The Rusted Sword (2 page)

"Peter," Raleigh said, and this time his voice was clear. "Please set aside Moshe's note, and write a message from myself stating that we both will be participating in the games."

"Yes, sir."

"That's all, Peter."

He heard Peter turn and walk away. Without Peter's eyes on him, Raleigh felt more settled as he went back to watching Moshe. But all too soon, the realization of what he had just done hit him fully, and he groaned, dropping his face into his palm. When was the last time he had lifted a sword? And were there new games that Raleigh didn't even know about?

He was going to make a fool of himself, while Moshe's hard-earned abilities would shine and everyone would remember why they had feared him.

They would see Raleigh, with his limp and now graceless presence, and they would wonder how such a pathetic man had managed to shackle the dangerous Moshe.

*~*~*

It was not as if Raleigh had to wait for Moshe to fall asleep. They no longer shared a bed.

He could quite leisurely rise in the early hours of the morning and dress in his leathers. He did not bother to start a fire, and his chambers were dead still with chilly air. Grabbing a handful of nuts from the bowl on his table, Raleigh popped them into his mouth as he strode out of his room.

Chaylain was not that large, which was fortunate in the winter months as it would have been harder to keep a larger castle warm. There was a small wing for the masters, a wing for the servants, and a guest wing—beyond that, just the kitchen, main hall, and storerooms. Raleigh had the whole premise, every nook and cranny, mapped out since he was a child, and he loved every crumbling stone deeply.

Raleigh would always remember the look on Moshe's face upon seeing Chaylain for the first time when they had finally arrived after days and days of travel from Marvle-Dein. It was abject disappointment.

Pushing that memory away, Raleigh quickly made his way to the front entry of the main building, entering the courtyard. Off to the left was the modest stable, and to the right was the rack for training weapons, which was where Raleigh was headed. He stood in front of it, a frown on his face, and stared at each sword, realizing that every single one of them was Moshe's, and that Raleigh's swords were nowhere to be found.

Biting his lip, he looked over his shoulder towards the stables. He saw a light shining inside, so with a sigh he headed over.

He found Peter sitting with Aldmon, the stable hand, the two of them oiling down the reins together, mugs of coffee beside them in the weak lantern light. When Raleigh walked in, they both looked up.

"Sir?" Peter said.

Raleigh nodded, breathing in. He opened his mouth, paused, and then said finally, "I was looking at the swords…"

"Ah," Peter replied immediately, "Yes. Master Moshe had yours put away."

Raleigh considered him, narrowing his eyes. "Put away?"

"He told me you no longer held interest in them."

"I—" Raleigh choked out with a disbelieving laugh. Moshe had dared to have his swords put in storage? His expression faltered. "How long ago was that?"

He watched as Peter glanced at Aldmon and then down at the reins in his hands. "I suppose it must have been two years past now, Master."

Two years. For two years, Raleigh's beloved swords had been packed away somewhere at Moshe's behest, and he had never noticed. Well, with the running of the estate and constant bickering of the peasants on his land and the usual political affairs he had to keep abreast of through message riders, could Raleigh really be blamed for letting his training slide?

Still, two years without lifting the longsword he had won at his first winter games …

"Where are they?" Raleigh asked.

"Well, they're here," Peter replied, standing up. He stepped around Aldmon, and Raleigh followed him down the row of stalls, briefly patting his horse and Moshe's horse as he passed them.

At the end of the row, Raleigh saw his swords hanging up on the wall like decorative pieces, which only made him grimace with annoyance. It felt as if Moshe were mocking him. And how many times had Raleigh gone down to the courtyard for a ride but never actually stepped foot inside the stables? Aldmon always had his horse prepared and waiting. "One of you could have mentioned this," Raleigh rumbled.

"My apologies, sir," Peter replied, his voice soft.

All too quickly, a feeling of paranoia and resentment rose in Raleigh's heart. He was sure Moshe and Peter and Aldmon were all banded together against him, to make a fool of the master in his own castle. But that was ridiculous. He knew Peter was loyal to him and viewed Moshe as only a means to keep Raleigh happy. Or that was how it was when Moshe first arrived ... Perhaps they had warmed to each other through the years, and Raleigh never noticed. It would explain Peter's omission about the swords.

Peter must have noticed Raleigh's inner torment. He lifted the longsword off the rack and held it out in its scabbard towards Raleigh. "Sir, they have been well taken care of, and have been waiting for your return."

Indeed, the scabbard gleamed.

"Was it Moshe who looked after them?" Raleigh replied.

He saw a brief flicker in Peter's face. "It was Aldmon, sir."

"Oh." Raleigh took the sword, and realized he was unused to the weight. It felt heavier than he remembered.

"Master Moshe had requested him to do so …"

"You don't need to comfort me." Raleigh sighed, grabbing the foil from the rack as well.

"My apologies."

Nodding, Raleigh considered the other swords, but figured fencing and practice with the longsword was ambitious enough with the state he was in. "How are your forms, Peter? Has it been long since you sparred as well?"

"About as long as you, sir."

"Then spar with me," Raleigh said, looking at Peter with a wry grin. "We can stumble about together."

*~*~*

His body was sore, but blessedly less sore than that first morning of practice. Through the subsequent weeks that had passed, he had grown re-accustomed to the feeling of such brutal activity. However, it did exacerbate his knee, the pain waking leaving him in a tense stupor every morning.

Raleigh lay in bed, still half-asleep, when he heard a crash—his chamber door slamming open—and then felt a weight dipping on the bed.

"You're
despicable.
"

Raleigh groaned and flopped his arm over his face.

A hand gripped his wrist, dragging it away. Raleigh's eyes opened in a flash, his cheeks hot as he realized his heart had skipped a beat. He couldn't remember the last time Moshe had actually touched him.

Moshe was leaning over him, scowling. He was still in his bedclothes. His loose cotton shirt hung low enough around his neck to reveal the full landscape of his chest—his collarbone and his nipples. Raleigh found himself dry-mouthed, his gaze drifting slowly and hungrily up to Moshe's face and those blazing eyes.

"What have I done now, darling?" Raleigh asked, and he half-expected Moshe to choke him in response.

"Tampered with my correspondence," Moshe replied, the words said in a hiss. "I just now, on the day I had planned to leave for Marvle-Dein, received a response from Frederick." His eyes narrowed. "Or rather, you received a response."

He shoved a slip of parchment down onto Raleigh's chest. With a drawn-out sigh, Raleigh picked it up and read the contents, the duke's rather tepid welcome. A grin spread on his face at the idea that he had quashed the bastard's hopes so well.

"Aren't you pleased," Moshe said darkly from above him.

Raleigh looked up, still smirking. He tossed the letter to the side, and then—

He did nothing. His smile faded.

A long time ago, he would have trapped Moshe with his legs, pulled him in, and gripped his arms. He would have kissed Moshe, and then flipped them around so that it was Raleigh looming overhead. He would have kept kissing, nipping away at Moshe's indignant protests until he was docile with exhaustion, having struggled himself into defeat. And then Moshe would have spread his legs so beautifully for Raleigh, would have gasped and clung to Raleigh. But not now.

Raleigh averted his gaze. There was silence above him.

Moshe pushed away from the bed with a low curse. "Fine, then," he said snappishly, "you've agreed to come, and I am leaving today. Unless you were planning on traveling there without me—"

"No," Raleigh said, his voice weak. "We shall go together." He sat up, masking a grimace from the jolt of pain at his knee. Rubbing it, he looked over to see Moshe rifling through his wardrobe and pulling out clothing. Raleigh was about to tell Moshe that he didn't have to, that Peter could attend to the packing, but his voice caught in his throat as he watched Moshe's beautiful hands slide down Raleigh's vests and he felt the touch on his own chest.

How he longed to call Moshe to him.

With a sigh, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, shivering when his toes touched the freezing stone floor. "Shall we go by horse?"

"Were you planning to walk?" Moshe replied, his tone prim. He had already laid out several brocade numbers that Raleigh wasn't even aware that he owned. When, exactly, Moshe thought Raleigh would be wearing such clownish garb was a mystery.

He didn't answer Moshe, who paused in his movements for a brief moment before turning to look at Raleigh. When their eyes met, Raleigh just glanced away with a shrug. "I was merely curious as to whether you wanted to take the carriage …"

As Raleigh trailed off, silence descended again like a chill. The door to his wardrobe slammed shut, and he jolted upright, his gaze torn back to Moshe.

Moshe's back was stiff, his shoulders set at a tense line. He didn't look at Raleigh when he muttered, "Fine."

Clenching his knee, Raleigh drew in a breath. "Fine, what? Which? Horse or carriage?" He inwardly cringed at his own insistent tone, those breathless words that begged for approval. How pathetic Raleigh must seem, to drop all pretense of authority in his own home just for the barest scraps of affection. How pathetic he must seem to Moshe.

But Moshe showed no sign of even responding to Raleigh's query. His lips were pressed in a thin line, his shoulders set as he folded up a thick winter coat. Such flagrant insolence …

Yet Raleigh did nothing about it. Upon standing, a brief flicker of pain must have crossed his face, because Moshe suddenly stepped to him. "No," Raleigh rumbled, holding his hand up. He bent a little to massage his knee and fought off the heat that would make his cheeks redden. To have Moshe witness this weakness made Raleigh feel sick inside.

"We should ride easy," Moshe said softly. The gentle tone prickled at Raleigh's gut.

"For what reason?" he said, standing straight. When he did, he towered over Moshe. This alone was somewhat of a salve to his pride.

But once again he almost crumbled. The expression Moshe was showing Raleigh—the spark of annoyance in his eyes, the small, frustrated smile that Raleigh knew meant Moshe was thinking of what a boorish man he was—was so familiar. Without thinking, Raleigh reached forward to rub his thumb over the crease between Moshe's eyebrows.

When Moshe's lips parted with surprise, Raleigh pulled his hand back and sighed as he rubbed the back of his head. "You're right, Moshe," he said. "We will take our time."

*~*~*

Midpoint on their journey, they faced the first true snowfall of the winter, and Raleigh made the decision to stay at the inns they passed along the road from then on. When they were situated in their lodgings that first cold night, he found himself shifting on his feet and awkwardly glancing from the bed to Moshe, wondering if he should have secured separate rooms.

Apparently Moshe had no such worries. He was pulling the furs back after having changed into his nightclothes. Pausing, he raised his eyebrows. "Is there something wrong?"

"No," Raleigh replied.

Moshe stared at him expectantly. So Raleigh unlaced his tunic, pulling it off. When he was wearing nothing but a pair of light cotton trousers, he moved slowly to the bed, watching as Moshe slid under the covers. Following suit, Raleigh settled down on his side.

"It's quite cold," Moshe said, somewhat muffled.

After a beat of silence, Raleigh shifted towards him, dropped an arm over his waist, and pulled him close. "Then shall we keep each other warm?"

Moshe simply murmured a reply, but he seemed content, rolling around so he could curl in against Raleigh. For a moment, Raleigh fancied that he might try and kiss Moshe, to see where this rare moment of intimacy would go. He could see it all in his mind's eye, them coupling while the snow fell outside. The ache throbbing from his knee kept him frozen, however. Made him bitter. If Raleigh attempted any sort of the play he and Moshe used to take pleasure in, the roughness that Moshe begged for, that damn knee would ruin the moment.

And just like that, the fledgling heat of arousal in Raleigh’s gut sputtered out.

Fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. "You look so harsh when you frown like that."

Raleigh, speechless at Moshe's playful act, could only blink. Smile fading, Moshe redrew his hand and tried to roll away, but Raleigh finally had the presence of mind to stop him. With a tug, he had Moshe once again cradled to his chest. "I was thinking of our impending reunion with Frederick," he said, knowing Moshe would buy that excuse.