Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (39 page)

Tania'd
rationed their stew: not so heavy that they'd wake groggy for night
patrol, but not so light that they'd want a too-full bowl before
leaving. Iathor set his empty bowl aside and watched Kessa finish
hers. Then he remembered to stand and get her chair.

She
let him perform the mannerly gesture, but eyed his ankles
predatorily.

Iathor
put his hands to her shoulders and massaged lightly, waiting out her
initial tension. As her muscles relaxed, she gently, ritually tapped
his ankle with her foot before letting him pull her close. He
murmured, "May I escort you to a . . . nap, my
lady wife?"

Kessa
sighed. "Yes." She wrapped her hands around his arm, so he
could lead her from the room with proper courtly poise. Halfway up
the stairs, she commented, "If I said 'my lord husband,' you'd
not be happy, would you?"

He
thought about it for two steps more. "The first word, and the
last, would hardly disturb me. The middle . . . Mm."
He'd no doubt she could use that
lord
in deadly accurate ways,
with nuances for any situation.

"Mm,"
she echoed, pausing before the sitting room door.

"Kessa?"
He looked down, worried.

She
laid her cheek against his shoulder; another unpracticed, nearly
self-conscious movement. "It's nothing."

I
doubt that.
But she let him take her hands and draw her through
the doorway and across to his bedroom.

Kissing
seemed to work well indeed: she began to kiss back more quickly than
before, her tongue against his. Her hands wound up on his shoulders,
with his arms against her sides. Concentrating on kissing
and
working on the numerous vile little buttons on the back of her
dress . . . He gave up on them to finish the kiss
properly. "Blighted buttons."

Her
laugh was breathless. She put her hands behind her neck, working on
the ones to the high collar. "Going to tear them all off?"

"And
have reproving looks from Loria as she sends little servants to find
them later? I've a better idea." He steered her to the bed with
one hand at her waist. "Up?"

Kessa
got onto the bed and, guided by his nudges, sat sideways. Iathor
carefully undid the buttons to partway down, and tugged the skirts
up. With some cooperative wiggling, the mass of fabric was up and
over her head, and down past her arms before any tangling could alarm
her.

The
bath-damp white ribbon around her neck was shabby, though still
vividly pale against her skin. Iathor kissed her back, where her
sharp ribs were becoming less pronounced, in between shedding his own
clothing. Once tabard and tunic were off, he could kiss more as he
shoved off the hose he'd had to wear for the royal luncheon.

When
he climbed onto the bed to sit beside her, her back was almost rough
with goosebumps. "You're cold?" he asked.

"No."

"Mm."
He put his arm around her so he could toy with her piercing wire
again. "This doesn't hurt, does it?"

"
No.
"

He
moved his hand to touch the true ring, on its ribbon. "Perhaps
we should put the proper one in." A delay in what he'd rather be
doing, but . . . proper earrings might lend moral
weight, in Cym.

"The
knot's tight. Needs a blade."

"I've
one." He sprawled on his belly, reaching to the bedside table's
drawer. The small, hinged blade was suitable for trimming fingernails
and toenails. "Take my wire out first?"

She
took the blade and pulled its cover back. "Trusting me with
this?"

"Safer
in your hands than mine. Brague frets whenever I shave myself."
He shifted so she could get at the ribbon. "Fortunately, a dab
of Hele's ointment restores my dignity."

Kessa
took his ribbon in one hand. "Shouldn't this be done in some
ceremony?"

"If
you
want
a dozen witnesses . . ."

"No."
The little blade snicked through the ribbon. She slid the earring
onto her thumb.

"I
suspected not." Iathor closed his eyes and rested his arm
against her knee as she picked at the wire in his ear. "Ow."

"Hold
still." She used the blade to pry at the wires, untwisting them.
It ached, but only a bit. Her touch at his earlobe was pleasant.

Her
fingers lingered, even after she'd slid the earring's post into the
notch at the other end of the ring. He made an appreciative noise.
She paused, but only a moment, before tracing along the edge of his
jaw to his lower lip. He kissed her fingertips, then held her hand so
he could kiss up her fingers, palm, and wrist. The earring, heavier
than the piercing wire, swung slightly with his movements.

He'd
reached her elbow before he remembered it was his turn to put a
wedding earring in its proper place. Her eyes were closed, but her
pose and breathing seemed encouraging. She wore only the white ribbon
with its gold ring, and rather than porcelain, or marble, or
freckle-dappled skin . . . Smooth, polished wood,
perhaps, rose-tinted in the right places to belie her otherwise
sexless lines.

Compared
to some ample armful of traditional beauty, Kessa'd never be even
pretty. But no scion of loveliness would've learned how to stalk
through night streets, moving like a small, wary, dangerous predator.
Even the crop-holding women in the Crimson Birch lacked the edge of
intent
Kessa could project. And that was more interesting than
sky-blue eyes and pearly skin.

The
small knife was folded, resting in her limp hand. Iathor slid it out
and held her ribbon away from her body so he could free the earring.
It fit his smallest fingertip, but no further; he was careful lest he
lose it. He carefully pried her piercing wire's coils apart with the
blade.

She
bit her lip as he slid the wire out, holding her breath and only
letting it out when he'd fastened the earring's latch. The hoop was
almost snug against her skin, making him want to taste it
immediately. He made himself put the folding knife away first.

Then,
finally, he could take her in his arms and fasten his mouth around
her earlobe, sucking and licking, till her fingers dug into his back
and she made little noises in her throat. He leaned back, pulling her
atop him, which elicited a confused sound rather than an appreciative
one. She relaxed when he twisted to put her next to him, and he
addressed his hands and mouth to her ears, lips, throat, breasts,
back and sides . . .

Though
she shied from his hands lower than her waist, he slipped his leg
between hers, which didn't seem to trouble her. When she began to
press against his leg, he lifted his mouth from her neck to murmur,
"Have I permission, then?"

At
her pause, he worried that he'd asked too soon. Then she arched
against him, hands curled around his shoulder-blades, and whimpered
needily – and he thought she'd merely lost speech, instead. He
kissed her pierced ear again, and pushed himself up to kneel between
her legs. He had to lean for the bedside table's drawer again, to get
the slick oil.

Someday,
he hoped, Kessa might be confident enough to discover what
she
could do to
him
with hands and mouth. For now, it seemed
better to demonstrate beddings could be shared pleasure, not just
some distasteful wifely duty. And for that . . . He
stroked his own tension higher with an oiled hand, bracing himself
with the other and leaning over her. Her eyelids flickered, but he'd
not dimmed the light, and she didn't open her eyes. Still, though one
of her hands was on the bed where it'd drifted from his side when he
sat up, her other curled around his braced arm.

He
watched her carefully, stroking himself lightly along the border
where her short, straight, dark hair met bare skin. She tensed, but
not in the rigid flinching as when his hands'd drifted close. So he
teased them both, stroking against her, until she drew her legs up to
lay her foot against his thigh.

Open,
vulnerable . . . He set himself against her tightness,
and pushed
slowly
, determined not to hurt her again. He moved
his hand before he might brush her skin and bring bad memories;
covering her breast was possible, and she wrapped her arm around his
shoulder when she found it in range.

The
angle wasn't good; he rocked his hips to gain a better one. Then she
curled also, and what'd been just enough pressure to be secure –
became enough to slide into her warmth.

She
made a choked-off noise, and he froze despite wanting to
move
.
But though her body was still tight and uncertain whether he was
guest or invader, her arms were wrapped around his shoulder and
waist. He bent a little further, braced on his elbows, and took her
pierced ear into his mouth.

Her
groan and writhe was appreciative, and he dared to move again. He
stayed as slow as he could, and she began to shift with him, rocking
to take him inside deeply so their hips pressed together. It wasn't a
courtesan's trick; it seemed instead a delightfully selfish movement
that sought
her
pleasure. And with her earring hard against
his tongue, he matched her rising urgency with his own, until he was
reduced to small, small strokes to keep himself from boiling over
first.

He
succeeded. She dug her fingers into his flesh, writhing, with a
muffled whine behind her teeth. The quickening of her pleasure sent
waves of tightness around him, and he needed only a few thrusts to
finish, with her whimpering at each one.

With
his forehead in the pillow, ear to cheek with his wife, Iathor
thought,
That
is what I wanted to give to you.

As
they caught their breath, Kessa said, in a tiny voice, "I hate
you."

I
don't think that's hate.
He started to push himself up. "Ah.
I'll go sleep on the couch . . ."

Her
arms went tight, keeping him from pulling away. "No." There
were tears in her voice. "
No.
"

"Kessa?"
He tried to look at her, but she put her forehead against the curve
of his shoulder and neck . . . and cried.

Iathor
had to pull them onto their sides, to spare his shoulders; she was
clinging to him as she wept. Surely that, at least, was a good sign?

Chapter
XXIII

T
he
benefit to nigh-hysterical weeping was that, when one's husband asked
why
 . . . Weeping harder took no effort. Kessa
wasn't sure, anyway; she just felt broken in her chest.

Iathor'd
not slept in, as she had. Once she'd cried herself out against his
neck and chest, as he stroked her back, his arm grew heavier. Above
her head, she heard his breathing shift to a faint snore.

Even
confused misery didn't spare her arms and legs going to sleep. She
wriggled, then thought to reach behind her and pull the blanket over
them both.

This
has to stop,
Kessa thought, her head against his chest. But she
fell asleep before she could decide if she meant the weeping,
bed-sharing, or something else.

Her
confused dreams vanished when someone knocked. The only light was the
mostly-covered Incandescens Stone. Above her head, Iathor grumbled
blight, patrol, uuuurrrrgh
before calling, "I'm awake."
Then he put his arm over Kessa's shoulders and burrowed down against
her head again.

Slightly
smothered, Kessa thought about biting, but with her nose against his
chest, the only obvious target seemed overly intimate. She brought a
hand up against his ribs and slowly dug her nails in.

Iathor
twitched. "I'm awake!"

She
dragged her nails along his side for a half-heartbeat, enjoying the
feel of that, before remembering to un-curve her fingers from mock
claws. "I need air, too, Kymus."

"Eh?"
He shifted. "Oh. My apologies."

She
snapped her teeth, now that he'd drawn back. Rather than feigning
alarm, though, he stroked his hand down her side. "Mmmmm."

"I
thought you
slept
at the Birch and Cat!"

Iathor
wrapped his hand around the back of her hips, high enough to waken
only recent memories. "I do. But if you want to bite me . . ."

His
tone was inviting. She swallowed. "You'll have cold night
patrollers waiting."

"Blight.
Once again, your logic defeats me." He stroked up her side, over
her shoulder, and along her neck and jaw, tilting her into a kiss
that was nearly chaste – but not quite.

She'd
definite mixed feelings when he sighed and slid off the bed,
unshielding the Stone on the way.

His
patrol clothing, near-black charcoal, was draped over a chair near
the door. Her own men's clothing wasn't present, though; she held the
fold of blankets over herself as she watched Iathor dress.

He
wasn't as attractive as Jontho (few were), nor had Burk's muscles.
More like Tag, really, but not so wiry. Not totally gone to sloth or
bookishness, though; night patrols kept him from that.