Whoever Marc had been as a boy, he was now a king who wanted peace with her homeland.
She didn’t forgive him, not yet, but she believed he would fight for peace. She believed he wanted to be a just king, a good king. For now, that was enough.
Enough.
The fire at last sputtered, flickered to nothing as Branwen closed the Hand of Bríga into a fist and tore off what remained of the singed bandage.
Her shoulders heaved with exhaustion. Nerves flayed, Branwen used the blade to reopen the wound that Tristan had made. She trickled her blood over the sheets.
Branwen bled for Iveriu, for the Old Ones, offering her magic to heal the rupture between kingdoms. Bind it with my blood. She felt the Otherworld pressing in on her; the hairs on her arm lifted.
The marriage between Goddess Ériu and her Consort had not been consummated according to the Old Ways. Please, accept my offering. Take what you must. Let it be enough to renew the Land.
Branwen did not bleed for the kordweyd, but they had their sacrifice nonetheless.
Marc would believe it. Eseult would believe it. Tristan would believe it.
Branwen would make them believe.
The reign of King Marc and Queen Eseult depended on it. She would defend them against Prince Kahedrin of Armorica and all other comers.
She would help Marc become a better king for her people—for their people.
No one would ever know that the peace had been won with Branwen’s blood and lies.
LIGHT ME FROM THE INSIDE
BRANWEN WAS STILL SHAKING AS she slinked back into the Great Hall unnoticed by the remaining wedding guests. Some continued to dance, their movements sloppy; others were slumped at the banquet tables, hands curled around half-drunk cups of ale.
A ferocious energy coursed through her. Not a darkness, but something heady. She scoured the many ruddy faces in the feasting hall. She pushed thoughts of the queen—of her apologies as she left to take her place beside King Marc—from her mind. Branwen had given all she could tonight. Before the night was done, she wanted something for herself.
She’d changed back into the dress she’d worn for the ceremony, ultramarine with red lace trim, but she had left her black curls loose, untamed. They fell halfway down her back.
Moving closer to the dance floor, Branwen spied the dark blond head she was after.
Ruan was dressed in royal Kernyvak colors: a suit of black velvet and the white sash of the king’s service. He filled out the velvet rather splendidly.
Desire welled inside her. A desire she’d been fighting since she’d first spotted him at the port. She was done fighting it.
She tapped him on the shoulder. Ruan spun around, his face bright with amusement. When his eyes landed on Branwen, however, his expression grew dubious. “Lady Branwen?”
“I thought you wanted to dance,” she told him.
“And you’ve made it abundantly clear that you don’t.”
“Am I not allowed to change my mind?”
Branwen had tried to ignore the prickle of excitement she always felt in Ruan’s presence. It didn’t make sense. Their allegiances would always be at odds. Tonight, Branwen didn’t care about sense or reason.
Ruan leaned closer. “Are you drunk?”
“Does a lady need to be drunk to want you as a partner, my prince?”
He sniffed her breath. Branwen laughed and put her hands on her hips. “Oh.” Ruan’s jaw relaxed. “You’re not drunk.”
“No. I’m not.” Branwen had taken only the smallest sips of mead during the toasts earlier in the evening, needing to keep all her senses sharp. What she felt now was free—like a prisoner who had slipped the noose.
“I’m not drunk, but I do want to dance,” she told the prince.
Ruan gave her a look that was equal parts lust and confusion. He held out a hand. “Then it would be my honor, Lady Branwen.”
She closed her right hand around his. The new bandage was red. She had torn a strip of fabric from the train of Eseult’s wedding gown.
Ruan kissed her knuckles and led Branwen into the center of the dance floor, pulling her tight against his body. She pressed her hand against his back, feeling the muscles, and imagined the smoothness of his skin. Branwen’s hair swung free, a few strands draping themselves across Ruan’s chest.
He pinched a lock between his fingers. “It’s beautiful,” he said. His other hand cinched Branwen’s waist. “Like waves at night.” A trill of pleasure traveled from the warmth of Ruan’s hand to something low in her body.
She released a small gasp and twisted her finger around one of Ruan’s dirty-blond strands. “So is yours,” she said. “Gold like the sun. Or, perhaps, like a chicken?”
The prince threw his head back with laughter.
“You’re in fine form this evening.”
“I don’t know what you mean. You promised me a private tour of the castle—an extensive tour. Or was your offer not sincere?”
“No, it was very sincere,” Ruan replied. His eyes roved over her. Branwen smiled. She liked being pursued, but she liked doing the pursuing even better.
“I’m glad to see you’ve finally realized I’m the more charming of the royal cousins,” he added.
Branwen stopped dancing. “I won’t be batted between you and Tristan like kittens with a ball of string. I’m not here to settle some childhood grudge.”
“I bear Tristan no grudge. He has me to blame for the scar on that pretty face of his, though, so he may feel differently.”
“I don’t want to talk about Tristan.” She struggled to keep her voice light. The last thing Branwen wanted was to think about Tristan.
“What do you want, Lady Branwen?” Ruan’s gaze captured hers. “Really?”
It might be only for a night, the happiness might be fleeting, but Branwen had earned herself a sliver, like a waning moon. Happiness that had nothing to do with her queen or her first love.
The music died away and a few other revelers groaned in complaint. The prince didn’t move a muscle. He waited for Branwen to reply.
She wanted to forget herself. To know what it was that lovers shared. To know the feel of someone else beneath her skin.
To break the rules. To make the rules. To choose.
Branwen pressed her lips to the shell of Ruan’s ear.
“I want you to light me from the inside.”
* * *
Ruan intertwined his fingers with hers as Branwen followed him to his apartment in the King’s Tower. His palm was callused, used to gripping a sword.
She shivered as the wind tossed her curls. “It’s growing colder,” said Ruan. “Perhaps there’s a war in the Otherworld, like you said.”
Branwen laughed. “You were listening.”
“Comnaide,” Ruan replied in Ivernic. Always. He winked.
Switching to her native tongue, Branwen said, “Would you speak to me in my own language?” The request came out more earnest than flirtatious.
He turned the key in the lock. “I will do my best,” he said, acceding to her wishes.
“Thank you, Ruan,” Branwen told him as she realized just how much she needed to hear it. To do this on her terms. She never felt quite herself when speaking Aquilan.
The wind whistled between them.
“I’ll warn you that my rooms aren’t the tidiest.” Ruan pushed open the door for her. Brushing past him, “I’ll consider myself warned,” Branwen said.
Ruan hurried to light an oil lamp. “I wasn’t expecting company this evening.”
“Oh, no?”
“No, Branwen.” He lit another lamp. “Not all rumors are true. But some are useful.”
The orange glow of the lamplight spread through the room. She glanced around her. The table was piled high with books and maps. Clothes were strewn over a settee and several chairs. The canopy bed in the corner was only half-made.
“You are a bit of a slob,” Branwen said, smiling. She found it endearing that the dashing, arrogant K
ing’s Champion should be messy, too.
“I don’t know if I would say slob,” Ruan countered, a tad defensive, but laughing. “Just … untidy.”
Branwen closed the door and walked toward the prince. He met her in the middle of the room. The space between them thrummed, like the air before lightning struck.
Ruan ran his tongue along his top lip. “This isn’t how I expected my Long Night to end,” he told her.
“Long Night is over,” Branwen said. “Do you know what today is?”
Shaking his head, Ruan lifted a hand to her cheek. “What day is it?”
“My birthday.”
“Why didn’t you mention it?”
Her cousin had forgotten, and Tristan had never known. Branwen shrugged. “It didn’t seem important,” she said.
“How old are you?” Ruan’s hand followed her cheekbone. He skimmed his thumb along her mouth. Branwen made a sound halfway between a moan and a sigh.
“Twenty summers.”
His hand continued down the length of her neck. “And am I your present?”
Branwen trapped it against the swell of her breasts and stared Ruan in the eyes. “Only if you want to be,” she said.
He snaked his other hand around her waist and pressed her flush against him. “You know I do, Branwen.”
She sighed as her body quivered with relief, anticipation.
“Ruan, I made a mistake once,” said Branwen. “I didn’t have the courage to be honest with someone and it … ended badly.” Her lips tightened at the memory of giving Keane her ribbon. “I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us.”
“I’m listening, Branwen.” And, indeed, his eyes had never shone with so much intensity.
“I’m not in love with you. I don’t know if I will ever—if I can ever—fall in love again,” she told him. “But I desire you. And I want you to take me to your bed as your lover.”
Ruan inhaled a long breath through his nostrils, then exhaled heavily. For the length of that breath, Branwen feared she’d been too brazen. Yet she longed to be brazen.
“You fascinate me, Branwen of Iveriu. And I want to be your lover.”
His mouth crashed against hers, and Branwen’s entire body became a riot. His hands were everywhere, and so were hers. Ruan threaded his fingers through her hair and wrapped his arms around her, towing her nearer. Branwen moaned. She hungered for him to be closer still. Her hands scrabbled over Ruan’s tunic, ripping it over his head.
She stroked the firm muscles of his torso, delighting in the sensation, wanting to press her own naked skin against his. She pulled away for a moment to look at him. The flesh of his shoulders was covered with raised pink scars, lines that began around his collarbone and continued down Ruan’s back.
She traced one of them with her forefinger. Ruan met Branwen’s gaze, and his was unblinking.
“You were whipped,” she said. Repeatedly, she didn’t need to add. The wounds had healed well, treated properly. Some were at least a decade old.
“My father had exacting standards. I didn’t meet them.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your pity, Branwen. Especially not in this moment.”
She pressed her lips together. Her hand dropped to the laces at the front of her dress. She tugged, and they began to loosen.
“What are you doing?” he said.
Branwen let the front of her dress fall to her waist, her bare flesh on display. In the lamplight, the Shades’ bite marks were hearth-red.
“I have scars, too, Ruan.”
“Who did this to you?” Rage tipped his question.
“The pirates who attacked our ship from Iveriu.”
Ruan cursed extensively in Kernyvak. Cautiously, he touched the wound on Branwen’s stomach made by the one-eyed Shade.
“I don’t want your pity, either,” she said.
He raised his eyes back to hers. “You are nothing but beautiful to me.”
All of a sudden, his arm came around Branwen’s knees, and he lifted her from the floor and carried her to his bed. Her dress fell away as he began to kiss her scars.
Branwen nibbled her way from Ruan’s throat to his belly button, and he laughed. A real snort. “You’re ticklish?” she said.
“I am.”
“I promise not to tell.”
“Thank you for that.” Ruan drove his fingers into her curls and pulled Branwen back up for another kiss. He emitted a growl against her mouth. She teased him by catching the skin of his throat between her teeth—gently.
His life pulsed beneath her lips, her kiss. Ruan cupped her breast, and Branwen became aware of her body in a whole new way. His desire made her feel both powerful and vulnerable at once. She gasped.
His hand went still. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked.
“No.” Branwen tugged at the waistband of Ruan’s breeches. The material was sleek between her fingers. She fumbled with the knots. “Off,” she told him with a grunt of frustration.
Ruan chuckled. “As my lady commands.” He shimmied out of his trousers and rolled onto his side, propping himself on his elbow, and gazed down at her.
Branwen caressed one of his naked thighs; then the other. A tremulous sigh lifted Ruan’s rib cage. His eyes drank her in as he traced the curve of her waist. Gooseflesh followed in its wake.
She wanted Ruan to finish what she’d started.
“Yes,” she said to the unasked question in his eyes. “Yes.” She burrowed her fingers through his golden hair, grasping at his scalp, bringing him down on top of her.
Ruan held Branwen’s hand as their bodies joined together. The muscles of his back were hard, his scars soft, as she held on to him.
There was pain at first, a burning, and then all of Branwen was on fire. It wasn’t the Hand of Bríga—this fire was of their own making.
When Branwen had envisioned her First Night, she had thought she would find peace in the arms of a lover. This was something else. Something deep and wild and true. A part of herself she never knew existed.
She cried out as euphoria surged through her. Branwen kissed Ruan. Hard. His mouth opened to her. His body rocked against hers, shuddering.
Breathless, he laid his head against her breast and kissed the flesh above her heart.
“Are you all right?” Ruan asked between pants.
She nodded, embarrassed. “I didn’t know it would be so … much.”
Ruan kissed Branwen’s cheek as he slid off her. Their sweaty bodies glowed in the lamplight. She turned onto her side.
“Thank you for being my first time,” she said.
He worried a knuckle against his lower lip. “You’re—you were a maiden?” His voice was troubled.
Ruan’s eyes, still round with desire, swept the length of Branwen’s body. She followed them to the sheets.
No blood.
No. Blood.
A viselike hand tightened around her heart.
Branwen tilted her head, letting her hair cover her face, trying to veil her shock. “You don’t believe me?” she seethed at Ruan, still staring at the spotless sheets, because she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Or what she wasn’t seeing. How could there be no blood? Was there something wrong with her?
“No, Branwen. Of course I believe you.” Ruan threaded their fingers together. “It’s just—I … I assumed from the way you were talking, from the fact that you suggested coming back to my room…” He swallowed. “I didn’t think it was your first time.”
He brought her hands to his lips, kissing her fingertips. “Was it…” Ruan trailed off. “What you expected?” She could almost laugh at how bashful he looked.
“I—I didn’t know what to expect,” Branwen admitted. “But it—it was wonderful.” Her voice had gone shy. She pressed one hand to Ruan’s cheek. “I’m glad I chose you.”
Relief loosened his shoulders. “I’m glad you chose me, too.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “I’ve heard talk.” Ruan coughed. “
At taverns … that not all maidens bleed.” He raised his shoulders. “I won’t pretend to be an expert, though.”
“Won’t you?” Branwen said.
Anger sliced through her happiness. Disbelief. Did Seer Casek know that a virgin might not bleed? Had it all been a game? A very, very dangerous game.
When Branwen had started her monthly bleeding, her aunt had explained that she would also bleed when she first lay with a man, and not to be afraid. Why hadn’t Queen Eseult warned her that she might not? Branwen gnawed at her lower lip. Most likely because her aunt didn’t deem it important—because it shouldn’t be.
The Mantle of Maidenhood was never anything but hollow. An empty symbol. All it represented was submission. Nothing more.
Branwen had nearly done something unforgiveable, and it would have been for nothing.
“Branwen?” Ruan said her name gently. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Are you having regrets?”
So many. Too many. But not about him. Not about what they’d shared.
“No, no.” She flashed a half smile. “And don’t worry—it doesn’t change what I said before.”
“About what?”
“About not being in love. I won’t start following you around like the puppy from the village.”
Something dimmed in Ruan’s eyes. “No, we wouldn’t want that.”
Branwen nibbled his earlobe to make him laugh, tickled his chest. “I like tickling you—I like the way it makes you smile,” she told him.
“You can tickle me anytime you want,” Ruan said with deadly earnest.
Branwen snorted, and it became a giggle. She couldn’t remember giggling since she was a girl. “I promise not to tell anyone that you can giggle,” Ruan said, and tickled Branwen right back, making her giggle again, nearly making her forget everything else.
Having such liberty with somebody else’s body was exhilarating. They discovered new parts of each other and talked until Ruan yielded to sleep.
Branwen watched him for a little while, marveling at what they had done, wondering who the boy was beneath Ruan’s scars. Then she dressed herself, kissed him, and left him dreaming.
Wild Savage Stars Page 18