no?