Cold Iron

by Stina Leicht

  The room suddenly felt close—too warm and charged with energy. It reminded him of the air on the narrowboat’s deck before the storm hit. Unable to trust his tongue, he nodded. She moved closer and laid a cool hand on his bare shoulder. His skin tingled beneath her palm, and his heart raced. Muscles low in his belly tensed. Her eyes closed in concentration. Breathing in the scent of her, he felt the heat born under her hand. It grew more intense until the knot of pain loosened and then faded away. Her lips were near enough to kiss, and her hair brushed against his face like perfumed silk. His hand twitched with a need to plunge into the golden waves. Before he knew it, the glistening strands were sliding through his fingers.

  She paused, eyes closed. He licked his lips and swallowed. His heart rammed his breastbone hard enough to bruise. Terrified he’d lose the opportunity, he tilted his head and pressed his mouth to hers. Her lips were warm and wet. She tasted of peppermint. Suddenly, she opened her mouth to his and eased into his lap without breaking the seal. The movement lacked her usual grace and she almost fell. A nervous laugh lodged in his throat and then vaporized when her thigh pressed against him. He twitched, ­startled. He was certain she’d feel his cock-stand and retreat in disgust. Instead, he felt her mouth curl upward.

  “This is nice,” she whispered against his lips, and squirmed closer.

  A bone in her stays dug painfully into his battered ribs, but he didn’t dare move. He was certain if he did, he’d break the spell. “It is.” His voice cracked as her hand tickled feather-light down his right side. Pain and desire bonded into a strangely pleasant sensation.

  She tore her mouth away and let out a nervous laugh that she seemed to have stolen from him. Staring at him from under half-closed lids, she asked, “Is—is it like you dreamed?”

  She knows. She knows, and she doesn’t mind.

  Rain rushed the windowpanes.

  He cleared his throat. “Better.” Her eyes were alert, shining in the firelight. “I agree.” She unhooked the clasp of her light cloak, and the thin fabric slithered down his shins. “Much better than dreaming.”

  Before he could ask what she meant, she trapped his mouth again, and he lost himself. After a time, he realized the coals had died and the room had grown chilly. His legs started to prickle with numbness and still he didn’t dare dislodge her. When she withdrew to catch her breath, he bent to the base of her neck. The instant his lips made contact, her hips writhed and she moaned. He pictured her fingers tearing at his breeches, plunging under the fabric.

  To his surprise, she slid to the floor on her knees. She paused for an instant, her head tilted as if listening. Then she tore at the buttons on his breeches with one hand and thrust the other underneath. Each action was so like what he’d imagined that he was momentarily stunned. Her eyes were closed, and her blind fingers searched deeper until she shyly touched his cock.

  He froze, his heart battering his ears. “Ilta?”

  For the first time since she’d shed her cloak, she didn’t seem to hear him. He thought of her trances. What if she doesn’t know what she’s doing? Cold fear trickled down his back like sleet until she moved to grip his cock, and conscious thought was momentarily obliterated. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he could breathe again. It was almost like drowning. Almost. Coincidence. Forget it. Let her do what she wants.

  Oh, please, let her want to untie her stays.

  As if on cue, she withdrew her hands and tugged her laces free of the top knot. Her shift gaped, and he stared as she revealed her breasts. In an instant, the small, pink nipples were hard points under his thumbs. The skin covering the yielding globes was smooth, firm, softer than he imagined.

  That was no coincidence. Stop this. Now.

  Part of him thrilled at the idea of finally exerting control over another being. He was immediately ashamed. The need for command magic had been everything for so long—to finally be as his family expected generated tremendous relief and joy. You can’t do this, damn it. This isn’t command magic, and even if it was, she’s not some dumb animal to be used as you will. The temptation to ignore his conscience was tremendous. She’s lost in your thoughts. This is no different than rape. With that thought, everything changed. He pushed her away. She ducked under his arm, tugging at his breeches.

  “Stop. You have to stop. Ilta, please! Ilta, wake up, damn it!”

  Her head came up with a snap. She blinked in confusion. “Nels?” A hand flew up to her open stays, and then her face, already flushed, turned a deep red. Her eyes filled with tears before she threw herself backward, bumping into the table, knocking the tea tray off the top. The teapot shattered on the hearth tiles.

  “Oh, Great Mother. What have I done?” Ilta asked. She fumbled for the watch inside her cloak pocket. “How long was I gone? How long?”

  Afraid she would cut herself on broken porcelain, he yanked up his breeches and went to her. She yelped and scuttled away, abandoning the watch. A cannonball of guilt smashed into his gut and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

  I did this.

  “I-I can’t believe I—” She sobbed into her hands.

  “It was my fault. I’m so sorry.” The shattered look in her eyes crushed his heart. He secured the buttons on his breeches and grabbed his shirt from the floor. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  “I wanted you to kiss me.” She hiccupped. “I did. I’ve wanted it since … for so long.”

  He blinked in surprise and then threw his shirt over his head. I have to tell her. He paused. “You weren’t acting on your own. I—”

  Her eyes went wide, and terror formed ice around his heart.

  She’ll never speak to you again. Oh, gods, I almost— “Wait! It wasn’t like that. Please.” But it was, on a certain level, and he knew it. She knows when you lie. The knowledge that such a thing was within him was almost too terrible to face. For the first time in his life, Nels was grateful that he’d never had command magic and never would.

  She sniffed and stared up at him with dull, wounded eyes. He watched her sitting there in a crumpled half-dressed heap, her arms wrapped around her knees, rocking herself, and fought the urge to fold her in his arms to sooth the hurt away. But he didn’t have the right. Not anymore. Not after what he’d done. An overwhelming need to fix what he’d broken, to avenge her pain, curled his hand into a tight fist. He turned his back. “Dress. I won’t look.”

  He heard soft rustling and hated himself for imaging her closing up her shift. Tying her stays. The swell of her breasts.

  Stop it.

  “All right,” she said. “You can turn around.”

  When he did, she seemed calm. More herself. Her lips were pressed into an angry line. She got up from the floor and walked to the ruin on the hearth. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was cracked anyway, remember?” He held his breath.

  The line of her lips twitched, revealing no sign he could decipher. “I guess there’ll be no tea.”

  “If you want tea, you’ll have tea.” Unable to face his guilt any longer, he bolted out the back to the kitchen like a coward. He stood for a moment as if he’d forgotten what he was there for. Once he stopped shaking, he began rooting around in the sideboard and found a jar capable of holding boiling water. Next, he located some cheesecloth and two unmarred tea cups. Balancing them carefully in his hands, he took a deep breath. He expected the worst and hoped for the best. “Not the most elegant tea you’ve ever had, but it should suffice.”

  He set the things down on the old wingback chair and retrieved the broom. Then he swept the hearth with energetic strokes. In between chasing down stray porcelain shards and spilled tea grounds, he risked a glance her direction. She was perched on the settee, legs folded under her. The tears were gone, and her face was composed, verging on angry. She watched him with an expression that said she was listening for things that couldn’t be heard. He turned his attention to sweeping, keeping his mind very blank.

  “You said it was your fault. Wh
at did you mean by that?” The question was flat. Cold.

  He swung the kettle away from the coals and used his ruined shirttail to lift the kettle’s lid. It had boiled dry. He would have to go out to the pump. He considered what he should say, but his mind was as empty as the kettle. Finally, he gave up, knowing that there was no way around it. She had a right to know what happened. Every detail.

  But only if she asks.

  Coward. “I should’ve been more careful,” he said. “I should’ve shielded you from my feelings. I knew you were sensitive. I didn’t know that could happen. I didn’t. But it’s no excuse. I’m so sorry.”

  She glanced down at the floor before confronting him with her eyes again. The mantel clock executed the seconds with cutting ticks while rain drowned the pathetic garden in the dooryard. He was certain she was going to slap him and leave, but she didn’t. She stared at him instead. It was much, much worse. Anger sparked in the black of her eyes. He wanted to retreat from it as he’d done with so many things, but didn’t. When his endurance had been stretched to its limits, she finally blinked and moved a hand over her skirts, smoothing the folds of fabric. She took a deep breath as if to steady herself for some great decision.

  “Did you know my parents sent for Gran the moment they understood what was happening to me?”

  Fearful of where the situation was headed but grateful she had spoken at last, he shook his head. Although they had known each other for years, they had spent little of that time alone. Their conversations had been restricted to matters less personal. This was the first time she had spoken at length of her childhood or anything else of importance. It suddenly occurred to him that their relationship was one-sided. That awareness strengthened the shame of what he’d almost done, twisting his heart with fierce self-loathing.

  “Gran said I was no more than three or four years old when my powers started to manifest.”

  He felt his jaw drop.

  “I know. For most people … most of the time, magic power comes with maturity, but there are exceptions. Some, like myself, are simply born that way.”

  “Go on.”

  “So, they sent for Gran as soon as they knew something was wrong. Even so, it was almost too late. I don’t remember much. And what I do remember, I couldn’t tell you if it really happened—if it was really me, or if it was someone else.” She smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from her skirts again. “By the time Gran came for me, they were terrified I’d gone mad. Gran kept me isolated for six years. I saw no one. Not even my parents. Gran said she had to shield me until I could do it for myself. You were the first person my age I’d ever met. Did I tell you that?”

  Nels shook his head.

  “I’m still learning how to maintain boundaries. Gran says …” Her words trailed off and her head tilted, forming a question that her words didn’t. “You love me.”

  He looked her in the eyes and knew the truth. Admitting it wasn’t nearly as terrifying as the thought that he may have again ruined something that meant everything to him. Whatever she says, if she throws it back in my face, I deserve it. “I love you.” He readied himself for the inevitable rejection.

  She stared at him for a long time with no expression until she whispered, “I love you, too.”

  The broom slipped through his numb fingers. He snatched it before it smacked into the mantel. She laughed. The sound wasn’t its normal timbre but strong enough, no longer brittle.

  He cleared his throat. “I’d best get water for the tea.” Snatching the kettle from the hook, he dashed through the front door and outside to the pump. The storm had regrouped. He was drenched before he’d reached his destination. It seemed silly to struggle with the pump when all he really had to do was hold the kettle open in the downpour, but the pump gave his hands something to do. He heard her voice in his mind, repeating what she’d said. I wanted you to kiss me. I did. I wanted it for so long.

  I don’t understand. When the pump had done its job, he dropped the lid back on the kettle and shook his head to remove wet hair and lustful images from his eyes.

  What in the world are you doing out here? She’s waiting, you fool.

  I can’t. What if something terrible happens?

  “Nels?” The door swung open a crack and lamplight sketched a yellow line on the porch planks. “Have you drowned?”

  He ran for the steps and then shut the door behind him.

  “Let me finish with your shoulder.” She took the kettle and exchanged it with a dry cloth for his head. “And stop bounding off like a frightened deer. It’s just a few stitches, for the Mother’s sake.”

  “You think I’m afraid of the needle?”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “Would you prefer I thought you’re afraid of my loving you?”

  “You know I’m not.” I’m afraid of what I might do to you. You are, too. Admit it.

  The arch lingered in her eyebrow. She went to the hearth and touched the clock. She’d managed to light the fire in the time he had been out at the pump. She spoke to the wall. “We need to talk.”

  He nodded and swallowed. Then he realized she couldn’t see him with her back to him. “We do.”

  “Dry off and change. You’re dripping wet. Mrs. Nimonen is going to have a fit when she sees the mud you’ve tracked all over her floor. And be careful of that cut. Just because it doesn’t hurt right now doesn’t mean it isn’t a problem.” She seemed to gain steadiness by assuming her role as healer.

  He freed his hair from its ragged queue and let it fall down his back. When he glanced at the hearth, he noticed that not only had she set the fire, but that she had taken the blankets and pillows off his bedstead and arranged them in front of the fireplace. He blinked, and his heart stumbled.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” she said. “You’re going to be exhausted when the initial boost of magic wears off. I want you where I can watch you.”

  “You can’t stay here.”

  “Only until after we talk. Then I promise I’ll slip out the back door. No one will see. But … no distractions.” She turned away again, but not soon enough to hide the flash of anxiety on her face. She sat next to the blankets and patted the floor. “When you’re done. Come. Sit.”

  He went to his bedchamber and grabbed his civilian breeches off a hook on the wall. He decided not to bother with stockings or a shirt. The shirt would only get stained. It was his last clean and whole one, and his tailor refused to extend credit to soldiers. Having spent almost everything on Reini’s transfer, he couldn’t have another shirt made until next month, and by then, he might be headed for the front. He reentered the main room to find Ilta hadn’t moved from her place on the floor. A basin of steaming water was at her side. The fire backlit her hair with gold.

  No distractions, he thought.

  “The tea is ready,” she said, holding up a cup. “Would you like some?”

  “It was for you. I was supposed to make it.” He sat next to her and stared into the flames, angry at himself for letting her down yet again.

  “At the rate you were going, I’d have had tea in a month.” He could hear a smile in her admonishment.

  His face burned. “I can’t seem to do anything right.”

  Her hands tenderly stroked his bare shoulder. He blotted out yet another set of searing images. She used a damp cloth to soak the scabs from his shoulder. The coolness of the water brought relief. When he sensed the prick and tug of the needle, he focused on the rain and watched the fire dance. It hissed whenever a stray raindrop ventured down the flue.

  She took a breath as if she were about to plunge into deep water and then paused. “Would you like to bind with me for a year?” Her question shattered the quiet calm.

  “What?” The needle gouged his upper arm.

  “Oh. Sorry,” she said, lowering the needle and leaning away from him. “I-I think it would be a good idea. It’s the only way Gran will allow me significant time alone with you. And I have to know if I can—if I can be close with people without losi
ng myself completely.”

  Blood tickled as it traced a line down his bicep. The last stitch had torn free and neither of them had noticed.

  “Oh, Goddess, I’m sorry.” She snatched up the wet cloth from the basin, wrung it out, and wiped up the fresh blood with a red face.

  “After what I did? You want to bind with me?”

  She gave him a shy smile. “I guess we both have things to learn about self-control.”

  The needle stabbed again.

  “Now?” he asked.

  “I … can’t right away. Later. In a month or—”

  “Yes.” He said it although he knew he’d be headed for the front long before then. He didn’t want to give her a second chance to retract the offer.

  “We can work out the details in a couple of days,” she said. “There. Done.” She lowered her mouth and bit the thread. Her warm lips pressed against his skin, and her black eyes twinkled. He could’ve sworn he felt the silky touch of her tongue. It sent another quicksilver bolt of lust through his veins.

  “It’s going to hurt tomorrow.” She withdrew and wrapped a tight bandage around the wound. “You’ve a bruised rib, but this is the best I can do. It’s not a good idea for me to use any more magic on you just now.”

  He nodded, his eyelids suddenly heavy.

  “Why don’t you lay down?” She paused. “You can put your head in my lap if you like.”

  It was the least of what he wanted, but he settled for it and was thankful. He shifted onto his back among the blankets and pillows in front of the fire while her graceful hands eased damp hair from his face.

  “Sleep. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be all right.” She kissed his forehead, and for a moment, his face was sheltered from worry in a cave of spun gold. He looked into her face and firelight glittered stars against the night of her eyes.

  I should be soothing her, not the other way around. He struggled to get up from the floor, but his body refused.

  THREE

  When he woke, his arm was stiff with pain. His ribs, at least, felt fine. He saw that as promised, Ilta had gone. The thought of her warmed his chest. For the first time since he’d become a soldier, he met the morning with a smile on his face. Even the sun seemed to shine brighter. Gathering the blankets and pillows from the floor, he left the room to make his bed. It wasn’t long afterward that Mrs. Nimonen entered from the back of the house. She started when she found him at the hearth. It wasn’t like him to be up this early on a rest day. He was pouring scalding tea from the jar into his cup and attempting to keep from burning his hands. Distracted, it didn’t occur to him to use the towel Ilta had left. He scorched two fingers with a yelp and almost dropped the jar. He set it down on the floor a touch too hard and spilled some of the tea.