by Mia West
Arthur stopped mid-strip and ducked to look at him. “Where then?”
~ ~ ~
Bedwyr lay in the dark, waiting. The barest hint of hearth light gave him the shapes of the space. Then the hangings pulled apart, and Arthur slipped through. He stripped silently and then slid under the blankets.
Bedwyr pulled him in.
“You’re going to get us killed,” Arthur whispered.
Everything needed to be whispers here, until the house officially became Arthur’s. “And yet you’re here.”
Bedwyr’s heart thumped with the risk they were taking. His father and Eira had retired to Uthyr’s bedchamber a short time before. Gwen and Elain, Bedwyr’s two accomplices, sat on stools before the hearth, carding wool. The clack of their wooden brushes melded with the murmur of their voices.
Here, in his bed, lay Arthur. He’d felt the full-length press of his body only the day before, but it seemed as if weeks had passed. Judging by the way Arthur was trying to shove closer, he thought so too.
“Gods, Bed, everything here smells like you.”
A silent laugh rushed out of him. “Is that a good thing?”
Arthur didn’t answer, or, rather, didn’t speak an answer. Instead, he came up and over Bedwyr until he caged him. He seemed to look down at him, but then Bedwyr realized Arthur’s eyes were closed. When he dipped his head, slowly, gently, Bedwyr realized Arthur had been pausing to take a breath so he could proceed calmly.
Calmly and maddeningly. Pinning Bedwyr’s arms to the mattress, Arthur brushed his lips across his chest. Bedwyr hitched under the light touch, gasping when Arthur’s mouth found a nipple. The soft, wet tip of his tongue circled, pulling every bit of his attention down to the warm, moist trail being drawn on his skin. When Arthur made his meandering way across Bedwyr’s body to his other nipple, he writhed, choking on his breath, wanting to drive his fingers into Arthur’s hair and hold him there, press him hard. But that would mean the end of these sweet drags of lip and cheek and nose…
He didn’t realize anything was amiss until Gwen’s startled voice broke through his senses.
“He’s sleeping, Ta!”
Arthur’s hands tightened on his arms, and then he pushed off hard. In a scrambling shush of limbs through bedding, he slid off the far edge of the mattress and down the few inches to the floor, taking half the blankets with him. Bedwyr jerked back enough of them to cover himself, just as the hangings parted to reveal the broad shape of his father. Bedwyr willed his pulse to slow as Uthyr approached his bedside. With a groan, he sat on the near side of the mattress, next to Bedwyr’s legs.
“You awake?”
Gods. He took a steadying breath. “What is it?”
Uthyr sat silently, looking about the space. What could he see? Bedwyr could only hope the hearth fire had blinded him a bit.
And that Arthur’s hair was covered by the blanket.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Uthyr said. “Been lying there, thinking about your announcement at supper.”
Bedwyr had interrupted the meal to tell everyone he and Elain had decided to marry. Gwen had done a good job of appearing surprised at the news. Eira had seemed unaffected, but Uthyr had looked back and forth between Bedwyr and Elain as if expecting them to say it was only a joke. When they didn’t, he slapped his hand on the tabletop and nodded, pleased.
Then why was he sitting on Bedwyr’s mattress, mere feet from a naked, hiding Arthur, when he should have been asleep in his own bed, across the house, behind a closed door?
“Is this what you want, son?”
Bedwyr sat up, trying to see his father’s face. It seemed a genuine question, judging from Uthyr’s tone. “Isn’t it what you wanted? You hired her.”
His heart knocked against his ribs. They hadn’t acknowledged that yet.
Uthyr only stared at him for a few seconds. Then he looked down at his hands, resting on his knees. “Elain told you?”
“Yes.”
His father nodded. “I took a chance. He seemed amenable enough—”
“She.”
Uthyr looked up at him. “She.” His voice dropped another notch. “She seemed a decent sort, reasonably clever, and she…met other requirements. But I won’t consign you to a miserable life if you don’t suit.”
Neither would he go so far as to see his son wed to the person he wanted. “We suit fine.”
His father studied him. “Men are sometimes lucky to find a passion match. Some of us must do without.”
Bedwyr had been schooling his expression under his father’s scrutiny, but at this he probably slipped. It was an odd thing to hear from Uthyr, who—as far as women went—seemed to follow nothing but his passions. A string of them, like beads, so numerous Bedwyr hadn’t kept a count.
He was alluding to Arthur, of course. He’d known something was afoot, if not the extent of Bedwyr’s attraction.
Well, he had won the battle. Bedwyr planned to win the war.
“Elain is a good companion and will run a frugal household,” he said. “We’re friends. I’m content.”
Uthyr regarded him for several seconds that felt like years. Then he sighed. “Good. Sleep well.”
Bedwyr lay still as stone until his father’s bedchamber door scraped shut again, and then for a long moment afterward for good measure. When his sister’s carding brushes took up their clacking again, he rolled to the edge of the bed and poked at the form lying under the blanket, on the floor.
“You can come out now.”
“No,” came the muffled reply.
Bedwyr pulled the blanket back. “He’s gone.”
Arthur shook his head.
He swept Arthur’s hair aside to reveal his shoulders. Leaning over, he kissed him on the back of the neck. “Get up here,” he whispered.
Arthur shifted, and Bedwyr moved to make room for him. Not too much room, though, as he pulled him close.
“Can’t say I expected that.”
Arthur didn’t respond. After a few seconds, his body began to shake. At first, Bedwyr took it for laughter and snorted. But Arthur wasn’t making any noise, only trembling.
“Hey.” Bedwyr pushed him back to see his face.
Arthur’s fists came up to cover it.
Alarmed, he took hold of a wrist. “What’s the matter? It’s all right. He’s gone to bed.” He kissed Arthur’s ear. “I’m sorry. This was a stupid idea.”
“No, it’s only…” He let his hands drop. Touched Bedwyr’s chest, then drew them away.
“What?”
Arthur blinked, the whites of his eyes bright in the low light. “It just struck me, the meaning of what I did. That I desecrated their tomb.”
“Arthur—”
“I broke in, Bed. Like some raider with no soul—”
“Shhh, shhh…” He brushed Arthur’s hair from his face. “You didn’t desecrate it.”
“I did, don’t excuse it—”
“No. Hey. Look at me.”
Arthur seemed to meet his eyes only reluctantly.
“You claimed a piece of your family legacy.”
“I stole it.”
“You claimed it. What good is a sword buried underground? None. It can’t defend from there. It can’t protect. It can only lie and, eventually, rust. That would be a waste of any blade, and your grandfather’s sword isn’t just any blade.”
“But he didn’t give it to me. Neither of them did.”
“And he’s not here to judge you or take it back, either.”
“They saw me do it, Bed.” Arthur shuddered. “I could feel it.”
He pulled Arthur against him, keeping a firm hold on his trembling body. “I believe they did. I also believe they wanted you to do it.”
“What—”
“Yes. Think about Marcus Roman. Do you think he wanted that blade to lie there forever? Or worse, fall into the hands of a thief?”
“No.”
“And Master Wolf. Did you tell him why you were there?”
Art
hur looked at him. “How did you know that?”
“Because you talk to him. You’ve said so.”
“I told him I was doing it for you.”
Bedwyr’s throat tightened. He bit down hard until he could swallow past it. “Do you think you could have given him a better reason?” he whispered.
“No.”
He nudged Arthur’s nose. “And did you mean it?”
“Yes.”
His chest seemed to expand with light. “Then they’re glad.”
“Think so?”
“I know so.”
Arthur glanced away. After a long moment, he murmured, “My mother hates me.”
Bedwyr bit back a smile. “She doesn’t.”
“She won’t talk to me.”
“She’s only angry that you defied her.”
“No, she’s angry that I did it to impress Lord Uthyr. I did, but only because of you.”
“Tell her. She’ll come around.”
Arthur made a soft scoffing sound. “Nobody holds a grudge like my mother.”
“So you bear it for a while. You know why you did it. Do you really regret it?”
Arthur looked at him, and Bedwyr wished he could see the gray of his eyes more clearly. “It had some unexpected consequences…”
Bedwyr laughed quietly.
“But no. I don’t regret it. Do you wish I hadn’t done it?”
“Does it matter what I think now?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe it does.” He gripped Arthur’s hair and gave a light tug. “It was your bold move to make. We both know I would’ve tried to stop you. And we both know it made me hard for you.”
A breath of laughter puffed against his lips. “I don’t think I’ll be able to get hard again for a month.”
“Uthyr’s not that frightening.”
Arthur bumped him with his chin. “Liar.”
He smiled. “Come here, cub.”
They kissed quietly, stroking each other’s skin. Arthur’s felt warm, and damp along his spine and under his arm. Bedwyr pressed his nose there, breathing in the sharp scent of Arthur’s sweat. He swiped his tongue through it, flattening the hair and drawing a hiss. Not willing to put too much space between them, Bedwyr held him firmly about the waist, pushing his leg between Arthur’s. He kissed everything within reach of his mouth.
Arthur arched into him, moaning without sound, and before long he was pressing a firm cock against Bedwyr’s thigh. Bedwyr held him in place with a hard hand on one buttock and brought their cocks alongside each other.
“Bed.”
His lips tingled after the hot rush of Arthur’s breath. He pressed them together.
“I’m close.”
He licked the edge of Arthur’s ear and felt him shudder in his hold. “Give it to me,” he whispered.
They moved together there, under the soft, worn blankets of his bed, in a house that still belonged to his father. And in that place Bedwyr had thought would never change, he brought them to a quiet, gasping release that left them panting and clutching and sticky. He rubbed their bellies together, knowing he would wake up later alone and would want evidence that he’d taken this risk. Arthur huffed against his neck, a silent laugh that said he knew what Bedwyr was doing. They kissed, and then kissed more.
Eventually, one of the women approached the rug that separated Bedwyr’s sleeping space from the main room. Softly, she knocked her carding brushes together, the signal that they could hear Uthyr snoring.
Time for Arthur to leave, for now.
He rose and dressed. Before he could slip away, Bedwyr caught his shirt and pulled him down close.
“When we have a door that bolts,” he whispered, “I’m going to fuck you.”
Arthur groaned. “Shut up, or I’ll never leave.”
Then don’t, Bedwyr thought.
Arthur gave him a kiss he was too slow to respond to, and then the man was gone.
~
Bedwyr lay awake for a long time afterward, past the banking of the fire, past the soft shuffle of Gwen going to her bed and Elain slipping into Bedwyr’s.
Arthur was going to marry Gwen. He himself would marry Elain. Their situation wasn’t ideal. There was the matter of an heir. Elain couldn’t provide Bedwyr one, and Uthyr knew it, so the consummation of their marriage would be a counterfeit thing. But Gwen might bear a son. If they could put Elain in Gwen’s bed, blood on the sheets, and a child in the womb…no one outside their shared house would be the wiser.
He and Arthur couldn’t live openly, as his grandfathers had done or as Philip and Tiro still did. Uthyr might no longer consider Bedwyr his heir, but he couldn’t bring himself to threaten his father’s authority, to raise doubt among his people that he had the strength to continue to lead them.
What Bedwyr had with Arthur didn’t make either of them weak; he knew that. He also knew that their people wouldn’t see it the same way, wouldn’t see the strength it had fed in them and between them. How it had made them better fighters and better men. Maybe someday they would be able to remake their world, as Elain had put it.
But first, they had a double wedding ceremony to survive.
He stretched, his skin still tacky with the proof that Arthur had come to him and that Bedwyr had bid him to do it. He rubbed a finger across his belly and brought it to his mouth. He sucked it clean.
A double wedding, followed by a double wedding night.
Some things were worth a bit of risk.
PART II:
BOUND BY BLOOD
~
Chapter 11
“Stop.”
Arthur froze at his mother’s command—an unthinking response, years in the training—and then took one cheeky step across the threshold. “This is my house.”
Lord Uthyr’s former residence had always been the grandest in the village. Boasting a large bedchamber, broad hearth, high beams, and ample space for more beds, the house was second in size only to the new house Uthyr had had built for himself over the past few weeks. Arthur still couldn’t believe he would soon be master of this place.
Well, master alongside Bedwyr, but no one knew that yet.
His mother stepped in his path, giving him a look that would have chilled his liver when he was a boy. These days she had to tilt her head up to aim it at him. He grinned and kissed her on the forehead. “Hullo, Mama.”
“Hullo yourself,” she said, as if she were unaffected, as if he hadn’t made her ruddy cheeks blush. She set a palm to his chest and pushed him out of the doorway. “It’s not yours yet, not until you’ve married.” She frowned. “I’ve put that item in your bedchamber,” she said quietly, “behind one of the bolsters.”
The small corked bottle of hen’s blood he’d asked for, to be sprinkled on the bedding for the traditional showing to their neighbors. His parents didn’t know his scheme to share this house with Bedwyr, but they knew he and Gwen wouldn’t be spending their wedding night in the normal manner.
“Let Gwen do the sprinkling,” his mother said, “or it’ll look as if you’ve gutted her.”
He chuckled. “I will. Thanks.”
She gave him another look then, one he’d grown accustomed to: a sort of persistent curiosity, as if she couldn’t suss his motives to her satisfaction. As usual, it tipped into outright suspicion. “I still don’t understand why you’ve invited Cai to live here with you.”
It had been the only way to justify the construction of a wall to create a second bedchamber. Most houses didn’t have them, but Uthyr, being warlord, had enjoyed a large bedchamber. Arthur thought Gwen should have the room to share with Elain. That would have left Bedwyr with a curtained space at the other end of the house—fine under normal circumstances and what he’d been accustomed to. But he’d be sharing his bed with Arthur, so they needed an extra measure of security: a wall with a door and a sturdy bolt.
As the presumed resident of the new bedchamber, Cai had considered the wall an extravagance. He wouldn’t give it
a second thought when he found out where he’d be living instead. Maybe it would go some way toward salving his wounded pride.
“Aren’t you happy to be free of us?” Arthur teased his mother. “Think of it: all your furniture, upright and undisturbed, as it was meant to be.”
She scoffed. “You’ll only be at each other’s throats here. I feel for Gwenhwyfar.”
“It’s a large house. If he acts up, I’ll send him to his bedchamber.”
“Ha! I’d like to see you try it.”
“Try what?” His father stepped outside to join them.
“To discipline Cai,” his mother said, with a raised eyebrow, “as master of the household.”
Matthias whistled low. “Don’t knock the roof down before winter. You’ll not be moving home again.”
Arthur elbowed his mother. “So you are looking forward to having the house to yourselves.”
“Enough,” she said, waving him off. “We still have Mora about.”
“Not during the day,” his father said, winking at her.
She gave Matthias a warning look Arthur would have hesitated to ignore. “You’re both impossible.”
They watched her bustle back into the house, the back of her neck as pink as her cheeks, and his father chuckled.
Arthur smiled. He’d missed the ease between his parents. Of course, he’d been the cause of any tension in their house over the past year. It couldn’t have been easy being the mother of the man who’d cost Uthyr’s son his sword hand, and then, scarcely nine moons later, the mother of a tomb raider.
The bone-rattling slap his mother had dealt him when he revealed he’d broken into his grandfathers’ tomb and taken Marcus’s sword… That had been nothing to the three weeks of silence that had followed, punctuated only by the ring of her hammer strikes from the smithy. He’d never realized how important his mother’s good opinion had been to him until he’d lost it.
Then, a fortnight ago, something had shifted, and she’d begun to speak to him again, tersely at first and only about the wedding preparations. In the past few days, she’d looked at him almost fondly a few times, though that might have been hopeful thinking on his part.