They spoke not at all on the way. Walking was effort enough.
The lit building did turn out to be an inn, one where a party of merchants was sleeping in the main room, and a tired man came forward without curiosity to meet them.
“A private room,” said Cathal, and counted out the named price without thought. “Where are we?”
“Larkford,” said the innkeeper. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Cathal doubted the man cared about anything but the coins Cathal was handing him. “Take a wrong turn?”
“Several.”
The town’s name was unfamiliar, but the man’s voice was Scottish, and that was reassuring. The fire was more so. Cathal didn’t suffer from the cold, not the way humans did, but warmth was better, and he was glad of it for Sophia’s sake. He couldn’t hear her teeth chatter any more, and when he looked over at her as they followed the innkeeper up the stairs, there was a little more life in her face.
“They can’t follow us here before tomorrow,” he said, once they were in the room and the door had closed behind the departing innkeeper. “We can rest. Wait out the storm.”
“Demons?” she asked. She pushed back the hood of her cloak, her wet hair clinging to her face and neck. Firelight played across both, and her eyes reflected it, somber save for that dancing play of flame.
“I’ll handle them,” Cathal said, tapping a finger against the hilt of his sword. “You should get out of your clothes.”
Then the weight of what he’d said and where they were struck him, truly drawing his attention for the first time now that she was physically safe. Cathal looked away, surveying the room. In truth it was a small enough place, with only a fireplace and a canopied bed as furniture.
He turned his back on her and walked to the window, staring at the red-and-yellow pattern on the shutters. It matched the bedcovers, a nicer touch than he would have thought from the place. Mayhap it was better on less miserable nights. “Wrap up in one of the blankets, and tell me when you’re done,” he said, keeping his mind blank. “Hang your clothing by the fire. Doubt it’ll be exactly dry in the morning, but damp’s still better.”
Wet wool made thumping, squishing sounds. They weren’t pleasant; what they implied was far too pleasant. The softer noises were worse: lighter fabric, garments worn closer to the skin. Cathal closed his hands on the windowsill, careful not to break the wood, and breathed through his nose.
“Your clothing’s wet too,” Sophia said. Her voice was quiet, a touch rough. Cathal told himself that was probably the strain of their escape.
“I’ll… Ah, I’ll take my turn after you,” he said, although just at the moment, cold and damp were both helpful qualities. Notsufficient, and he wouldn’t want to turn around any time in the near future, but helpful.
More noises came from behind him: footsteps and a slight exhale, as if of effort. Then, sounding less sure of herself than usual, she said, “There’s only the one bed.”
Trust her to make observations. “Aye,” said Cathal. He had a brief ridiculous notion of offering to put his sword between them. It might have worked for bloody Tristan, but he doubted it would for him, and Sophia was more alluring than he’d ever imagined Isolde to be. “I’ll take one of the other blankets, lie on the floor. I’ve had worse quarters.”
“Oh. Er,” she said, and then he heard more footsteps, slow ones, as she came toward him. He drew breath, trying to find words that would politely tell her to keep her distance, and then she put a hand on the back of his neck.
Her fingers were rough, damp, and cold, and the light touch ran through Cathal as strongly as the pain of a wound. “What I’m trying to say,” Sophia said as Cathal turned helplessly to face her, “is that you…you don’t have to. In truth, although it’s kind of you to offer, unless you’d rather, you’ve no need to do either of those things.”
She was naked.
Her wet hair flowed down her shoulders and almost to her waist, but it concealed nothing: not her full breasts, rosy-brown nipples drawn tight and hard, nor the flare of her hips, nor the dark triangle between her legs. Sophia’s face was bare too, stripped of scholarly distance, reserve, and all concealment. Cathal saw there more than a trace of nervousness, but, overwhelmingly, desire.
“We could,” she said, “spend the night differently.”
Thirty-five
Sophia made herself stop speaking. She wanted to keep going, clarifying and explaining, yet she knew that would in truth only be babbling. For the space of every word she said, she’d not be waiting on Cathal’s answer. If he was going to deny her, he’d be less likely to interrupt her to do it, and so as long as she talked,yeswas still a possibility even ifnowas in his mind.
You can’t keep talking forever, said her common sense,and besides, if you didn’t want to give him the choice, you shouldn’t have made the offer, nor be standing here undressed.
The time for second thoughts was past.
Sophia closed her mouth and looked up at Cathal, past where his soaked tunic outlined his muscular chest and into his eyes. The bright green of them was a thin ring, the dark pupil large with surprise. She hoped for more than that, but didn’t dare count on it. His neck was warm beneath her hand, the skin smooth and the pulse rapid. She thought about drawing back, but couldn’t make herself move.
A gust of wind outside blew rain against the shutters, a hard percussive spatter.
Despite the speed Sophia knew he could manage, Cathal took her hand slowly, his calloused fingers light on her own. As he bent, brushing his lips across her knuckles, the moment felt dreamlike—but no, her dreams of late had been more active, and more horrible, even if this was to be only a polite refusal.
There was that. Whatever he said or did would be better than being devoured by shadow-men or turned to mist by Valerius. There were many worse fates than the worst that could happen here. Sophia wished she could make her gut know that, or her heart.
When he raised his head and smiled at her, shefelther heart throwing itself against her ribs like a wild bird in a cage. The smile, like his eyes, was surprised and uncertain. It was also gentle, and she fought back trepidation when she saw that.Gentlecould meanHow do I say no without upsetting you?
