Tempted by Ruin (Sons of Britain Book 4)

by Mia West

  But he’d said it to Bedwyr, whose bond with his shieldmate had been forged in blood—accidentally and later with purpose—and then protected for a deeper reason than honor.

  This wasn’t about fighting, but it was the first time Gawain had said anything about it, even slantwise.

  “There are worse things than admitting you need help, and then welcoming it when a man offers.” When Gawain looked at him, Bedwyr held up his stump. “Sometimes the offer comes before the admission. Those offers are the purest. Don’t ignore them.”

  The stiff set of his cousin’s shoulders seemed to ease. After a moment, he drew a great breath and blew it out, nodding. “I reckon I know a few things about Lot that might be useful. I’ll answer whatever questions you have. And, um, thanks.”

  “Any time, cousin.” Humility was a hard road to travel, but it had its rewards. Bedwyr’s awaited him among those trees.

  And for the few hours they were on solid ground, he meant to enjoy them.

  Chapter 8

  Palahmed watched Bedwyr’s and Arthur’s forms fade into the darkness beyond the firelight and felt the familiar need to take himself away too. Only he and Gawain remained now; all the others had bedded down in preparation for the next morning’s early departure. “Suppose I’ll be off as well.”

  But when he made to stand, Gawain said, “Wait.”

  Halted mid-rise, he gave the lad a questioning look.

  “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For offering me your sword.” Gawain nodded. “I’ll need it.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I need it already, I mean.”

  Palahmed settled back to sitting.

  “Are you not tired?”

  Not with his blood racing like this. Calm yourself, man. “I like the night. I like the quiet of it.”

  “Oh,” Gawain said. “I can leave you to it…”

  The hope in the way the words trailed off was far louder than they were. “No reason we can’t both enjoy it.”

  Gawain’s eyes shone at him for a bright moment before he glanced away. “Aye.”

  Palahmed took up a stick and nudged a coal.

  Predictably, Gawain sat still for approximately ten breaths before speaking. “Good weather so far.”

  “Listen to that quiet. Isn’t it glorious?”

  Gawain ducked his head. “Sorry.”

  Palahmed chuckled. “I’m only teasing. I said I like quiet, not silence.”

  That got him a hesitant sort of half smile. “I’m not so good at either one.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You excel at so many other things.”

  “Ha-ha.” Gawain rolled his eyes. “Now you are teasing.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Because I can do nothing right, as far as you’re concerned. Forget doing it well.”

  It was Palahmed’s turn to feel abashed. He’d never meant to make the lad believe his every action fell short. “Perhaps I’ve been too harsh.”

  A tight shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”

  But it did. Chipping away a young man’s confidence, shard by shard, day after day, was no way to welcome him into manhood. “You do many things well.”

  “Oh, aye? Like what?” Gawain said, as if Palahmed had only made an idle remark and wouldn’t be able to conjure an answer.

  “You’re quick,” he said. “Light on your feet. Better balance than most. Good on the water.”

  Gawain looked up from where he’d been picking at his thumbnail. Perhaps he thought Palahmed hadn’t noticed his ease on the ship, but how could he miss it? The fellow seemed born to it. He had been, he supposed.

  “You volunteer early and often, and for assignments other men would hesitate to consider. You take risks. A few unwise ones, perhaps, but most not. You’re bold.”

  He stopped, to stanch the flow of words tumbling out of him. But bold had Gawain turning toward him. “Go on,” he said, a mischievous glint to his green eyes.

  It sparked something in Palahmed’s chest that felt…playful? How long since he’d felt that? How much longer since he’d given in to it? “Casting for compliments, are you?”

  “Collecting,” Gawain said, smirking. “You owe me six years’ worth.”

  “Six years, five moons, and twenty-three days’ worth, you mean.”

  The smirk fell, and Gawain blinked at him. He glanced around the sleeping camp as if someone might be listening in. When he met Palahmed’s gaze again, his voice came low. “Are you having me on?”

  “You’re resilient,” Palahmed said, as if there’d been no interruption of his compliments. “Setbacks that would mire other men are only temporary challenges to you. When there’s work to do, you do it. You don’t complain of the cold, or the heat, or of rain or snow. You don’t waste your coin on frivolous things. You make do with very little in general. Including compliments.”

  The fire lit the young hawk’s eyes from one side, turning the irises into green crescents. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m greedy for those.”

  And just like that, Palahmed wanted to feed him praise until he was stuffed. “It isn’t greed when you’ve been starved, only hunger.”

  Those sweet lips parted on a surprised huff, a quick inhalation.

  “You’re loyal to your friends. Good to your family. I meant what I said about you and your young cousins. They’re fortunate to have you in their lives. They’ll learn much.”

  “My brothers.” It came out soft, as if Gawain had only meant to think it to himself. He gave a small shake of his head. “I have two younger brothers. They were about that age when I left.”

  He could picture Gawain with them, tumbling and wrestling like pups. The smaller two following Gawain about, eager to emulate him. A long time ago, Safir had done the same with him, his big eyes intent on absorbing everything Palahmed did so he could imitate it later. Thoughts of Safir caused a twinge in his chest.

  Silly to dwell on them when Gawain sat only a couple arms’ lengths away, just as intent on Palahmed’s words. Thus far, he’d spoken only of character, and while he could have mined that vein for some time yet, there were other qualities he’d long wanted to compliment. Pride was a devil of a thing, but it didn’t seem to hold power here, in the cozy sphere of the campfire’s light. “You might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Stop.”

  He did, taken aback by the force of the command.

  “Enough.” Gawain pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes for a long moment, and then let out a long breath. “You nearly had me. But you’ve given up the game now. I don’t want to play anymore.”

  The lad thought he was teasing again. Worse, he thought he was lying to string him along.

  Good God, what sort of arsehole had he been for the past six-odd years that he couldn’t be trusted to pay a compliment?

  To tell the truth?

  He shifted closer. “Gawain.”

  Gawain shook his head. “We should sleep. The sea doesn’t care if a man’s tired—”

  “Hey.” With a fingertip under Gawain’s chin, he turned his head to face him. His eyes shone, so hopeful but so, so guarded. Palahmed smoothed a thumb across the dark arch of one eyebrow, then down over the hard curves of cheekbone and jaw. Gawain had the aspect of a young buck caught in the glint off a hunter’s arrowhead. With the lightest touch, Palahmed settled his hand on the back of Gawain’s neck. “I didn’t spend all these years criticizing you because I didn’t want you.”

  Gawain’s gaze flicked up from Palahmed’s mouth. “Fooled me.”

  Palahmed shook his head. “I’m the only fool here, Gwalchmai.”

  Gawain’s breath shushed over Palahmed’s chin. “Told you not to call me that.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” he asked softly.

  “Lash your tongue.”

  The heat that flashed through his body had nothing to do with the fire, which had dwindled to glowing coals, and everything to do with
the certainty in the hawk’s voice. It held an edge of authority that made him want to offer up his body for the carving. To be the rough surface on which it might hone itself to something truly deadly.

  Those were the last coherent thoughts he had before Gawain kissed him.

  Only a brush of lips, as sweetly chaste as the previous evening’s kiss had been aggressive. Then Gawain pulled away and rose.

  “My tongue remains unlashed,” Palahmed said.

  His hawk’s eyes glimmered at him. “Does it?”

  Palahmed watched him pad silently away and then heard his words again. This time, as Gawain had meant them.

  Lash your tongue.

  He was a son of the sea. And as such, he hadn’t intended to whip Palahmed’s tongue. He’d meant to tie it, bind it, secure it as neatly and firmly as if he’d used a ship’s rope. To stop Palahmed’s criticism, to demand honest words. To ensure his tongue would serve alongside his promised sword.

  And he’d succeeded.

  Palahmed let his head fall back, let the chuckle rumble out of him to drift over their dormant camp.

  From some distance into the trees came an answering whistle, low and triumphant.

  ~ ~ ~

  It felt different now and Gawain wasn’t even sure why. At least three new things had happened the night before, and any one of them could be the reason. Had it been his thanks for Palahmed’s sword? Or had it been the string of compliments Palahmed had then bestowed on him like a king giving away his fortune? Maybe it had been the chance he took in leaving the man with a cheeky question. The sound of his rich chuckle had kept Gawain awake for hours, long after Palahmed had settled on his own bedroll a short distance from Gawain’s, bringing the scent of the campfire with him.

  Whatever it had been—one of those things, or each after the other—the next day dawned new in a way none had in a very long time. He still felt Palahmed’s gaze as keenly as if he carried it on his shoulders. But now it didn’t scrape and scratch like boiled wool. Now it was like a brush of fingertips. Sometimes they were warm, and that warmth would curl through his body. Other times they were cool, and he would shiver. He had thought he’d built up a layer of scar flesh where this man was concerned, yet this caress he could feel.

  Made him want to flay himself bare to feel it deeper.

  Past experience kept him from doing something truly stupid, but he wasn’t above pushing for a little more. Just a little, to ease the boredom of the journey. And maybe—maybe—help him stop thinking about what waited at their destination. Thinking up things to ask Palahmed was much more enjoyable, and he spent most of his time on the ship doing so.

  It was easy, really. They came from such different places that when he started to think about it, questions began to heap up in his mind. He did have some pride. Wouldn’t do to let them just dribble from his lips as if he couldn’t control himself. As if he were a puppy.

  Every day, he sifted through the heaps, examining each question like a rare stone, and chose one to ask. After they’d sailed for the day, and then delivered any goods they were meant to, and stowed other goods in exchange, and made camp and found something to eat and sat around the campfire for a while, then, just as Gawain was beginning to grow impatient, the others would shuffle off to their sleeping spots, one and two at a time, until only he and Palahmed remained at the fire.

  And since Palahmed always waited, just as Gawain did, he reckoned the mercenary didn’t mind the questions. There was no chance the man looked forward to answering them as much as Gawain did to asking them—Palahmed was probably only doing it to ease his own tedium—but he would take what he could get.

  Those hours alone in the close glow of the fires were more than he’d ever imagined he would get. Especially when Palahmed’s dark, serious gaze snagged his own, and his efforts to speak quietly made his voice sound like gravel under the surf. Gawain’s voice would never sound like that, like some rumbling thing a fellow might want to burrow into. To feel against his skin until his whole body thrummed with it. Gawain wanted those things, shamelessly, but on the inside, where Palahmed wouldn’t notice. On the outside…

  …well, he just tried not to look like that puppy.

  “What did it smell like?”

  Palahmed stopped poking at the fire and lifted an eyebrow at him.

  “The desert. Did it smell different from here?”

  Palahmed considered that. “It did. I only ever catch a whiff now and again. That dry summer we had a few years ago—I caught it a few times then. Or sometimes in the kitchens at Rhys’s, if the cooks are using spices I remember. Mostly, it comes in dreams.”

  He smiled a soft sort of thing, and Gawain wished he’d caused it himself. “What are they like?” he asked quietly, not wanting to scare off the man’s openness.

  “My dreams?”

  Gawain nodded.

  Palahmed snorted. “Terrible, mostly. But I can smell them then: my father’s library, my mother’s hearth. The markets, the temples, the canal. The night.”

  Gawain followed his gaze up to the stars. “The night had a smell?”

  “Of course. Just as it does here. Crisp and smoky in winter, soft and green in the summer.”

  “Green has a scent?”

  Palahmed’s eyes met his. It almost looked as if they flicked down over him. A trick of the firelight. “Green has a scent. A feel and a flavor, too. Like possibility.”

  He’d breathed the word as if he were praying, only he’d done it staring at Gawain. Gawain shivered.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No.”

  Not long ago, Palahmed would have argued with him, told him not to be foolish, to scoot closer to the fire.

  But not lately. Lately, he’d begun to take Gawain’s word for truth when he gave it. Sometimes it caught him off his guard, and he’d find himself bracing for a reprimand that never came. As now, when Palahmed simply gave him a small nod.

  Though with an intent, watchful gaze that said he was going to keep an eye out for more shivers, just in case.

  Gawain suppressed one at that thought and held his hands up to the flames to warm them.

  “What do the Orcades smell like?”

  “Not so different from here. Saltwater. Kelp. Seals.”

  “What scent do you miss most?”

  “I miss nothing.”

  There was no sound for a long moment, except the fire and the blood-beat in his ears. He could feel Palahmed looking at him and was glad for the cloak of darkness.

  But Palahmed wasn’t one to be put off. “Was it so terrible?”

  “Why did you leave home?”

  “Safir was in danger.”

  Gawain looked up, surprised. He’d never heard this. “What sort of danger?”

  Palahmed shook his head. “I asked you first.”

  There was almost nothing he could say that wouldn’t sound like the mewling of a hairless lad, and that was the last comparison he wanted to inspire. “Doesn’t matter now. I grew used to it. Believed it was normal. Then, one autumn, a storyteller came to stay. Most of his tales were the usual fare: the gods fighting with each other, people who could turn into animals. But a few were about Arthur and Bedwyr.” He looked up to find Palahmed watching him. “I assumed those stories were as fanciful as the rest. But I still listened, night after night. And then wanted to meet them. To fight with them and for them.”

  Palahmed’s teeth shone bright in the firelight. “Did they turn out to be true, the tales?”

  Gawain shrugged. “Well. Arthur probably didn’t kill ninety-nine Saxons in one battle all by himself.”

  Palahmed chuckled.

  “But they were true enough, at the root.”

  “How so?”

  “Arthur is taller than most men. His hair does sort of look like fire. And Bedwyr is stalwart as a mud-sunk boulder. They’d kill to defend each other—have done, over and over. Even when they aren’t fighting, they almost never leave each other’s sides. And sometimes…”

&nbs
p; He trailed off because his next words would have laid bare his belly for the gutting. But before he could cover for them, Palahmed said, “Sometimes?”

  His nails dug into his palms. “Sometimes, when they look at each other…you can see what forever looks like.”

  After a couple breaths, he risked a glance at Palahmed, only to have those breaths catch in his gullet as if on a hook. Palahmed’s eyes were soft in the dancing light, dark as the night and warm, and an image flitted across Gawain’s mind of a place so vast with sand and stars it was hard to find the horizon where the two expanses met.

  Then Palahmed blinked and it was gone, and Gawain felt as if he were balanced on his toes on a high cliff, where the long grass curled, hiding the crumbling edge. He needed to back away, to get his bearings again. To put Palahmed’s attention on something else.

  “Where did you learn to row?” he asked.

  Palahmed’s head tilted a bit at the new tack, and something made him frown. “Rhys.”

  “Rhys taught you?”

  “Indirectly. I learned on one of his ships. It was how I earned passage to Cymru.”

  “With Safir?”

  “With Safir.”

  Questions were plunking down around Gawain like rocks in a slide. Too many at once, and if he chose one unwisely, these quiet moments at the fire might get buried in the resulting collapse.

  So he left them alone. Even though Palahmed had tempted him with that danger bit. Probably he’d done it on purpose, which was even better reason to resist. Gawain was man enough not to jump at every scrap of bait.

  Or so he told himself.

  Chapter 9

  By the time their ship rounded the top of Caledonia to sail steadily east, Arthur was as eager to be off the thing as Bed was.

  Not because of the ship itself but because he wanted this meeting with Lot to have begun. Waiting for a thing to happen had never been in his grain. Gave him too much time to imagine how it might go—to bend and twist and hammer at it until it was as far off its original purpose as an overworked blade.

  Make your plan, gather your tools, then start. That’s what his grandfather Wolf had always said, and it had worked for him in his smithy. They had a plan, of sorts, and they had their tools—themselves—but there’d be no starting until they reached Lot’s islands.