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

  Galahad shivered visibly and stamped his feet, as if the water tickled. “Now you!”

  “Not ’til you’re clean.” Gawain drew more water, but instead of pouring it over them, he splashed it into their faces.

  They threw their hands up, giggling.

  “Go on, wash. Every crease, piglets. What’s the matter?”

  “Can’t see!”

  “Can’t see? Must be rough seas today.” He tossed more water into their laughing faces, so that they sputtered. “Sure enough—gale’s a-blowing. Hold tight, men!”

  Palahmed smiled. It was a generous thing to let lads be lads as long as possible before the world got them in its grip. The generosity looked good on Gawain. Shone from his eyes as bright as the lamplight off the knots of his shoulders.

  Those eyes flicked up suddenly and found him lurking. Immediately, Gawain straightened, the jug swinging from one hand. The boys followed their cousin’s gaze to Palahmed.

  He stepped into the light and held up the towels. “Gwen bade me bring these.”

  “Right.” Gawain clapped his hands. “Out. Dry yourselves.”

  The lads clambered from the tub, and Palahmed handed a cloth to each of them. Medraut took his without comment, but Galahad gave Palahmed a shy smile. “Hello, Uncle.”

  “Hello, Galahad.”

  “Palahmed’s not your uncle,” Medraut said.

  “Is so.”

  “Is not.”

  “Morien says!”

  “That was a bedtime tale.”

  “Was not.” Galahad frowned up at him, uncertain. “Was it?”

  “I’m not a blood uncle, lad. Only an old friend of your mother’s.”

  Medraut jostled his brother. “Told you.”

  “Medraut,” Gawain said in a low tone that drew him up short. “Family isn’t always determined by blood.”

  “Uncles are,” Medraut retorted. “Fathers are.”

  Gawain set down the jug. “Only when they earn it.” He plucked at his laces and shoved his breeches down his legs. Mud streaked his skin like a tiger’s stripes. He grimaced at the tub’s murky contents before stepping in. “You two were filthy.”

  The two in question belly-laughed and then, in the way of small boys, pushed their hips forward and waggled their tiny bits at Gawain.

  He snorted and held up a hand to shield his eyes. “Fools.”

  “Yours is bigger than mine,” Galahad said.

  “Gods, I hope so,” Gawain muttered.

  To Palahmed’s eye, the hawk had nothing to fear. His cock was in perfect proportion to the rest of him.

  “Will mine get that big?” Galahad asked.

  “If you’re very lucky.”

  “Mama’s is bigger,” Medraut said.

  Palahmed bit back a smile.

  Color bloomed across Gawain’s cheeks. “Weren’t you going to check the larder for those sweetcakes we smelled?”

  The two boys squawked and broke for the door, bare feet slapping the flagstones, bare everything else soon to make an appearance in the kitchens.

  “Ho there, your towels!” Gawain shouted after them, without effect. “Wee terrors.”

  “You’re good with them.”

  Gawain stilled and looked at him, brow pinched.

  “Safir was just as silly at that age.” Now, what had made him share that? Not any wish to stand here a moment longer, twisting the remaining towel in his fists. There was a woven-reed stool over there. He should pull it over and leave the towel on it. Leave the hawk to his bathing. Leave this chamber, immediately.

  Gawain seemed to be of the same mind. He was looking at Palahmed askance, with the distinct posture of a man trying to brace himself for something he couldn’t quite predict.

  Desperate to bring things back to the practical, Palahmed said, “Do you want the pitcher?”

  Gawain dragged his gaze from Palahmed to look at the pitcher he’d set on the floor. Right next to the tub and well within his reach. He met Palahmed’s eyes again, took a breath, and then cocked his chin. “That one over there.”

  That one stood on a small table against one wall. Palahmed crossed to it and picked it up. It was full. And—he dipped a finger in it— “This is cold.”

  “Do the honors?” Gawain tipped his head forward. Wanted him to pour this frigid water over it.

  “You’ll freeze.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You will.”

  “Well, if you stand there bleating, then sure, the bath’s going to get cold.”

  Palahmed couldn’t make himself move. The water in the pitcher was icy, damn him.

  “Come, old man, I need both hands.”

  Oh, he’d pour the water, all right. Palahmed advanced on the tub. “Wouldn’t need a bath if you stayed out of mud puddles.”

  “There it is.”

  “There what is?”

  The cheeky imp tipped his head forward again. Palahmed held the pitcher above him and poured a thin stream of water onto the dark, plastered curls. Gawain dug his fingers in and scrubbed.

  “I don’t bleat.”

  Gawain didn’t appear to have heard him. As Palahmed continued to pour, he stuck a finger in each ear and jostled them.

  “And I’m not old,” Palahmed said quietly.

  Gawain rubbed his hands over his face, before reaching for the towel and draping it over his head. The cloth hid his face as he began to dry his hair, and Palahmed let his gaze drip down over his body. Short, compact, winter-pale. Almost no hair until he reached the navel. From there, a fine line grew downward, leading his eye to the growth around the soft cock. The hair looked springy there, as if—

  “So you don’t bleat,” Gawain said, “and you’re not old.” He pushed back the towel and gave Palahmed a flint-spark look. “Are you a man, or should I take that back too?”

  Heat clawed up Palahmed’s throat.

  Insolent pup.

  He upended the pitcher over Gawain’s shoulders, soaking him and the towel both.

  Chapter 4

  Palahmed thumped the empty jug onto the table before stalking from the chamber. His usually silent footfalls scuffed the paving stones, as if he couldn’t be gone quickly enough.

  Well, that made two of them. Gawain stepped from the tub, shivering, and gave the towel a vicious twist. What had the man been about, anyway, lurking by the door, watching Gawain tend to his cousins? Waiting for a mistake, he’d wager. Afraid Gawain might accidentally drown one of them, was he? He’d be disappointed on that front. Despite what Palahmed might think of him, he wasn’t that careless.

  And he knew exactly what it took to drown someone. It had nothing to do with strength and everything to do with a gaping emptiness in a man’s heart. Fuck Palahmed if he couldn’t see that.

  Growling, he wrapped the towel about his waist and left the room. It clung to him, clammy and cold, until he reached the chamber Gwen had given him. Flinging the thing off, he rummaged in his pack for his spare shirt and trousers. Once they were on, dry and familiarly worn, he stood and took stock.

  He could leave. Gather his few belongings and be back to the brothel in two skips. Bed down in Rhys’s hall, for that matter. Weren’t as many people fucking in there, so he might actually get some sleep.

  But he shouldn’t have to leave. He had every right to be here—his own cousin had invited him, and a blood claim was stronger than a friendship.

  Only…that wasn’t true, and he’d said so himself not half an hour ago.

  Fish knobs. Sometimes he was his own worst enemy.

  And he’d be a fool to give this up. Soon enough, he’d be back on the front, sleeping on the ground and eating whatever he could find. Here was a chamber to himself, as if he were a visiting lord and not just a runaway relation from the north. He had a soft, warm bed and the promise of hot meals and good company. With one surly exception, of course. At least that one was pleasant to look at.

  He pulled on his boots and made for the hall.

  Two broad fire pits
crackled with jolly flames that pushed back the damp chill of early spring. A couple dozen people were about, seated on benches or standing in twos or threes, speaking easily. The thaw always loosened everyone’s shoulders, drawing them from their winter’s huddling hunch to stretch into the lengthening daylight and promise of summer. Scanning the hall, he found a few familiar faces. Not the one he dreaded, and so his own shoulders rolled into a relieved slump. He sat on a stool near the fire and settled his elbows on his knees.

  His drowsy eyes snapped open when someone sat down next to him.

  “Don’t mind me,” Safir said. “You made it look too nice not to enjoy it myself.”

  Gawain glanced past him and, not seeing his brother, let his head droop again. Heat from the fire pressed into his shins and knuckles, seeping up his limbs. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  Beside him, Safir grunted. “Feels almost like home.”

  Gawain couldn’t remember any fire so merry in Lot’s hall, but Safir would be talking about the land he’d come from—one made of sand and sun and about as different from the Orcait as could be. Safir was holding his hands up to the fire, fingers spread. They looked like Palahmed’s—longer and darker than Gawain’s, with smooth, shining nails—yet different somehow. Unpredictable, maybe. More mischievous. Not so surprising; Safir was both those things.

  Gawain looked down at his own hands. His fingers looked stubby compared to Safir’s, the nails bitten to their quicks. He scratched at his palms, hoping to feel calluses there, but they were soft. He did have a new scar he liked. It crossed the flesh under his left thumb, and he’d gotten it slipping out a window in the dead of night. Only he, among their five, would have been able to squeeze through it. Being the smallest had its advantages once in a while.

  “Not as dashing as if it slashed across your brow, but it’ll do.” Safir grinned at him, then rolled his eyes. “But, God, he went full mother hen.”

  Gawain hadn’t realized, when he dropped lightly to his feet below that window, that his hand was bleeding, and he’d smeared the blood all over his face and neck before he noticed. When he’d met up with his men again, Palahmed had been in fine form. “Mother badger, maybe.”

  Safir chuckled. Reaching out, he slid his fingers into Gawain’s hair.

  “What are you about?” Gawain said, trying to tilt his head away, but Safir was sitting too close to escape.

  “Don’t cut it.” Safir sifted through his hair. “You always do at winter’s end.”

  “So I will again.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, man. These curls, they’re…” He trailed off, shaking his head as if he couldn’t find the right word. But then he did. “Adorable.”

  Gawain jerked away. “Leave off.”

  “I will if you leave off with the shears. Promise me.”

  “I make no promises.”

  “Please?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because I don’t have curls!”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Safir had been reaching for his hair again, but drew his hand back and gave him a sharp look. It curved into a sly smile. “You devil.”

  Gawain’s cheeks heated, but it was only the fire. Besides, Safir did have curls—dark, glossy ones all over his chest and belly and everywhere else.

  Safir leaned close. “You know who has even more than I do?”

  Oh, no. He wouldn’t be tricked into admitting he’d noticed Palahmed’s. Which were lush and made Gawain’s fingers tingle, wanting to touch them. He gave Safir a blank look. “Who.”

  “My brother!”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Gawain murmured.

  But then Safir said, “Have a seat, brother,” and Gawain realized the man stood behind him. Safir shifted over and patted the stool he’d vacated.

  Gawain looked back to the fire as Palahmed sat down between them.

  “I was just entreating our hawk here not to trim his locks.”

  “Why not?”

  “Are you jesting? Look at them!”

  Gawain felt Palahmed turn to him, and his face flamed again.

  “A grown man can do what he pleases.”

  The words caused a twist in Gawain’s gut, and it took a moment to sort it out…

  Disappointment over the lack of interest.

  Disgust that he still pined for it.

  But also shock, to be counted among Palahmed’s fellow men.

  “Arthur wants to have a go at hunting a buck,” Palahmed said. “They’ve talked me into it. Any interest?” Strangely, he looked at Gawain. As if he hadn’t drenched him with icy water less than an hour before.

  Made it that much easier to deflect the question, like a stone off a boiled-leather shield. “Told Gally I’d help him catch his first eel.”

  He’d done no such thing, but Palahmed nodded. “Might explain why Medraut wants to come with us.” He turned to Safir. “What about you?”

  “I believe I’ll get in on this eel lark.” Safir flashed an unreadable look at Gawain, and then said, “I propose a competition. Each of you presents the other with whatever you catch tomorrow. The most surprising catch wins.”

  “Surprising?” Palahmed said, skeptical as ever.

  Gawain had to agree. “Eels aren’t surprising. Only slippery.”

  Safir’s eyes danced in the firelight. “You fellows aren’t afraid of a little friendly contest, are you?”

  Palahmed straightened suddenly, as if the challenge had rung right up his spine.

  Gawain elbowed him. “You ever take down a buck?”

  Palahmed’s dark eyes narrowed slightly. “No.”

  Gawain nodded to Safir. “I’m in.”

  Safir grinned at his brother, who would be too proud to back down, and Safir knew it.

  Palahmed smoothed a hand down his thigh. “I accept.” He turned to Gawain. “May the most surprising catch win.”

  His gaze seemed to suck all the air from Gawain’s lungs. He fought the urge to gulp a fresh breath. He’d show no sign of weakness to this one.

  Ever.

  ~

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  He’d needed some excuse to put Palahmed off, but now, standing in the chill water of the Dyfrdwy, Gawain wondered what in the gods’ blood he’d been thinking.

  Oh, Galahad had been excited enough to learn he’d be eeling today. And Safir, too, which was strange. Maybe they hadn’t had eels in Arabia. Even Gwen and Elain tagged along, arms linked and laughing in each other’s ears, as if they were going to eat cakes under a summer-full apple tree, not sop their skirts in snow melt.

  In any case, it didn’t take long for Gawain to realize they would have to wait until the river calmed before they’d have any chance of even spotting an eel, let alone snatch one from the water. Gally was disappointed for about three breaths. Then he set about making a boat of leaves and sticks, and soon Gawain had made one, and Safir too, and they were racing them down the river. He had the advantage here, too, and his spry little craft rode the swells to a quick lead. When it crossed under the bridge serving as a finish mark, he smiled.

  “Wasn’t a total loss, then.”

  Safir raised an eyebrow, and Gawain shrugged.

  “If I have to concede to your brother, at least I won a boat race.”

  “Who says you’ll concede?”

  Gawain lifted his hands. “Do you see an eel?”

  “Don’t need an eel, mate. Only an unexpected catch.”

  They had riddles in Arabia, apparently, because he had no idea what Safir was talking about. The river was too high for any kind of fishing today.

  The women caught up to them and listened as their son recounted his boat’s race, tack for tack. Which made it sound a lot more intentional than the boat’s tipsy reel down the stream had actually been.

  “Did you give it a keel?” Elain asked.

  Gally frowned. “What’s that?”

  Elain smile
d and smoothed the lad’s hair. “I’ll show you next time. I’ve floated my share of boats down this river, you know.”

  Gwen looked from Gally to Gawain. “So you won, did you?”

  “I did.”

  “Well.” She grinned at Elain. “I suppose that calls for a reward, don’t you think?”

  “I do.”

  Both of them were giving him such strange, intent smiles he almost took a step back. Then Elain leaned over and planted a kiss on his forehead.

  Oh. All right. “Thanks.”

  Gwen stepped forward and kissed his right cheek and then his left. Two light pecks that still somehow left warmth behind.

  “Me too,” Gally said.

  Elain lifted him under the arms until he was face to face with Gawain. A moment later, the damp trace of another kiss was making the tip of Gawain’s nose cold in the breeze, and he was blushing. “Enough. I won’t be able to haul all these prizes home.”

  The women each took up one of Galahad’s hands, and they headed back to the hall. Gawain and Safir fell in step behind them.

  “D’you think he’ll gloat?”

  Safir looked at him sidewise. “Palahmed?”

  “Who else?”

  “No, I don’t think he will.”

  “I have nothing to show for the day.”

  Safir looked at him again. “You won a boat race.”

  “Not to be cocksure, but I grew up around boats. No surprise there.”

  “No?”

  Gawain shook his head. Then he stuttered to a halt as Safir stepped in front of him. “What—”

  Safir’s hands on the sides of his face stopped his words, and then his lips were on Gawain’s. Soft. Insistent. Parting to lick into Gawain’s mouth. He could hardly muster a response before Safir pulled away. His eyes sparkled liked sun-tipped waves. “I’m going to miss you, friend.”

  Then he turned and followed the others, as if nothing had happened, leaving Gawain gaping at his back.

  Chapter 5

  The carcass swung from Palahmed’s grip as they neared the town wall again.

  “Drop that at the tanner for you?”

  He glanced over to Bedwyr, who was pulling a young buck behind him on a makeshift sledge. “No, thanks. I have to present it first.”