22 Nights

by WINSTEAD JONES, LINDA

  If he ever did marry, he’d be better off with one of Lady Cipriana’s simpering daughters than with this difficult woman. Bela was everything he did not want in a woman: she was difficult and demanding, and it was impossible to predict how she would react to any given situation. So why did he look at her and get hard? Why had he responded to her so fully this afternoon by the creek, when she was filthy and stubborn and insulting?

  He didn’t have to worry about anything happening. If he was so foolish as to try anything, she’d probably use her precious sword on him and make herself the widow she desired to be.

  “What are you smiling at?” she snapped.

  “Am I smiling?” he asked.

  “Yes. You look like an addle-headed fool, sitting there with that senseless grin on your face. Do you find me amusing? ”

  He did, but didn’t think it would be wise to tell her so. “No, of course not. I’m simply spending this quiet time remembering better days, that’s all.”

  She snorted. “Remembering other women, I suppose.”

  “Naturally.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Makes the time pass more quickly as I wait for the stew to be done. Should I share my intimate thoughts with you?” he asked, knowing she would refuse.

  Bela wrinkled her nose at the pot and ignored the question. “I’m starving. Isn’t the stew done enough?”

  “No. The meat will be tough if we don’t wait a bit.”

  “Fine.” She slumped back in her chair, eyes on the pot.

  The silence was heavy and uncomfortable. Bela’s clothes were slowly drying, but remained damp here and there. It was easy enough for Merin’s eyes to rake over her body. Her breasts were nicely shaped, even as she wilted in her chair. Her hips were nicely rounded, a woman’s finely shaped hips not at all disguised by the manly trousers. Her hair was matted and the braid was less than flattering, but the poor hairstyle only accentuated the fact that her face was strongly feminine and flawless, the cheekbones high, the eyes nicely shaped—not wide and childlike like so many girls—the mouth . . . that wide mouth was near perfect.

  Merin found he could not stand the silence—or his own perusal—for very long. “So, tell me about your sword,” he said. “It’s unique.”

  “You have no idea,” Bela said softly.

  “The grip is unusual.”

  She looked at him and narrowed her eyes. “You’d best know now that you’re to keep your hands off Kitty.”

  Surprised, Merin blinked twice, and then he laughed. “Kitty? You named your sword? And if that’s not bad enough, you named it Kitty?” He laughed again. “I’m so glad to hear that, Bela, really I am. It proves to me that, like it or not, you really are a girl.”

  She was incensed, as he’d imagined she would be. “If you must know,” she snapped, “Kitty named herself.”

  Merin’s smile faded. He didn’t think Bela was teasing him, not with that intense expression on her face. The way she handled the sword, the familiar glimmer of the grip . . . His wife was in possession of a magical sword, and if he wasn’t mistaken, the grip was made of a crystal he well recognized. A living crystal, a crystal capable of sucking the very soul out of a man, or a demon.

  “Where and how did you come by this sword?” he asked.

  “I don’t intend to tell you . . . ,” she began hotly.

  “No more games,” he interrupted. “This is serious business. Tell me about Kitty.”

  WHEN Merin declared the stew had simmered long enough, they filled their bowls and took them to the table. Hungry as Bela was, she was well aware that the food was still too hot to eat. They would have to wait a few moments longer. They sat. The rope that connected them was long enough to allow some freedom of movement, but was not long enough to allow one to sit while the other stood by the fireplace, not even in this small cottage.

  “So,” Merin said as he stirred the cooling stew in his bowl, “Kitty chose you.”

  “Yes. Clyn found her in the mountains, nearly three years ago, and he was not pleased when he learned that he couldn’t keep her. But it was not his choice to make. It was hers.”

  He was intrigued by Kitty, as was everyone who learned of her existence. “You call the sword ‘she,’ and the name is certainly female. Why?”

  “She speaks to me in a female voice.”

  Merin shook his head and took a small bite to test the stew. Apparently it was fine, as his next bite was much larger. It had been a long day, so he must be as hungry as she. “This is fascinating,” he said between bites. “What is her purpose? Has she told you?”

  “Purpose? ”

  Merin wagged his spoon in her direction. “Kitty is obviously a magical sword, and in my experience such weapons do not present themselves without reason. Such weapons exist for a purpose. It could not have been chance that Clyn found the sword, and it certainly wasn’t chance that she chose you. Why? Have you never wondered?”

  “No,” Bela admitted. “I accept that I have her keeping, for now. If there is a purpose to her presence here, she hasn’t revealed it to me.”

  Merin grunted softly, then lost himself in the meal for a time. His mind was busy, she could tell by the expression in his dark eyes. And his hair—she had always loved his soft, dark curls, and wished they might’ve been her own. He’d worked all day and wet his head in the creek, and it had dried as pretty as if he had spent hours arranging it just so. She wanted to touch the curls to see if they were soft . . .

  No, it was best to concentrate on other features. Those she did not long to touch. Merin did have smart eyes, and she liked that in a man. Some of her brother’s friends were less than intelligent. They might be fine miners or farmers or swordsmen, but they did not question everything the way the general did. They did not ponder the questions of life, they simply existed from day to day. She liked his eyes, not only for their intelligence but also for their depth and darkness. The lashes were long, too, almost like a woman’s. Not that anything about Merin was womanly.

  Bela quickly convinced herself that it was possible to admire him as a fine specimen of a man and not want him—or anyone else—as a husband.

  When they had finished eating, Merin sat back in his chair and pinned those eyes on her. “Show me,” he commanded. “Show me what Kitty can do.”

  Kitty did not always respond to commands, but immediately the grip of the sword glowed bright, indicating that she was awake and prepared.

  “All right,” Bela said, standing slowly and turning toward the sword. She moved away from the table, choosing the largest clear space available. Merin came with her, and stood beside and just behind her. Bela lifted her right hand. “Here, Kitty,” she said softly.

  The sword, grip glowing, rose slowly and spun in place. Bela did not take her eyes from the weapon, not even when Merin uttered a vile and interesting combination of curse words. She’d have to remember that one. Such a curse would shock even Clyn!

  Kitty flew across the room, quick and precise, planting her crystal grip in the palm of Bela’s hand. It was warm to the touch, as was normal when Kitty was awake. Awake, alive, stimulated . . . Bela was never sure what to call it, but there was a significant difference when the sword glowed and spoke.

  And she did speak, in a voice only Bela could hear. We need him.

  “We do not,” Bela responded aloud.

  “We do not what?” Merin asked. Bela ignored him.

  It is no mistake that he is here. We need him.

  Bela hated the very idea of needing anyone or anything, most of all a man! “Why?”

  Merin spoke again. “You’re talking to Kitty, aren’t you? ”

  “Yes!” Bela said impatiently. “Now shush!” He was taken aback. Apparently no one told a general to shush, not in his world.

  We need him, Kitty said again, and then she pulled away from Bela’s grip and spun about so fast that the shining blade was a blur. The grip glowed brighter than she had ever seen, and the speed increased until there was nothing but a circle
of bright light in view. Kitty rose slowly toward the ceiling, spinning all the while. Bela looked up. So did Merin. Kitty turned so that she was spinning against the ceiling, and then she moved to a position directly over their heads. Bela held her breath. Kitty was dangerously close and she was moving dangerously fast.

  “What does this mean?” Merin asked softly.

  “I don’t know. She’s never done this before.”

  “Great,” he mumbled, laying his hand at his side, where his own sword should be. Even a general didn’t wear a sword for weeding and cooking stew. The light from Kitty’s grip grew so bright they could no longer look directly at it. The entire room glowed, as if the sun shone in this one-room cottage.

  “That’s enough,” Bela said, but Kitty didn’t respond.

  We need him. The voice was louder than usual, more insistent.

  Before Bela could respond, Merin looked at her. “We need who?”

  Bela’s heart skipped a beat. “You heard her?” No one else heard Kitty. No one!

  “That was Kitty?”

  The light faded, the sword’s movements slowed, and then it flew down, tip first, to embed its blade in the wooden floor near Bela’s feet. Her feet and Merin’s, actually, as if Kitty had purposely placed herself midway between them. Another few inches, and the rope that bound them would have been severed and they’d be married for at least another three years. Bela held her breath.

  Merin reached out to touch the crystal of the grip, which was dim, sleeping once more.

  “Kitty doesn’t allow . . .” Bela began, but she stopped speaking when Merin touched the grip and Kitty didn’t awake to move away from his touch or, worse, slap his hand or take a finger for daring to try. Instead, she allowed Merin’s long, sun-touched fingers to wrap around the crystal.

  “Remarkable,” he said in a low voice.

  Bela looked at Merin, her mouth thinned and the fingers of both hands clenched into fists. “Do you know what this means?”

  He managed a wry half-smile. “It means you are in possession of a magical sword like no other I have ever heard of.”

  “Yes,” she said sharply, “but that’s not what I mean. You heard her speak!”

  “Once, yes.” He took his hand from Kitty and turned to Bela.

  “We both heard her.”

  “And that bothers you?”

  “Hell, yes!” Kitty was hers! Bela poked out her lower lip, just a little. No, she had always known that no one owned Kitty. What they had was a partnership, an agreement.

  And now they were three, apparently. “She has chosen you,” Bela said sullenly. “At the moment, Kitty is as much yours as she is mine.”

  A decent man would not have smiled so widely.

  IN the following days, Merin and Bela found methods of managing the delicacies of life without severing the braided rope that bound them. The cottage was only one room, but there was a front door, and the rope was just long enough for them to separate themselves for bathing, changing clothes, and taking care of other personal matters which were best not shared. They did develop a kind of trust, which was all but unavoidable. In this situation, they were forced to trust one another—to a point.

  Each day they were given a chore, and it seemed that each was more arduous than the last. Mining was a hard, dirty job, and climbing steep rocks while attached to a woman wasn’t easy. Farming was just as hard and dirty, but there was little if any climbing involved.

  But any job they were given was easier than sleeping in the same bed, night after night.

  One night they’d tried sleeping on the floor, which had allowed them to lie as far apart as possible, given their restraints. It had been a long and uncomfortable night, and somehow they had drifted toward one another in sleep and ended up with legs entwined and Bela’s elbow in his chest, in spite of their efforts. The bed was so small they always ended up all over each other in the night, and it sagged so much it drew them toward the center, night after night. That would’ve been fine with any woman but Bela.

  Merin was hard most of the time these days, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Six years ago Bela had told him she’d taken a potion to prevent babies. That had been a lie; one of many. This time around he knew damn well she was taking nothing to keep her from conceiving, as she didn’t plan to allow for the possibility.

  Neither did he.

  In the past he’d gone without sex a lot longer than twenty-two days. He could do so again. It was just difficult when Bela was always right there.

  Since the night he’d heard Kitty speak, the sword had remained silent. Maybe Bela was mistaken when she said that his hearing the weapon’s words meant something. It might’ve been a fluke, or a mistake. Maybe the power had grown too great to contain, and that was why he’d heard. Still, he hoped he was wrong. What soldier wouldn’t want such a weapon? Even though the crystal grip of the sword was too small for his comfort, almost as if it had been made for a woman, a part of him hoped he would be able to keep it.

  When he and Bela went their separate ways, whom would Kitty choose?

  They left the cottage on this fine morning knowing someone—it was usually Tyman or Clyn—would be waiting with their assignment for the day. Merin was ready. He could use a bit of hard physical labor right about now. He wanted to be exhausted, to be so tired he could not so much as think of sex. He wanted to work himself into a state of sheer exhaustion, so that he wouldn’t wake in the night smelling Bela’s hair or being aware of the way her body fell against his in the wilting bed.

  He was surprised to find Bela’s mother waiting outside their door. She wore a smile that spoke of secrets, and she greeted her daughter and that daughter’s soon-to-be-ex-husband with a hug. “You two look lovely and well rested on this fine morning,” she said.

  Merin had no time for niceties. “What’s the chore for today?” he asked. “Would you like us to dig a big hole and then fill it in?” Even though his tone was harsh, a little digging wouldn’t be a bad thing. He wanted every muscle in his body to ache so he could think of nothing else.

  “Not today, General. You’ll be glad to know your current task is an easy one.”

  Great. Just want he didn’t want.

  “You two are to throw a party.”

  “A party?” Bela said, sounding as horrified as Merin felt.

  “Yes,” Gayene said in a serene voice. “A party for the people of this village. An evening of merriment for your friends and neighbors. There should be food and drink, as well as music or some other sort of entertainment.”

  “How are we supposed to provide these things?” Merin asked. “Can I use the currency I carried with me on this journey to buy . . .”

  Gayene was shaking her head before he could finish the question. He was not surprised by the negative answer. Nothing about this ordeal was meant to be easy. There was only a little bit of food in the cottage. They could barely fit themselves in the one-room hut, much less the entire village. “And how many days do we have to plan this party? ”

  “Providing all that is necessary is your task, General, and the party will take place tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Bela screeched. “You take weeks to plan a get together! This isn’t fair!”

  “Fair,” Gayene said thoughtfully. “Why, I’d say you should’ve thought of that before you tricked General Merin into marriage.”

  Merin felt a moment of vindication, but since he was stuck in the same hell as Bela, his satisfaction was short-lived.

  Gayene departed, leaving Bela with a plain brown package which apparently held the dress she would be required to wear. Merin was told to wear his uniform, which had been stored with his other things and would be delivered before the end of the day. The party would commence at sunset.

  When he and Bela were alone and the unopened package had been deposited on their miserably misshapen bed, they stared at one another blankly. Hard physical labor was much easier than this.

  “Food first, I suppose,” Merin said. “D
o you hunt?”

  “Of course,” Bela said, sounding only slightly insulted by the question. Her eyes lit up. “If we make a few extra kills, we can barter for the other things we’ll need. The woman who owns the bakery is always happy to trade for meat. Byrnard Pyrl plays the lute quite well, and so does Pero Nestor. I think we can convince one of them to make a trade, as well.”

  Merin tried to think as she did. Bartering was a good idea. “I noticed that the pub is in need of repair. The door is almost off its hinges and there’s damage to the roof. Think the owner would trade labor for mugs and ale?”

  Bela smiled, and it was quite nice. Wide and real and filled with joy. “What a wonderful idea. I think we can make this work!” Without thinking, she stuck out her hand. Without thinking, he took it. They shook hands as if consummating a business deal, but quickly broke the contact. The simple touch of hand to hand had ignited something best left cold.

  THEY had been lucky in their travels thus far, Savyn thought as he watched Lady Leyla step into her carriage to begin the day’s ride. There had been a few periods of light rain, but no storms, which were frequent enough in springtime. Savyn didn’t mind getting wet, and the sentinels didn’t seem to mind, either. As long as Lady Leyla was dry and comfortable, all was well.

  The carriage got under way, and as had become his custom, Savyn directed his horse to the right side of the carriage, where on occasion he could glance to the side and catch a glimpse of Lady Leyla through the open windows. He longed to ask her why she always looked so sad, but he didn’t dare approach her, much less ask such a personal question. Only Minister Bragg and Mistress Hilde dared speak to her.

  And yet, Savyn did watch. Night and day, he kept a close eye on her. Sometimes he imagined himself taking her face in his hands and asking her to smile for him. He might as well imagine challenging the emperor for her hand, for both were equally impossible.

  There was a warmth in his heart for her, what was surely no more than an infatuation, and yet . . . it felt like more.