by Amy Raby
“I don’t know,” said Janto. “I think we should find out.”
He trotted after her invisibly, with Rhianne at his side. The woman ran down the snaky forest path that led to the men’s slave house. Toward Micah? Did she intend to hurt him even more? Or was something else going on? Then she headed into the trees, slowing to a walk and looking all around. She put her hands to her mouth and made a sound like a bird calling.
Through the trees came an answering call. She turned and jogged toward it, slowing to a walk when she reached a small clearing.
A man stepped out from behind a tree trunk.
Janto clutched Rhianne’s hand, instinctively stepping in front of her, though they were both invisible. But the woman they were following seemed to expect this stranger. She ran to him, and they embraced. Then the woman began to talk. Janto was too far away to hear, but from the gestures, it was clear she was describing the events that had taken place at the women’s slave house.
“Is he her lover?” Rhianne whispered beside him.
The couple embraced again, their two forms merging to one in the moonlight. Janto knew he’d passed beyond legitimate investigation into voyeurism, and he ought to turn away from watching this private moment, but the sight reminded him of own private yearnings: a homeland and a family he wanted desperately to see again, a Kjallan princess he desired but who was intended for someone else. Something ached deep in his chest. “I believe he is.”
The distant figures separated just enough to share a kiss.
“Let’s leave them alone,” said Rhianne.
Janto nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. He turned, still holding Rhianne’s hand, and began walking back the way they’d come.
“I never think about that, you know,” said Rhianne. “That the palace slaves have lives outside of fetching my supper trays. Or if they don’t, they want to.”
“They’re my people—some of them—so I think about it a lot.”
“I suppose you must. I feel we’ve done something right for these people tonight. Something good.”
“I believe we have,” agreed Janto.
Rhianne nestled against his shoulder as they walked, her warmth delicious in the cool evening air. “Janto, I have something to ask you.”
“Ask.”
“Not here. Let’s—let’s get the equipment first.”
In silence, they returned to the clearing by the women’s slave house. They packed the staves and ropes and chamber pot into the sackcloth bag, and Janto hoisted it onto his shoulder. “Where to?”
Rhianne looked about helplessly and pointed in what seemed a random direction. Janto shrugged and followed her.
16
Rhianne didn’t know the area and didn’t have anywhere specific in mind. She just wanted a private, secluded spot with enough room to spread out a blanket. She found a quiet glade that seemed adequate for the purpose and halted. Janto lowered the bag to the ground and gazed at her expectantly.
Now for the proposal. “Janto, I . . .” Her breath caught, and she trailed off and looked away.
“What is it?” he asked gently.
Her legs felt weak. She looked around for a place to sit, but there wasn’t a stump or log anywhere. She swallowed. Courage. “I was wondering if you would make love to me.”
Janto drew back, his eyes wary. “Are you certain? Is there—will there be trouble?”
She blushed furiously. “No one will know. We’re alone out here, and shrouded, and . . . Look. I don’t love Augustan, and I don’t want him to be the first or only man I ever sleep with. I want that man to be you.”
Janto’s expression softened. He held out a hand. “Come here, Princess.”
She went to him, her shoulders dropping in relief. He enfolded her in the circle of his arms and kissed her, teasing her mouth open as if testing her, ascertaining for himself whether she truly wanted this. She yielded to the invasion, softening her body against him, surprising even herself as a sound of longing purred from her throat. This was the man she wanted, the gentle scholar who’d bantered with her in the gardens and gently prodded her to a deeper understanding of both of their countries, the spy who’d played games with her at the bridge. Not Augustan, and not some random Kjallan either.
Heat pooled deep inside her body, a paradoxical mix of pleasure and warmth and dissatisfaction, an unscratched itch that had her pressing closer to Janto, kissing him and wrapping her arms around him, trying to satisfy that unsatisfied place.
“Hold a moment,” he said, restraining her. “You’ve not been with a man before?”
“I have not. You don’t mind?”
“No. Will Augustan expect a virgin on his wedding night?”
“Kjallan women seldom go virginal to the wedding bed.” She’d never intended to wait this long; she was just choosy. And with so many men away at war, there had never been a lot of options.
“Are you nervous?” he murmured in her ear.
“No.” She wanted this, and she’d chosen the right man. However, losing one’s virginity was supposed to hurt—sometimes there was even blood—and that worried her. Perhaps she ought not to bend the truth. “A little.”
“We’ll go at your pace,” said Janto. “If you don’t like anything or you change your mind, you tell me to stop, and I will.” He looked around. “I don’t think the forest floor is going to be very comfortable.”
“I brought a blanket.” She went to the bag and fished out a blue coverlet, which she spread on the ground.
“You planned this.”
Her cheeks warmed. Indeed she had. “You’re leaving the country soon, so it’s my last chance.”
Janto knelt and fingered the blanket, gauging its thickness. “This won’t be as nice as a bed. Especially the sort of bed an imperial princess is accustomed to.”
“I don’t care.” She sat beside him. “Better you and a blanket on the hard ground than Augustan and all the feather pillows in the world.”
He flashed her an affectionate smile. “Are you warded? I’ve been away from my people for a while. My own wards might have faded by now.”
She’d considered that already. “My wards were applied a few days ago. I won’t get pregnant.”
He held out his arms again. She went to him, and he bore her gently to the ground. He examined her syrtos and fingered its double belts. When the knots stymied him, he gave up on them, straddled her, and removed his slave tunic instead.
Janto didn’t look Kjallan—not remotely. His chest wasn’t pale but golden, bronzed by the tropical sun of his homeland and dusted with a smattering of light brown hair. He was watching her, she realized, drinking in her admiring gaze. He leaned down and kissed her gently. She felt nervous about touching him, but she sensed he wanted her to, so she raised her hands uncertainly and stroked the sides of his body. As her confidence grew, she let her fingers explore, outlining the muscles on his back and shoulders. He leaned into her touch, yet he looked tense.
“Are you all right?” whispered Rhianne.
“Quite all right. Being with a virgin presents certain challenges. I want you very badly, but I don’t want to hurt you.” He reached again for the dual belts of her syrtos.
Much as it tickled her to see him struggle with the oddities of Kjallan fashion, she helped him unknot the belts. Then she sat up so he could pull off her syrtos and unlace her corset. At last they were skin to skin, and the wonderful but strangely urgent sensation returned, the unscratched itch that made her want to get closer to him, always closer.
Janto gathered her into his arms. He was big and warm and . . . big. Janto was not the tallest or burliest of men, yet compared to her, his size was substantial, and until he’d taken her into this intimate embrace, she had never been so aware of it. His erect cock rested against her thigh, and that too was intimidating. It was astonishing to think she would be takin
g that into her body. He stroked his tongue into her mouth, and her thoughts fell away. She wrapped her arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. Her breasts brushed his chest, sending a delightful tingle through her body, but mostly she wanted to get closer. She looped a leg over his, capturing it. Her breathing quickened.
He wrestled with her, chuckling as he broke her hold on his mouth. “Easy. I know what you want, but I can’t give it to you if you hold me so tight.”
“I need—,” she murmured, and, uncertain exactly what she needed except him, she captured his mouth again.
He broke the hold again. “Lie back.”
Reluctantly, she did so. She wanted so much to hold him, to be close to him, but to her disappointment he wasn’t moving in for a kiss at all. Well, at least she was initially disappointed. Instead, he was doing something with his tongue on her breast. That produced a wonderful shivery feeling that went all the way through her and made that unscratched-itch feeling more delightful and more unbearable at the same time. She arched her back, both from the torture of it and to shove her breasts closer to him.
“Rhianne.” He laughed. “You are an absolutely delightful lover.”
“I am?” She was surprised to hear it. “Well, you’re torturing me.”
“I’m not; you’re just very sensitive.” He licked her nipple and grinned at her convulsive shudder. “See?”
She stared back, nonplussed. How was she supposed to respond?
“Stay there,” said Janto. He moved farther away, down toward her hips, and parted her legs. She trembled a little. That part of her was so private, so intimate. He leaned down and licked.
Oh gods. That was what she needed. She was about to tell him to do that again, but there was no need. He was at it already, and she was awash in sensations she hardly knew how to process. She felt restless and uncertain, like there was something she ought to be doing except she didn’t know what it was. But Janto gripped her legs, stilling her. She let herself relax and just enjoy what he was doing with his tongue. The compulsion to press herself into him was gone, and she understood that he had been right; this was what her body had been craving.
His strokes, gentle at first, became stronger. Something was building inside her. It felt lovely, so she let it spiral upward, until the sensations became so overwhelming that her body was no longer her own. Her hips moved of their own accord, and Janto shifted to accommodate them. For a moment, she feared he would stop what he was doing, which was unthinkable, but he didn’t. He drove her on.
Then everything changed. Sweetness flooded her, so joyous, so luscious that she threw back her head with a cry. Her body shuddered in Janto’s grasp. Time slowed, and a languorous feeling seeped through her.
Janto returned to her arms, covering her body with his own.
“Am I ready now for the other part?” she said.
“You should be.”
She was afraid of the hymen-breaking, but it needed doing, and better Janto should do it than Augustan. She shifted beneath him, tilting her hips to meet his. He began to enter her, slowly and gently.
She shut her eyes. Pain. Searing pain.
His movement stopped. “Does it hurt?”
“A little,” she said in a tight voice.
He remained still and kissed her on the forehead. “I’m sorry.”
“Just go in. I’ll be fine.”
“No. Let’s talk for a moment while your body adjusts.” He took one of her breasts in his hand, circling her nipple with his thumb.
She arched her back at the electric sensation. There was that unscratched-itch feeling again, just a hint of it. But she was sensitive, almost too sensitive.
Janto noticed and stroked her in less erotic places—her sides, her back. “You smell like orange blossoms,” he said. “It’s one of the first things I noticed about you. It reminds me of home. Do you use a scent?”
“It’s the baths,” said Rhianne. “Scented water. I always choose orange blossoms.”
“Tell me about the baths. Is it true you all bathe naked in a giant pool together?”
“Not at all,” said Rhianne. “The pools are divided by sex. Men in one, women in another. Most people have to share, but since I’m from the imperial family, I get a bath all to myself if I want it.” The pain was receding, and she felt herself beginning to relax.
Janto moved.
There was the pain again, sharp and piercing, but after reaching a crescendo, it began to recede. She felt Janto inside her. It was a strange feeling—a sense of fullness, and his body so close to hers.
He leaned over her, quite still, not yet thrusting. He cradled her face within his hands and kissed her. “I’m sorry to take you by surprise, but you were tense, and I needed you to relax. You’re not afraid any more, are you?”
“Should I be?”
“I don’t think so,” said Janto. “I’ll be gentle. If it hurts, say something and I’ll stop.”
She nodded and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him possessively close. He began to move, slowly, his eyes on her face as he sought evidence of pleasure or pain. There were a few twinges of pain—it was not gone entirely—but they were bearable, and she tried not to let the evidence of their existence show. The pain was not Janto’s fault; it was the natural result of her inexperience, and she feared that if he stopped now, he would go unsatisfied. Besides, as he built up a rhythm, pleasure began to overshadow those twinges.
The unscratched-itch feeling was back, but with less urgency. It was more a languid enjoyment of the sensations, a yes, that’s nice, keep doing it feeling rather than the insatiable longing she’d experienced before. She entwined one of her legs with Janto’s, and he accelerated his rhythm. It was so wonderfully intimate, him inside her body, taking pleasure and giving it. Janto groaned. She worried at first that he was hurting. Then she realized it was the opposite. He stiffened and drove against her, spilling his seed.
He withdrew and dropped onto his side, looking spent as a rained-out thunderhead. A light sheen of sweat covered his body. He grabbed his tunic and draped it over them to prevent chills, then pulled her into his arms. “Are you all right?”
“More than all right,” said Rhianne. “But do you think . . .” She hesitated. “Will it hurt next time?” That was a stupid question. Next time would be with Augustan. Why even bring this up?
Janto didn’t answer right away. “Every woman is different,” he said finally. “It probably won’t.”
She’d given Janto her virginity, and she would never regret that choice. She could not have asked for a kinder, more considerate lover. But did it really have to end here? If next time wasn’t going to hurt, why not spend that next time with Janto instead of Augustan? She couldn’t send him home to Mosar anyway, not if Florian intended to “purge” the Mosari ruling class. “Will you meet me again tomorrow?”
“No,” said Janto. “I have to leave the country, or somebody will turn me in to the authorities.”
“Stay one more day, and I won’t turn you in.”
Janto turned to her. “Why? Because you want to sleep with me?”
“No.” Gods, was she that transparent? “Well, maybe. Look, this is important. When you leave the country, where are you going to go?”
“I’m not sure I should tell you,” said Janto.
“Must you be like this?” She toyed with the hairs on his chest. “I ask because you can’t go back to Mosar. You’ll be killed. Augustan plans to murder the entire Mosari aristocracy.”
Janto stiffened beneath her fingers. Clearly the news was a shock. But he said nothing. At least he wasn’t denying he was part of the aristocracy.
Rhianne nudged him. “Are you listening? You can’t go back to Mosar.”
“Where would you have me go?”
“Sardos or Inya. As a refugee.”
Janto sniffed. “You insult me. I wo
uld never abandon my people.”
“Janto!” she hissed. “If you go back, you’ll be killed!”
“Better that than to live as a coward and a traitor.”
She hugged him, pulling his sun-bronzed body close. How could he be so careless with his own life? “Don’t say such things! And please, let’s not fight. I just made love for the first time. This is not what I want to remember, you and I fighting afterward.”
He kissed her, stroking her cheek. “I don’t want to fight either. But you’re asking something of me that I can’t do.”
“Stay one more day,” she pleaded, “and I won’t turn you in. Will you meet me by the bridge tomorrow at noon?”
Janto hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes.”
He helped her lace up the corset. She put on her syrtos, rolled up the blanket, and gave him a good-night kiss. Then she headed back to the palace through the moonlit forest. His scent lingered on her body for a moment and then faded.
17
Janto waited impatiently for Rhianne at the bridge. She’d given him a critical piece of intelligence during their liaison last night, though not a welcome one. The Kjallans intended to murder the entire Mosari aristocracy.
Since then, he’d debated what to do with the information. Should the aristocracy evacuate Mosar? The aristocrats were, for the most part, also Mosar’s mages, and for them to leave in the middle of the war would spoil any chance Mosar had at winning. But there wasn’t much chance of that anyway.
After much thought, he’d decided the intelligence had to be passed along at his first opportunity. His father and mother, back on Mosar, would decide what to do with it.
Around noon, Rhianne trotted up on horseback, riding a white mare and leading a dapple gray gelding. She rode astride, not sidesaddle, and wore a shorter-than-usual syrtos, no loros at all, and braccae—Kjallan riding pants. He’d seen mounted soldiers wearing such pants, but never a woman.
“Can you ride?” she asked.
“Yes.” He glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then shrouded all of them, including the horses. “We’re invisible now. Did you not attract attention, bringing a second horse?”