“Sorry.” Thorn was already backing away. “I’ll talk to you about the sword later!” And she turned and started running for the gate.
HE LOOKED BETTER THAN ever. Or maybe she just saw him differently, knowing what she knew.
“Thorn.” He looked surprised to see her and she could hardly blame him. Then he looked worried. “What’s wrong?”
She realized she must look worse even than usual and wished she hadn’t run all the way, or at least waited to knock until she’d caught her breath and wiped the sweat from her forehead. But she’d been dancing around this far too long. Time to face it, sweaty or not.
“I talked to your sister,” she said.
He looked more worried. “What about?”
“About you having a sister, for one thing.”
“That’s no secret.”
“That might not be.”
He looked even more worried. “What did she tell you?”
“That you saved my life. When I killed Edwal.”
He winced. “I told her not to say anything!”
“Well, that didn’t work.”
“Reckon you’d best come in. If you want to.” He stepped back from the door and she followed him into the shadowy hallway, heart pounding harder than ever. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
“I wasn’t trying to do anything noble, just … something good. And I wasn’t sure, and it took me too long, and I made a bloody mess of it—”
She took a step toward him. “Did you go to Father Yarvi?”
“Yes.”
“Did Father Yarvi save my life?”
“Yes.”
“Did you lose your place because of it?”
He worked his mouth as though looking for a way to deny it, but couldn’t. “I was going to tell you, but …”
“I’m not easy to tell things to.”
“And I’m not much good at telling.” He pushed his hair back and scrubbed at his head as though it hurt. “Didn’t want you feeling in my debt. Wouldn’t have been fair.”
She blinked at that. “So … you didn’t just risk everything for my sake, you kept it to yourself so I wouldn’t feel bad about it.”
“One way of putting it … maybe.” And he looked at her from under his brows, eyes gleaming in the shadows. That look, as if there was nothing he would rather be looking at. And however she’d tried to weed those hopes away they blossomed in a riot, and the want came up stronger than ever.
She took another little step toward him. “I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“But I am. For how I treated you. On the way back. On the way out, for that matter. I’m sorry, Brand. I’ve never been sorrier. I’ve never been sorry at all, really. Got to work on that. Just … I got the wrong idea about … something.”
He stood there, silent. Waiting. Looking. No bloody help at all.
Just say it. How hard could it be? She’d killed men. Just say it. “I stopped talking to you … because …” But getting the words out was like hauling anvils out of a well. “I … like …” It was as if she tottered out onto a frozen lake, not knowing whether the next step might send her plunging to an icy doom. “I’ve always … liked …” She couldn’t make the “you.” She couldn’t have made the “you” if it was that or die. She squeezed her eyes shut. “What I’m trying to say is—Whoa!”
She snapped her eyes open. He’d touched her cheek, fingertips brushing the scar there.
“You’ve got your hand on me.” Stupidest thing she’d ever said and that with some fierce competition. They could both see he had his hand on her. Wasn’t as if it fell there by accident.
He jerked it away. “I thought—”
“No!” She caught his wrist and guided it back. “I mean … Yes.” His fingertips were warm against her face, hers sliding over the back of his hand, pressing it there and it felt … Gods. “This is happening, is it?”
He stepped a little closer, the knobble on his neck bobbing as he swallowed. “I reckon.” He was looking at her mouth. Looking at it as though there was something really interesting in there and she wasn’t sure she’d ever been so scared.
“What do we do?” she found she’d squeaked out, voice running away from her, higher and higher. “I mean, I know what we do … I guess.” Gods, that was a lie, she hadn’t a clue. She wished now Skifr had taught her a little less about swords and a bit more about the arts of love, or whatever. “I mean, what do we do now we know that, you know—”
He put his thumb gently across her lips. “Shut up, Thorn.”
“Right,” she breathed, and she realized she had her hand up between them, as if to push him away. So used to pushing folk away, and him in particular, and she forced it to go soft, laid it gently on his chest, hoped he couldn’t feel it trembling.
Closer he came, and she was taken suddenly with an urge to run for it, and then with an urge to giggle, and she made a stupid gurgle swallowing her laughter, and then his lips were touching hers. Gently, just brushing, one way, then the other, and she realized she had her eyes open and snapped them shut. Couldn’t think what to do with her hands. Stiff as a woman made of wood, she was, for a moment, but then things started to go soft.
The side of his nose nudged hers, ticklish.
He made a noise in his throat, and so did she.
She caught his lip between hers, tugged at it, slipped that hand on his chest up around his neck, and pulled him closer, their teeth knocked awkwardly together and they broke apart.
Not much of a kiss, really. Nothing like she’d imagined it would be, and the gods knew she’d imagined it enough, but it left her hot all over. Maybe that was just the running, but she’d done a lot of running and never felt quite like this.
She opened her eyes and he was looking at her. That look, through the strands of hair across his face. Wasn’t the first kiss she ever had, but the others had felt like children playing. This was as different from that as a battle from the training square.
“Oh,” she croaked. “That … wasn’t so bad.”
She let go of his hand and caught a fistful of his shirt, started dragging him back toward her, caught the smile at the corner of his mouth and smiled herself—
There was a rattle outside the door.
“Rin,” muttered Brand, and as if that was the starting word on a race they both took off running. Pelted down the corridor like thieves caught in the act, tangling on a stairway, giggling like idiots as they scrambled into a room and Brand wrestled the door shut, leaning back against it as if there were a dozen angry Vanstermen outside.
They hunched in the shadows, their breath coming quick.
“Why did we run?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” Thorn whispered back.
“You think she can hear us?”
“What if she can?” asked Thorn.
“I don’t know.”
“So this is your room, is it?”
He straightened up, grinning like a king who’d won a victory. “I have a room.”
“Quite the distinguished citizen,” she said, strolling around in a circle, taking it in. Didn’t take long. There was a pallet bed in one corner with Brand’s worn-out old blanket on it, and his sea chest sitting open in another, and the sword that used to be Odda’s leaning against the wall, and aside from that just bare boards and bare walls and a lot of shadows. “Ever wonder if you’ve overdone the furniture?”
“It’s not quite finished.”
“It’s not quite started,” she said, the circle taking her back toward him.
“If it’s not what you were used to at the empress’s palace, I won’t keep you.”
She snorted. “I lived under a boat with forty men in it. Reckon I can stand this a while.”
His eyes were on her as she came close. That look. Little bit hungry, little bit scared. “Staying, then?”
“I’ve got nothing else pressing.”
And
they were kissing again, harder this time. She wasn’t worrying about Brand’s sister anymore, or about her mother, or about anything. There was nothing on her mind but her mouth and his. Not to begin with, at least. But soon enough some other parts started making themselves known. She wondered what was prodding at her hip and stuck her hand down there to check and then she realized what was prodding at her hip and had to break away she felt so foolish, and scared, and hot, and excited, and hardly knew what she felt.
“Sorry,” he muttered, bending over and lifting one leg as if he was trying to hide the bulge and looking so ridiculous she spluttered with laughter.
He looked hurt. “Ain’t funny.”
“It is kind of.” She took his arm and pulled him close, then she hooked her leg around his and he gasped as she tripped him, put him down hard on his back with her on top, straddling him. Familiar territory in its way, but everything was different now.
She pressed her hips up against his, rocking back and forward, gently at first, then not so gently. She had her hand tangled in his hair, dragging his face against hers, his beard prickling at her chin, their open mouths pressed together so her head seemed to be full of his rasping breath, hot on her lips.
She was fair grinding away at him now and liking the feel of it more than a bit, then she was scared she was liking the feel of it, then she decided just to do it and worry later. She was grunting in her throat with each breath and one little part of her thinking that must sound pretty foolish but a much bigger part not caring. One of his hands slipped up her back under her shirt, the other up her ribs, one by one, and made her shiver. She pulled away, breathing hard, looking down at him, propped up on one elbow.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
“For what?” She ripped her shirt open and dragged it off, got it caught over the elf-bangle on her wrist, finally tore it free and flung it away.
She felt a fool for a moment, knew she was nothing like a woman should be, knew she was pale and hard and nothing but gristle. But he looked anything but disappointed, slid his hands up her sides and around her back, pulled her down against him, kissing at her, nipping at her lips with his teeth. The pouch with her father’s fingerbones fell in his eye and she slapped it back over her shoulder. She set to pulling his shirt open, pushing her hand up his stomach, fingers through the hairs on his chest, the bangle glowing soft gold, reflected in the corners of his eyes.
He caught her hand. “We don’t have to … you know …”
No doubt they didn’t have to, and no doubt there were a hundred reasons not to, and right then she couldn’t think of one she gave a damn about.
“Shut up, Brand.” She twisted her hand free and started dragging his belt open. She didn’t know what she was doing, but she knew some right idiots who’d done it.
How hard could it be?
SORT OF ALONE
They’d gone to sleep holding each other but it hadn’t lasted long. Brand never knew anyone to thrash about so much in the night. She twitched and twisted, jerked and shuddered, kicked and rolled until she kicked him awake and rolled him right out of his own bed.
So he was left sitting on his sea chest, the lid polished to a comfortable gloss by hundreds of miles of his own rowing backside, watching her.
She’d ended up facedown with her arms spread wide, a strip of sunlight from the narrow window angled across her back, one hand hanging off the bed and the elf-bangle casting a faint glow on the floor. One long leg poked out from under the blanket, a puckered scar across the thigh, hair bound with rings of silver and gold, tangled across her face so all he could see was half of one shut eye and a little piece of cheek with that arrow-shaped mark on it.
To begin with he’d sat with a stupid smile on his face, listening to her snore. Thinking how she’d snored in his ear all the way down the Divine and the Denied. Thinking how much he liked hearing it. Hardly able to believe his luck that she was there, now, naked, in his bed.
Then he’d started worrying.
What would people think when they found out they’d done this? What would Rin say? What would Thorn’s mother do? What if a child came? He’d heard it wasn’t likely but it happened, didn’t it? Sooner or later she’d wake. What if she didn’t want him anymore? How could she want him anymore? And, lurking at the back of his mind, the darkest worry of all. What if she woke and she did want him still? What then?
“Gods,” he muttered, blinking up at the ceiling, but they’d answered his prayers by putting her in his bed, hadn’t they? He could hardly pray for help getting her out.
With a particularly ripping snort Thorn jerked, and stretched out, clenching her fists, and stretching her toes, her muscles shuddering. She blew snot out of one nostril, wiped it on the back of her hand, rubbed her eyes on the back of the other and dragged her matted hair out of her face. She froze, and her head jerked around, eyes wide.
“Morning,” he said.
She stared at him. “Not a dream, then?”
“I’m guessing no.” A nightmare, maybe.
They looked at each other for a long moment. “You want me to go?” she asked.
“No!” he said, too loud and too eager. “No. You want to go?”
“No.” She sat up slowly, dragging the blanket around her shoulders, knobbled knees towards him, and gave a huge yawn.
“Why?” he found he’d said. She stopped halfway through, mouth hanging open. “Wasn’t like last night went too well did it?”
She flinched at that like he’d slapped her. “What did I do wrong?”
“You? No! You didn’t … it’s me I’m talking of.” He wasn’t sure what he was talking of, but his mouth kept going even so. “Rin told you, didn’t she?”
“Told me what?”
“That my own father didn’t want me. That my own mother didn’t want me.”
She frowned at him. “I thought your mother died.”
“Same bloody thing isn’t it?”
“No. It isn’t.”
He was hardly listening. “I grew up picking through rubbish. I had to beg to feed my sister. I carted bones like a slave.” He hadn’t meant to say any of it. Not ever. But it just came puking out.
Thorn shut her mouth with a snap. “I’m an arse, Brand. But what kind of arse would I be if I thought less of you for that? You’re a good man. A man who can be trusted. Everyone who knows you thinks so. Koll worships you. Rulf respects you. Even Father Yarvi likes you, and he doesn’t like anyone.”
He blinked at her. “I never speak.”
“But you listen when other people speak! And you’re handsome and well-made as Safrit never tired of telling me.”
“She did?”
“She and Mother Scaer spent a whole afternoon discussing your arse.”
“Eh?”
“You could have anyone you wanted. Specially now you don’t live in a midden. The mystery is why you’d want me.”
“Eh?” He’d never dreamed she had her own doubts. Always seemed so damn sure about everything.
But she drew the blanket tight around her shoulders and looked down at her bare feet, mouth twisted with disgust. “I’m selfish.”
“You’re … ambitious. I like that.”
“I’m bitter.”
“You’re funny. I like that too.”
She rubbed gently at her scarred cheek. “I’m ugly.”
Anger burned up in him then, so hot it took him by surprise. “Who bloody said so? Cause first they’re wrong and second I’ll punch their teeth out.”
“I can punch ’em myself. That’s the problem. I’m not … you know.” She stuck a hand out of the blanket and scrubbed her nails against the shaved side of her head. “I’m not how a girl should be. Or a woman. Never have been. I’m no good at …”
“What?”
“Smiling or, I don’t know, sewing.”
“I don’t need anything sewed.” And he slid off his sea chest and knelt down in front of her. His worries had faded. Things had got ruined before somehow and
he wouldn’t let them get ruined again. Not for lack of trying. “I’ve wanted you since the First of Cities. Since before, maybe.” He reached out and put his hand on hers where it rested on the bed. Clumsy, maybe, but honest. “Just never thought I’d get you.” He looked into her face, groping for the right words. “Looking at you, and thinking you want me, makes me feel like … like I won.”
“Won something no one else would want,” she muttered.
“What do I care what they want?” he said, that anger catching fire again and making her look up. “If they’re too damn stupid to see you’re the best woman in the Shattered Sea that’s my good luck, isn’t it?” He fell silent, and felt his face burning, and thought for sure he’d ruined the whole thing again.
“That might be the nicest thing anyone ever said to me.” She reached up and pushed the hair out of his face. Gentle as a feather, her touch. He hadn’t realized she could be so gentle. “No one ever says anything nice to me, but even so.” The blanket slipped off her bare shoulder and he set his hand on it, slid it down her side and around her back, skin hissing on skin, warm, and smooth, her eyes closing, and his—
A thumping echoed through the house. Someone beating on the front door, and knocks that weren’t to be ignored. Brand heard the bolt drawn back, voices muttering.
“Gods,” said Thorn, eyes wide. “Could be my mother.”
They hadn’t moved so fast even when the Horse People came charging across the steppe, grabbing up clothes and tossing them to each other, pulling them on, him fumbling with his belt and getting it all messed up because he was watching her wriggle her trousers over her arse out of the corner of his eye.
“Brand?” came his sister’s voice.
They both froze, he with one boot on, she with none, then Brand called out a cracked, “Aye?”
“You all right?” Rin’s voice coming up the steps.
“Aye!”
“You alone?” Just outside the door now.
“Course!” Then, when he realized she might come in, he followed up with a guilty, “Sort of.”
“You’re the worst liar in Gettland. Is Thorn Bathu in there with you?”
Brand winced. “Sort of.”