Tempted by Ruin (Sons of Britain Book 4) Page 3

  “Why are you awake so early?”

  A warm rush of air against his groin. “It’s not early.”

  “It’s scarcely dawn.”

  “Sun’s up, so I’m up.” He lapped the length of Bedwyr’s cock, which stood like a godstone now. “And so are you.”

  He licked and sucked, slowly and with the light touch Bedwyr craved. His hands rested on Bedwyr’s belly, thumbs stroking his skin. Bedwyr looked at those long fingers and hard knuckles, so different from his own. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  Arthur drew off him. “About?”

  “Your best feature. It’s your hands after all.”

  Arthur slid them up to his chest, brushing over his nipples. “Do you always waver so much?”

  “No, I’m certain now.” He caught one of Arthur’s wrists and drew his forefinger into his mouth. Arthur’s gray eyes homed in on the sight and then Bedwyr pulled his middle finger in too, slathering them with saliva. When he drew them out, they dripped onto his chest. “A man should use his advantages.”

  Arthur’s eyes snapped to his, and he licked his lower lip. Then he shouldered Bedwyr’s knees up.

  Those two long fingers entered him on a slow push that seemed to light him up from the inside. That’s how it always felt, as if his belly were a forge, and given Arthur’s lineage, it was no surprise he could stoke it. Could coax that heat to life until Bedwyr thought he’d melt, or set the bedding on fire.

  A good thing, then, that Arthur was intent on keeping Bedwyr’s cock wet. Pulling up and off, he blew on it, and Bedwyr shivered at the icy sensation so close to the heat below. Arthur hummed, sounding pleased, before taking him down again. It was maddening, how easily his cub could trap him between his fingers and his mouth, but for moments like these—moments in which it seemed they were the only people who existed—Bedwyr gladly surrendered his sanity.

  And most of the curses he knew. With thirty years under his belt now, he had quite the armory full of them, and by the time his breath choked and he came, Arthur was laughing around him.

  Bedwyr lay panting until he could make out the beams overhead again, and then reached down and hauled Arthur up his body. Sinking his fingers into Arthur’s hair, he gave him the kiss he deserved. Or the kiss Bedwyr was capable of giving until he had to pull away, catch his breath. “What do you want?”

  “Put me on my back.”

  Bedwyr rolled them.

  “Hold me down.”

  He pinned him with hand, arm, and legs, then examined their position. “I’m good, but I can’t suck you from here.”

  Arthur grinned. “I already came.”

  “What?” He looked down Arthur’s body, then to the bedding between his calves. A damp smear of seed darkened the fabric. “Oh.” He looked back up, met by laughing gray eyes. “What d’you want, then?”

  “This.”

  His weight. His attention. Sometimes it was all his cub asked for. He’d claimed once that it helped him feel more grounded to the earth, and so Bedwyr was happy to give it. It never seemed enough to give, though. He would have given much, much more.

  He lowered his body onto Arthur’s and kissed his neck. “Been a long winter. Suppose we can claim this bed for a week?”

  Arthur shook under him. “Caron will drag us out herself. If Gwen and the boys don’t break down the door first.”

  Bedwyr mashed their bodies together. “They can wait. All of them.” Even a week wouldn’t afford him the time he wanted to enjoy Arthur uninterrupted. They took their moments in the wild, too—he’d have gone insane if they hadn’t—but nothing matched this chamber for comfort and solitude. Perhaps he was getting soft. He nuzzled Arthur’s temple. “You’re mine.”

  Arthur sighed, pushing up into him, then slipped his arms free to close around Bedwyr’s back. “Yours,” he said and squeezed Bedwyr tightly. “But they’ll still knock down the door.”

  Bedwyr laughed and pulled up. “Think they’ve heard we’re back?”

  Arthur’s mouth quirked.

  He was right. Gwen had a devoted corps of young spies. Children born in the brothel, most of them, and she rewarded them for useful information. The lad who’d delivered their food had likely run directly to her the night before. Darkness and muddy miles were no hindrance when treats were involved. “How long do you think we have?”

  “Maybe long enough to wash and dress and take a few steps toward their holdings.”

  A loud knock sounded on the door. “Get up, you two lazy goats!”

  Arthur snorted. “Or maybe not so long.”

  Bedwyr rose and pulled on his clothes and, very much against his wishes, so did Arthur. He could hear Gwen chuckling outside and two smaller voices far too exuberant for this hour of the morning. Before Arthur could let them in, Bedwyr hauled him close for one last taste. “I’m not finished with you.”

  A gratifying flush rode high on Arthur’s cheeks when he opened the door to meet calamity with chaos.

  After a flurry of greetings, they gathered their packs and armor and walked to the yard outside. There his nephews clamored, tugging at Arthur’s shirt. Stooping, Arthur tipped each of them over a shoulder, and then rose and began to spin in place. The boys shrieked, arms and legs flung wide, and Bedwyr smiled.

  They were a set, these three, and he liked seeing it every time they returned. How exactly their individual game pieces fit together, though… Of that none of them were certain yet.

  Galahad was Gwen and Elain’s son. That they knew because he’d come second. But while Gally’s origin was as uncomplicated as his small smiling self, an invisible question hung over Medraut. Despite all their efforts otherwise, he might have been conceived by Arthur on his wedding night with Gwen. Or, he might have been the first issue of Gwen’s tie to Elain. The timing had been too near to tell. The lad’s hair was as dark as when he’d been born, a nod to his grandfather, Uthyr, they’d supposed. But that hair had covered his infant body in the same sort of soft pelt Arthur had had as a babe. In time it fell away, and his features and temperament now straddled Elain’s and Arthur’s. Skinny but strong for his six-odd years. Willful but also often lost in thought. Eyes a stubborn shade between Elain’s pale blue and Arthur’s dove gray.

  Arthur had relaxed into the lack of certainty. Bedwyr hadn’t, quite. Seemed to him a man ought to have more of a stake in whether or not a lad was his son.

  “He’s got something churning in that mind of his.”

  Bedwyr looked at Gwen, thinking she was teasing him, but found her looking at her sons. “Medraut?”

  “Of course Medraut. Nothing stays in Gally’s head for long before he says it outright.”

  That was true enough. Conversations took strange and surprising turns with that one.

  “He won’t tell us.” Gwen looked up at him, making her dark eyes soft as a milk cow’s, a trick he’d seen more times than he could count. “Will you ask?”

  “Ask what?”

  Gwen elbowed his ribs, all gentleness gone. “Stop being difficult. Ask Medraut what’s bothering him.”

  “No.”

  “You’re his uncle. He’ll tell you.”

  “Leave him be.”

  “Please?”

  “If the lad wants to think something through, give him time to do it.”

  “I’m only—”

  “Meddling?”

  Gwen glared at him. “No.”

  “You are.” He grinned at her. “Besides, how much damage can one lad do?”

  Gwen chuckled low and turned that narrow gaze back to the boy. “I’ve charmed secrets out of half the lords around, yet my own son eludes me. Are you sure—”

  “Hey!” he called. “Galahad!”

  The lad climbed down from Arthur—something Bedwyr made a mental note to do himself, when they had a moment alone later this night—and ran over to him.

  Bedwyr knelt and spoke low in his ear. “Guess who slept in the loft above our chamber last night?”

  Galahad gasped. “Cousin?”r />
  “If you run—”

  He didn’t have to finish the thought before Gally was charging back into the brothel.

  “Gally!” Gwen frowned at Bedwyr as he rose. “Where’s he gone?”

  “To fetch Gawain.”

  His sister turned to him, hands on hips. “Is Gawain alone?”

  He shrugged. “It is a brothel.”

  Chapter 3

  Gawain listened to the ruckus below with something close to relief.

  Close, because it meant Arthur and Bedwyr would be staying with Gwen and Elain for the foreseeable future—Gwen wouldn’t have it any other way—so he might get his first full night’s sleep in an age. He hadn’t done last night, not with every panting, moaning moment shared by the men below as clear to him as if he’d stood in their bedchamber like a paying watcher. One of Caron’s minions had shown him to this small but neat attic space, and he’d enjoyed about half an hour of it in peace before the splashing had begun.

  It was almost as if Caron had put him here just to torture him…but that was a stupid thought. Nobody knew of his equally stupid longing for a certain tall, dark-eyed mercenary, and they could just keep on not knowing.

  Bad luck that his cock planned to keep on this way, half hard at the best of times, and stiff as a post since Bedwyr had growled his release a quarter hour before. Gawain groaned. Only he was idiot enough to suffer a full mast alone in the midst of a brothel. Any number of whores could have helped relieve him—several had even offered—but he’d turned them away. Despite boasting he’d have a bedmate in no time, the plain truth was he didn’t want any of them now. Not even with the wick extinguished and his eyes closed. He’d tried that last time, back in the autumn when they’d returned from campaign. Tried to imagine that the hot mouth bringing him off belonged to a different man. That the hands were longer in the fingers, the jaw not so smooth-shaven.

  It had been a fool’s errand. Oh, he’d come and loudly—shouting in defiance—but his voice had rung back hollowly from the rafters, and he’d paid the man as much to make him leave as for the suck. It hadn’t been Palahmed between his legs, and it never would be him. If he hadn’t had salt for brains, he’d have accepted that years ago.

  These days, he usually took care of matters himself. Still couldn’t imagine it was someone else’s hands, but it was cheaper. He felt at his cock now, resigned to a hasty bit of slap-mackerel, and found it had flagged, finally.

  Thank the gods. At least he could go in search of food without stabbing anyone.

  The corridor below had grown quiet by the time he dressed and descended the ladder. Bread and cheese were the usual fare to break one’s fast, but if he flirted just right with that one kitchen fellow, he might get some of yesterday’s chowder.

  And maybe a bedmate for the next night after all. Time to be done with this pining. Time for common sense to prevail. And the cook’s help wasn’t so bad. Dark-haired, at least. He turned a corner toward the kitchens—

  —only to collide with a small body. “Ho, there, mind your course.” He righted the lad and met a bright, gap-toothed grin.

  “Gawain!”

  “Heya, Gally. Thought you’d gone.”

  The boy’s brown curls wagged as he nodded, then shook his head, as if he couldn’t decide what his answer was. Before he could say anything, another familiar voice sounded behind him.

  “Gally! Where’ve you gotten to? We—Gawain!” Gwen smiled broadly as she strode toward him and wrapped him in a strong embrace. They were of a height, and she was soft, and he wasn’t above taking a few seconds’ comfort from someone glad to see him. After a moment, she set him away, still smiling. “You look well, cousin.”

  “And you.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Kitchen.”

  “Mine? Excellent idea.” She slipped her arm through his and turned him around.

  He pointed over his shoulder. “I was just going for some bread.”

  “We have bread—and chowder,” she said with a knowing look. “Need to collect your belongings?”

  “Should I bother to protest?”

  “Do you enjoy fruitless quests?” She gave him a smile that might have been sweet on anyone else. But countless warlords in the region had bent under that smile. Gawain was no more immune, even when he knew what she was about. He fetched his pack and armor.

  They stepped out of the brothel into the cold, damp mist of the morning. Gwen’s sons were firing questions at Arthur about the winter’s forays into Saxon territory.

  “Nabbed you too, did she?” Bedwyr stood to one side, smirking as they approached.

  Gawain held up their linked arms, and Gwen scoffed.

  “As if it’s a hardship. Snug beds, hot meals. And a good tale-teller this winter. He’s no Tiro, but he’s still good.”

  Bedwyr gave a noncommittal grunt, and they started down the lane that led to the settlement’s wall. Gwen bumped her brother’s shoulder with hers. “Thank you, by the bye, for teaching them how to catch salamanders. Found them in our bed every night for nearly a moon!”

  Bedwyr frowned. “Wasn’t me.”

  No, it hadn’t been.

  Bed’s eyes met his over Gwen’s head.

  Time to slip this net.

  “Sounds like a family matter.” Gawain freed his arm from her grasp. Running past Arthur, he whooped, and the boys shouted, pounding after him down the path.

  It was a few miles to Elain and Gwen’s holdings, and he made sure they spent the distance getting into as much mischief as possible. They climbed trees. They chased rabbits. They splashed through creeks and puddles and boggy bits. Once in a while, from far behind, a threat drifted forward on the morning breeze. Something about baths, or cow pens? They ignored each one, grinning conspiratorially at each other, and then looked about for their next trial.

  They reminded him of his younger brothers. Give them both eyes like a summer sea, and they could have been Gareth and Gahers. His brothers had been about the same age as these two when he’d seen them last, and still this carefree. But more than seven years had passed since then. Gareth would be well into training, and Gahers initiated too. Did they still smile, ever, or had Lot beaten it out of them by now?

  With renewed determination, he leveled a look at Gally and Medraut. “New mission, lads. Are you up to it?”

  They stopped, eyes and mouths wide in anticipation.

  “That’s Lord Ban’s wall up there, and you know your mother’s going to insist on baths once we’re inside it.” When they began to whine, he held up a hand. “No, we’ll bear them like men. But…” He leaned close and pointed to a grand puddle of mud just ahead. “We’ll make it worth our whiles, eh?”

  The next several minutes were a blur of shouting and sloshing about, of flinging handfuls of sloppy muck and not quite dodging them in turn. As he’d expected, the lads paired up to turn on him, so that by the time Gwen and the men caught up, Gawain lay on his back, the boys sitting astride him like giggling conquerors. He had mud in every crevice.

  “So good to have you back, cousin.” She shook her head at her sons and groaned. Then she looked past them and called, “I come bearing gifts.”

  “Do I have to accept them?”

  Gawain turned to see Elain standing in the gateway of the wall, smiling. Safir stood to her left. To her right, Palahmed.

  Damn. He’d forgotten Elain and Palahmed were old friends. He’d thought—stupidly, he now realized—that the man would hang about Rhys’s. He should’ve known he’d pay her a visit. Mud squelched from between Gawain’s fingers, and he fought to unclench his fists. Those dark eyes he knew too well took in the soaked, splattered state of him, then glared at him directly.

  At least the mud hid his blush.

  “Right, my wee men.” He sat up, toppling the boys. “Time for our watery reckoning.”

  ~ ~ ~

  It was official: he was a coward.

  Palahmed had, in his thirty-five years, enjoyed a few moments that sugg
ested otherwise. A brave charge here, a narrow escape there. Once, he’d fought five men simultaneously and was the only one alive to clean his blade afterward. Yet now a single man could make him retreat to the shadows, unable to step through a common, ordinary curtain.

  It hung beside him—he couldn’t even look at it square—and it mocked him. But not as much as the voices beyond it. Three of them, two very young, one older, all teasing and laughing. Not at him, he’d admit, though it felt as much. They were everything he was no longer. Silly, boisterous, not a care in their heads. Had he ever been that way?

  It wasn’t their play that had him hunched against the wall outside the chamber. It was that, as soon as he stepped inside, Gawain would stop laughing and then be just naked and beautiful and wholly untouchable. At least here, he could imagine him smiling as well.

  “My lord?”

  He flinched and looked down to find a servant girl next to him. “I’m not a lord.”

  Unfazed, she nodded toward his hands. “I can take those in, if you like.”

  Clutched in his rigid hands were the lengths of toweling Gwen had thrust at him a quarter hour before, entreating him to deliver them, as some situation requiring her attention had arisen elsewhere. He could do it, could dump them on this girl and make a not-at-all-daring escape. But his weakness had him lingering instead of fleeing. With an effort, he relaxed his fingers and smoothed the nubby fabric. “Thank you, no. I’m only giving them a moment. Lads, you know. As soon as I interrupt, they’ll quit their bath. Wouldn’t ingratiate me to their mothers, would it?”

  “I suppose not,” she said and smiled. “As you will, my lord.”

  “Not a lord,” he whispered as she walked away.

  Well, enough. He’d been spotted by the household now, and her eyes had held enough humor that he was certain he’d soon be accosted by another of her fellows. Pride was a terrible thing. He drew the curtain aside and stepped into the chamber.

  Only, when the curtain fell shut, he turned to find the three bathers hadn’t noticed him enter. Gwen’s sons stood in a large wooden tub. Gawain stood, still in his soaked trousers, outside the basin. He scooped steaming water in a jug and poured it over their heads.