The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (10 page)

Harkeld gave a mental shrug. Why not? He hadn’t had sex in weeks. Not since Lenora. And it was only a dream, after all.

He glanced at Innis. She was slender rather than voluptuous, shy rather than boldly confident, but... why not?

Harkeld placed his free hand over hers, on his thigh.

Innis tensed slightly and looked at him, her gray eyes wide.

He drew her hand up his thigh and cupped it over his groin, letting her feel his heat, his arousal. “Shall we?”

Innis blushed vividly. Her gaze fell, looking at his chest, not his face. She nodded.

Harkeld led her onto the lawn and stripped off their clothes. The grass was velvety beneath his bare feet. He drew her to him, skin to skin, stroked his hands down her back, bent his head and kissed her.

The dream segued sharply. They’d been standing; now they lay on soft grass. Innis kissed him back. Her kiss was shy, hesitant, virginal.

It doesn’t have to be
that
realistic,
Harkeld told his imagination.

His imagination took no notice.

But his annoyance was momentary. There was pleasure to be had in coaxing a virgin into readiness to be bedded, in being the first man to caress her breasts and tease them with nipping kisses that made her gasp, the first to trail his fingers up the silkiness of her inner thighs, the first to slide his fingers inside her.

She was tighter than any woman he’d ever bedded, but she was also hot, slick, ready.

Harkeld settled himself between her legs. Arousal thrummed in his blood.

“Harkeld—” She clutched his arm. He felt her fear.

“Don’t worry.” He bent his head and kissed her. “This is only a dream. It won’t hurt.”

He slid deeply inside her, uttering an involuntary groan of pleasure. By the All-Mother, it felt
good
to be inside a woman. For several seconds he held himself still, eyes tightly closed, savoring the moment, then he began to move, setting a rhythm for them.

He lost his awareness of Innis. The dream narrowed until it was nothing but rhythm and heat and pleasure. His climax went on endlessly, so intense it was close to pain.

I
NNIS LAY AWAKE
in the dark tent, listening as the prince’s breathing slowed and became steady again.
Don’t worry,
his voice whispered in her head.
This is only a dream. It won’t hurt
. But it had hurt, hurt so much it had jolted her awake. She turned her head and looked at the prince, but it was too dark to see him.

Did he realize what they shared when they dreamed together? Thoughts. Memories. Emotions.

No. Of course he didn’t.

She reached out and found him in the darkness, laid her hand lightly on his shoulder, felt his warmth through the damp blanket.

A strong bond. That’s what Dareus said the dreams meant.

Friendship. Empathy.

Love?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
HE HILLS CLIMBED
to a plateau between Sault and Roubos. Sweeping winds chilled Jaumé to the bone; he rode with his blanket knotted round his shoulders. Bennick found him a cap to pull over his ears and boots for his bare feet. At a hamlet of four dwellings—huts built of dried mud and wood—an old woman scuttled inside as they approached.

Bennick halted. He felt in his pouch and held up a copper coin.

The woman’s door opened a crack. “There’s no food here.”

“It’s not food I’m buying. A jacket for this boy.”

“What good’s a penny? What good’s ten? It’s twenty miles to market and I’ve no horse to get there. I buried my husband two moons ago. Give me a loaf and you can have his jacket.”

Bennick put the coin away. “Get one, Jaumé.”

Jaumé dismounted and went to the packhorses. “Shall I give her two?”

“One,” Bennick said.

Jaumé found the largest loaf. He carried it to the hut, where the woman opened the door half way and held out a garment.

“Spread it out,” Bennick said.

The woman drew the door wider and showed a sheepskin jacket. “My man shrank. It’ll fit the boy.”

“Jaumé?” Bennick said.

“It looks all right.” The jacket had worn patches, but looked clean enough, and the stitching was sound. It was like the jacket Mam had made for Da.

Jaumé took it and gave the woman the loaf of rye bread. She grabbed it, held it like a baby in two hands. He wished it was fatter. He wished there were two. He was sorry for her, with her sunken cheeks and gap-toothed mouth and greedy eyes.

“Thank you,” he said.

She didn’t reply. The door slammed shut.

“Put it on,” Bennick said.

Jaumé obeyed. At once he was warmer, with the hide holding off the wind and the wool inside next to his shirt.

He folded the blanket he’d worn and used it again as a saddle.

J
AUMÉ SLEPT WELL
that night, with the jacket spread on his blanket as wide as it would go. He half-woke and saw the moon low on the horizon and the watchman, Odil, moving like a shadow beyond the embers. Odil leaned and whispered to Nolt, risen on his elbow, and then melted away into the dark, and Jaumé slept again.

They breakfasted on rye bread. Jaumé saddled his pony with the folded blanket. Wrapped in the jacket, he smelled the old man, but that didn’t bother him as long as he was warm. Today’s ride would be more comfortable. Then, beyond the horses, by a scrubby tree, he saw a pile of old clothes. He looked harder. Not clothes—a body. A gray, gap-toothed mouth seemed to grin. Blood, drying black at the edges, spread from under a slackened jaw.

“Bennick.”

Bennick paused in saddling his horse. He looked where Jaumé pointed.

“It’s her. What happened?”

Bennick turned back to his horse. “She came in the night. She was after your pony.”

“But—”

“Odil heard her. That’s all.”

“He killed her?”

“Thieves get killed. Don’t snivel, Jaumé. There’s nothing wrong with dying. We come, we go. She’s with the All-Mother.”

“But...” Jaumé whispered. He saw the others mounting, and Odil, stocky Odil, with his hair as brown and curly as Da’s, leading the packhorses out to the road. Odil, who’d killed the old woman. “Shouldn’t we bury her?”

“Let her lie. The wild dogs will find her, and the crows.” Bennick mounted. “Stay with her if you like. Or come with us.” He trotted his horse after the others.

Jaumé mounted the pony and followed. He took his place beside Bennick.
She wanted the pony so she could ride to the market. So she wouldn’t starve
. But after a while he began to wonder if the woman had known she’d be caught. It might have been her way of—what? Going to the All-Mother? At least she wasn’t starving now.

The blood from her throat reminded him of Mam.

Mam lying in the kitchen, the floorboards red with her blood, the stink of blood in his nose, his feet slipping in blood as he ran.

His mind took him back to the beginning. Da, with his mad face. Rosa’s scream. Mam. And running. Running for the safety of Girond, only to find it wasn’t safe any more. Howling laughter like dogs. Flames rising into the sky as the village burned. And always, the smell of Mam’s blood.

Tears stung the inside of Jaumé’s nose, pricked his eyes. He forced them back.

Whatever happened, these men must not see him cry.

CHAPTER TWELVE

K
AREL WALKED FROM
the training arena, wiping sweat from his face. He’d won each of his bouts. The last man he’d beaten jostled him as they went into the barracks, digging an elbow in his ribs, shoving him against the doorframe, but he was used to that now. He’d grown adept at collecting bruises without letting any emotion show on his face.

He washed at the long row of stone sinks and then dressed in the scarlet tunic and golden breastplate, the wrist guards, the greaves.

“Marten, Edvin, to the king’s audience chamber, now!”

There was a moment of near-silence as the two armsmen slung on their swords and hurried out, and then a rising buzz of conversation.

Karel buckled his sword belt slowly. He knew the two men. They were sworn to Prince Rutgar and Prince Lukas.

What’s happening?

In the mess hall, someone jostled him again as he turned away from the servers. He lost a slice of coarse bread from his plate.

“Sorry,” the person said.

Startled, Karel glanced at him. It was one of the armsmen from Lomaly. Only two generations from bondservice himself.

Karel let his expression relax. He gave a nod.

The armsman grabbed another slice of bread and put it on Karel’s plate. “A bit on edge today, you know?” he said as he followed Karel to a table and sat.

“What’s happening?” Karel asked.

“Haven’t you heard?”

Karel shook his head.

The armsman pulled a face. “The Heir-Ascendant is shuffling the cards in his favor.”

B
RITTA SAT IN
front of the mirror. Her hair tugged at her scalp as Yasma wound strands around the crown and anchored them with a jeweled pin.

She kept her head still, but glanced sideways, catching a glimpse of blue sky through the window. It was another sunny autumn day. The frost on the lawns would have melted by now.

Restlessness boiled inside her. Britta clasped her hands in her lap. Another ten minutes and she could walk in the gardens. A long walk today, to the farthest guard tower and back. The guard tower Harkeld had escaped from.

Her restlessness changed to anxiety. Where was Harkeld now? Was he even alive?

The fifth bell rang. Noon.

Britta tore her thoughts from Harkeld. “You wish to come walking today?” she asked Yasma.

“Yes, please—”

A knock sounded on the bedchamber door.

Britta met Yasma’s eyes in the mirror.

“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” she said, but her chest had tightened and the fear that underlay every action, every day, rose to the surface. The answer to Osgaard’s most pressing problem, Jaegar had called her a few short weeks ago. Was today the day she discovered what her use was to be?

Yasma opened the door.

Karel stood there. He looked past Yasma to her. Something in his eyes made Britta pushed hastily to her feet. “What?”

“Have you not heard?”

Britta’s heart kicked in her chest.
I’m to be bait to catch Harkeld
. She hurried to the door, heedless of the half-secured crown on her head. “Tell me!”

Karel’s lips tightened fractionally, the most emotion she’d ever seen on his face. “Jaegar has imprisoned your half-brothers on grounds of treason.”

What?
Britta gaped at him, speechless, her fears falling away and new ones scrambling to take their place.