Comfort, like beauty, is relative.
“Are you dead or just overjoyed at being off your feet.”
Focusing on the tips of his boots, I marvel at how he keeps going. “A bit of both.”
“Fair enough.” Merc goes over to the door. “I’m going to have a wash-up.”
“What’s in your hand?”
“What I believe to be a bar of soap. Either that or it’s a fragrant rock.”
He departs, leaving me and the horse to ourselves. The idea that Merc is out somewhere behind the house, getting naked and pumping the handle of a well in the moonlight, gives me a burst of energy and I sit back up.
My ears listen for falling water, and so keen are they, the silence around me crackles. Getting to my feet, I shuffle around, and I swear I catch a whiff of something cedarish. The horse doesn’t seem to notice me or any scent. Is it possible to pass out while standing up? As time spools out, I yawn and wonder if I won’t try that theory myself—
The door opens again and I breathe in deep. “Oh, that soap… smells good.”
“Do you want a go?” Merc shuts things, and puts our saddle down. “It’s cold out there, but I could carry some buckets in so you’re away of the wind.”
I bring my sleeve up to my nose. Whatever that oil of Julion’s was, its scent still lingers. “I think not.”
“I wasn’t going to recommend it. There’s a chill even in here.”
“You’re cold?” I shift around. “Maybe I can start a fire—”
“Let’s try for some sleep.”
“But we could warm ourselves by the hearth? There’s wood set.”
“We can’t risk any smoke coming out of the chimney. I’ll be fine.”
Merc doesn’t lower himself down in front of the door. He throws himself onto the floor as a dog would, all sharp impacts that don’t seem to bother himas he settles himself with his back against the panels and his legs outstretched and his broadsword in his hand.
As he stares across at me, his face seems to glow as if it’s in moonlight, though there’s no illumination inside because all the windows are shuttered.
What’s he thinking of?
“Tomorrow’s another long day.” He crosses his ankles, the heavy blade of his weapon bisecting his thighs. “And we don’t know what the rest of this night brings.”
After he falls silent, I pick a spot by the cold hearth and lower myself down with a groan. All of my muscles are freezing up, and when they stop cramping, I steal a glance in his direction. Even though it’s very dim, and I refuse to get anywhere near his eyes, I can tell he’s exhausted. There are lines carved in those harsh, handsome features that haven’t been there before, evidence of the exhaustion he’s hiding from me.
Maybe hiding from himself.
He’s utterly spent.
My eyes travel to the bucket—the one he held for me to drink from.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
A quiet snore weaves through the still air between us, and I return to staring at him. His body is powerful, even at rest, and I have no doubt that if anything or anybody tried to come at us, he would spring up and fight to the death to keep us alive. I also know that he’d hate to think anybody watched him in his repose, and the stolen intimacy warms me in spite of the temperature.
Or maybe that’s the desire I feel for him. Even though I’m also tired beyond measure, I’m acutely aware that we are alone in this house, and I have a thirst for more of what we shared in the tunnel.
On that note, I close my eyes, and breathe deep. But it’s not to relax and try to find repose.
I love the smell of him.
ThirtyThe Veil Is Dropped.
