And that, in turn, bled over into Held’s body. The outward twirls ceased, and Janez’s hands settled at his back as he taught Held, through laughter and movement alone, some kind of thumping dance that was like a warlike jig between fighting crabs rather than a joyous expression of motion between two men. When Held finally captured the rhythm, he was twirled under Janez’s arm again in some odd reward—though for whom, Held did not know—clasped ever closer, and sped in a strange fast walk in a box shape over the soft carpet. So close, that close, Held could smell Janez’s very essence. He didn’t know what it was the prince smelled of, exactly, but Held could smell it all the same: alluring and heady, something inviting, something intimate by his very knowledge of it. Janez’s breath was on his cheek, and the escaped red-gold curls were tickling Held’s face.
As his hands kissed Janez’s shoulders, tight over the white of his shirt, Held wanted to know how to kiss him so that Janez would understand.
The music stopped.
Applause broke out below—yet Janez didn’t release him or turn to the window to join in.
He simply stopped, Held still clutched tight in his arms, and stared.
The entire world was the body pressed to Held’s front: the blue eyes boring into his face; the hands firm on his lower back, just above where his frill used to be; a faint pressure at Held’s hip, unfamiliar yet somehow warming and pleasant.
Held slid his hands, careful and cautious, to rest on Janez’s chest.
He felt a heartbeat, under cloth. Wondered if hair lay there, or if skymen were bald-chested like mermen. Wanted to open the ribbons, open the cloth, and feel for himself. Under the heel of his palm, a gentle bump in the skin, and, in waiting for Janez to move, he absently rubbed at it.
Janez groaned.
Groaned.
A deep and guttural sound, it seemed to emanate from his very ribs, like the reverberating grumble of a deep-sea creature, immense and powerful. His entire body shuddered in a base response. His hips rolled forwards into Held’s, and that warm pressure increased.
Something—Janez—was pressing into him.
Held’s heart was in his throat. His palms were slick. His body knew this—he did not, but his body did. There was growing heat in his groin. A pressure of his own. His groin was heavy, as though he were swelling. He was shivering—and he wanted more, even as he didn’t know what more was. Something would build, he was sure of it, but he knew not why.
With only blind instinct to guide him, he did it again.
A hand dropped lower. Seized Held by the backside. Held whimpered as a wave of intense pleasure rocked through him—his knees weakened, his fingers clutched tight, and he hung on Janez’s leg for a moment, helpless—and then it ebbed again, only to return as he was squeezed tighter, and Janez rocked his hips into Held’s once more. As his face dropped briefly to Held’s neck, and Held felt the scrape of teeth.
“Please,” Held whispered. “Please.”
He didn’t know what he was asking—for more? More of what? The same, or something different? He’d never felt this before. He’d never done this before. Was this—was this—?
The answer broke upon the shores of his brain as the hand clutching at him slid lower still, and he felt the hard grip of a hand between his legs.
This was how men loved.
This was it, wasn’t it? That deep groan, the base reaction, the way Janez had moved so fluidly it could only have been an instinct. And the way Held felt him as intensely as though they were one: his breaths, his scent, the very lifeblood in his hands—
The music opened up below. High. Sweet. A world away from the deep roar in Held’s ears.
And it disturbed the spell that had descended. It lifted. Broke. Janez pulled away so sharply that the air rushing in to claim his place felt cold. The blue eyes were wild and almost desperate, and he muttered something with haste, far too fast to be caught.
And then he was gone. His shadow flitted away from the windows, and in a moment, Held heard a door open and close again.
He was alone.
The music warbled below, happy and oblivious, and Held leaned his face to the glass to soothe the burning in his skin.
He’d not been wrong. Janez did want him.
A smile broke out across his face, and Held had never loved music so much in all of his life.
Chapter Eighteen
JANEZ ROSE LATE in the morning.
He’d been plagued for the rest of the evening by the memory of Held in his arms, and he hadn’t dared leave his rooms. The phantom sensation of that lithe, hard body—the broad shoulders, the firm chest, the sublimely perfect backside—and Held’s violent lust upon its capture in Janez’s hands.
He’d been foolish to do it. But he’d heard the orchestra from his chambers and wanted to dance so much he’d thrown caution to the wind. He could rarely dance or play the fool with his family, and never in public, so his mind had immediately turned to Held, quiet Held, who couldn’t tell anyone the prince’s madness.
Janez had never expected it to end as it had.
Good Lord, his head had been turned. He knew lust—knew it very well—but when it came to men, he’d always had more self-control. His little flirtations with desire for men came and went easily. They knew nothing of the art of love and had no interest in learning of it. For other men, Janez had long since found, sex was a careless and brutal coupling, an itch to scratch and nothing more, and no part of the body but the necessary pieces required any attention. He viewed sex as more like dancing than swordplay and had been enchanted by the easy way that Held could turn. His natural grace, his poise and aptitude for learning, followed by the splay of moonlight in his hair when he’d twirled, and the bright smile of unbridled pleasure—
Janez had very nearly kissed him and thought it avoided with the waltz. But then the music had died, and there he’d been: standing alone in the dark, unseen by any, with the thought of what if running through his head and an impossibly alluring man pressed against him from head to toe.
Janez couldn’t blame his body for its response—it would have responded to even Captain Kühe in such close quarters—but that his brain had followed its lead was less acceptable.
He must not, could not, do this.
The music had saved him, jarring him from that dreamlike state that had come over him. If it hadn’t, Janez was certain he’d have brought Held to the floor, opened his trousers, and given him pleasure the likes of which the man had never known. And he’d have been wholly focused on Held, as well. The brilliant pleasure of the dance and the gasp and thrust of lust when Janez had kissed his neck said that Held, spread out upon the floor and drenched in the sweat of pure sexual pleasure, would be more beautiful than anything Janez had ever seen.
But the music had stopped him and spared him the consequence. The risk was too great, and Janez had fled to his rooms.
He’d not cared to visit Rosa, wanting only Held that night, so had sated the need by himself, using his imagination and his own hands. But they were a poor imitation, and the urge had risen twice, thrice more during the night.
He rose late, tired, and despairing of his station. Had he been but a lowly guard, he’d have done it. He’d have drawn Held from the doctor’s rooms just before dawn and shown him the exquisite sight of a man of power on his knees, submitting all his rank for another’s pleasure and without hope of reward.
But he wasn’t a guard. He was a prince. And he was sorely reminded of the fact when he finally left his rooms and the sentry at the entrance to the royal chambers told him King Alarik was shut in the council-room with a messenger from King Sigurd.
“He’ll be calling for you soon, Your Highness, I’d imagine.”
“I’d imagine so,” Janez said.
After last night’s mistake—although he could not quite think of it so—Janez wanted nothing less than to hear of his impending marriage. Idiotic though the desire was, he wanted another day to himself and Held. Another day to watch the wa
rmth and wonder in the stranger’s eyes. Another day to—
To pretend he could, if he wanted, kiss him. Touch him. Dance with him. In every way possible.
Janez shook himself and smiled at the sentry.
“Unfortunately for the king,” he said, “I left earlier this morning to go riding.”
The sentry looked dubious. “Did you, Your Highness?”
“I did, indeed. You saw me go.”
The sentry coughed. “Ah. Yes, Your Highness. I believe I did, now I come to think of it.”
“Good man.”
He strode purposefully, taking a servants’ route to Doktor Hauser’s rooms, and liberated Held from his breakfast—and a strange smell emanating from the little laboratory—with a brisk word and a hand under his arm.
“We must be quick,” he murmured. “I’m a wanted man this morning, and I want nothing of it. We’re going into the wild for a while, you and I. Have you ever ridden a horse?”
He didn’t bother to listen for an answer. They left the palace via the kitchens, and the quick dash across the courtyard to the gate, and the stables just beyond, was the biggest risk of all. But the king apparently hadn’t sent for him yet, or word hadn’t flown around, for they passed through unencumbered, and Janez hustled Held into the warmth. To add insult to injury, he decided he’d take Alarik’s horse.
Alarik, quite unlike his station and dignity demanded, rode no thoroughbred stallion the size of a ship. Instead, his was a black-and-brown mare by the very unkingly name of Molly. He had a special fondness for her, having had her since she was a foal, and swore up and down she’d been named after his wet nurse. Janez had it on good authority that his wet nurse had, in fact, been called Elise, and Molly had been the name of the first girl to ever teach Alarik what his equipment was for.
Molly the mare, however, was more docile than enterprising maids. She snuffled at Janez’s hand hopefully, and permitted him to saddle her quite peaceably, nudging at Held’s hair in quiet interest. Held, by contrast, looked highly uninterested. Terrified, in fact, and Janez chuckled and decided to retrieve a stool.
“Come on,” he urged. “She’s perfectly safe.”
Held did not agree with him, plainly. Likely the poor man had only ever seen a horse if it was attempting to run him down in the street—officers did tend towards riding right into crowds if late for appointments—and the idea of willingly getting up on one would seem as absurd as the idea of fairies or mermaids being real.
But Janez would not be deterred. If Held liked dancing and the smell of flowers in the garden, then he would enjoy a gentle ride, and Janez knew the perfect quiet glade, stuffed to the brim with wildflowers, and a chattering stream for Molly to drink from.
So. “Come on. Up here.”
He dragged Held onto the stool and then—with much cajoling and physical force—wrestled him onto the horse. Held clutched Molly’s mane, white-knuckled, and any less amiable a horse would have thrown him at the indignity and stupidity of it all. But Molly only grumbled for an apple and, when provided, urged Janez to command this rider with a gentle shake of her head.
“I know, girl. Don’t worry—I’ll be in charge, eh?”
He mounted with practised ease, taking the reins and sliding an arm around Held’s waist to keep him secure.
“Relax,” he said softly, pitching his voice so soothingly that Held did so despite Janez’s conviction he didn’t know the word.
Good enough.
“Relax,” he repeated and twitched his heels.
Molly started happily forward, nosing her way out of the stables without needing guidance. She was the type of horse suited to new riders, and it was just as well—as her gait rolled under them, the more so for the cobbled yard. Held tensed up impossibly, and any other horse would have taken it to mean gallop. Molly harrumphed—voicing mild displeasure at Janez’s gentle insistence that they were for the road and not the haystacks against the stable wall—but once beyond the gate, broke into the gentlest of trots.
Held didn’t relax until they left the town—not even the view from a horse’s height could distract him from his abject terror—but as they broke beyond the city walls and Janez led Molly easily off the road and allowed her to use grass tracks, the smell of open countryside and the quiet (bar disturbed birds) appeared to take their toll.
One hand left the mane and clutched tightly on to Janez’s wrist.
“See? This is nice,” Janez said.
Held was of a good height to ride with. He was a head shorter than Janez, and it allowed Janez to see past him, yet hold him securely at the same time. As Held adapted to the rhythm of the mare a little more, Janez dared to loosen his grip and began to absently stroke his thumb against the front of Held’s waistcoat. Should they go to the glade and stream, or the river itself, where it ran down through the woods? The ride would be rockier, but the forest was secluded, and—
Held’s fingers slipped between Janez’s and squeezed tight.
Janez’s heart hiccuped in his chest—an unpleasant jolt out of sync with the rest of him. For a moment, he did nothing.
And then—to hell with it. He squeezed back. Held relaxed further against him. And Janez knew he was ruined, but there was a large part of him—the younger brother, the second heir, the horse-thief—that didn’t care. He did his duty every day of his life. Was he not allowed one lapse? If he were careful, if he were quiet—
He shook his head. No. He knew better. There was no amount of careful that could not be found out. Spies and gossips lurked in every corner. He would not. Should not. This was—this was a break from the drudgery of castle life, and he must not yield to the temptation to take more, not when he would have to end any and all such infidelities. He was engaged, in truth, although no papers were signed and no wife known. But he would be married in a year, and not to this man. So he was, in effect, engaged.
And in any case, he knew nothing of Held’s feelings. If the man merely desired him, a physical and carnal sort of want, then all would be well. But if he felt more? Janez didn’t know. How cruel would it be to entertain love, only to snuff it out with wedding bells to someone else before the summer had even bloomed?
Yet it was tempting. And Janez was only human. Held’s trust in permitting this ride despite his obvious misgivings was alluring. He was a living and breathing temptation against Janez’s front.
And so when the paths diverged, he twitched Molly to the left fork, yielding to at least a little temptation.
The woods were dense—the stuff of nightmares to small children. Alarik’s taunting him about the place when they were boys was a sour memory. Deep and dark, scary and stark, it was where spare heirs were left for faeries to eat. But to an adult, they were simply cool refuges. They were not, in the grand scheme of things, much of a forest. There were no bears, and rarely wolves. The deer were shy, and the trees too closely packed and low to allow for hunting on horseback anyway. They were far out from the city walls, far enough that without a horse, it would be hours to walk, for little gain. They were private.
In times of war, the aristocracy either fled the coast, or fled to the docks to do their duty and scrape up some glory for their family names. And with winter’s grip descending fast, even the children would be indoors now.
Sure enough, as the shadows closed around them, the sheer silence wrapped about their ears like a lover’s shawl to reel them in.
Held shifted anxiously as Molly’s easy gait changed to a careful and deliberate walk. But then he reached out for the branches hovering close to their faces, and as his pale fingers stroked the bark, a look of rapturous wonder crossed his sharp features.
How could a tree possibly be interesting?
A flower of pity unfurled in Janez’s chest as Held lost his terror quite absolutely in favour of touching the trees as they passed by. The odd leaf, crisp and colourful, still clung to dark branches, and Held was enchanted by the sound they made as he plucked them free and broke them into soft shards. The man h
ad to be from some dank, dark city, to have never experienced the crunch of leaves in his fingers, or the scrape of branches against his hands. His fascination was absurd, otherworldly even. No man could possibly have lived so long away from the wild.
But then, perhaps he could. Some industrial port by the sea, perhaps. Janez had sailed enough to foreign lands to know them—ugly, brooding towns on river mouths, the sea shiny with oil and shimmering false in the sun. There were southern lands where nothing grew, the air so hot and the soil so dry, and there were western ones, northern ones, where the islands were so small their people crowded the coastlines and created filthy hovels of towns without so much as a bird to be heard, even in the dead of night.
He was a westerner, Janez decided, and it explained his blank incomprehension. Westerners spoke a very different tongue. Perhaps, when they returned, Janez could find him a book or two on the western kingdoms, and he would recognise some town on a map somewhere. Perhaps they could begin to find his home.
And then he would—
Janez shook himself.
Go.
Held had a home, somewhere. Like Janez would have a wife, sometime. This was…passing fancy. Nothing more.
The passing fancy passed from the shadow to the smattering light, filtering through the spaces in the canopy forged by the river. It was but a shallow thing, wide but unimportant, a gravel bed over which little frogs and fishes skittered from time to time. It ran fast, though only up to the knees at its deepest, and Molly walked serenely into the coldness of it and bent her head to drink.
“Easy.” Janez laughed when Held leaned back in alarm at the dip of her neck. He slid down and helped Held after him. The water surged around his boots merrily—and Held, to Janez’s surprise, lit up. He kicked off his shoes at once—and away they spun, light enough even for this little river to carry—and stripped away the stockings. Bare toes were buried in the riverbed, and the look of rapturous joy—despite how cold the water had to be—was ethereally beautiful.
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