Oria's Gambit (14 page)

Not knowing what to do, Oria sat up and
reached out a tentative hand. She’d touched his hair before—and he
hers—without any effect, but she could hardly tug on that to wake
him. It seemed far too callous.

“
What should I do?”

“
I wouldn’t want to be having that dream,
whatever it is.”

Okay then. “Lonen,” she called softly—and
with no result. He tossed his head on the pillow, crying out
broken, inarticulate sounds, that pierced her heart. Jagged images
of blood, death, and pain danced through the turmoil of emotions.
Those dark things didn’t belong in the dancing light of morning.
“Lonen…” she tried louder. To no avail. Could he even hear her?

“Lonen!” she nearly shouted, layering in
imperious command. “Wake up!”

His eyes flew open, seeing the dream still,
one hand snapping to his side, before he went entirely still, the
hard granite of his gaze taking in the ceiling, then landing on
her, and softening while a smile spread across his face. “Oria.” He
breathed her name like a meditative chant. “You’re better.”

His gaze dropped to her breasts, making her
realize she wore nothing but her very thin chemise. Juli must have
taken off her priestess robes and loosened the ties of the
undergarment, because the neckline gaped open, showing a
substantial amount of skin. Self-conscious, she drew the cloth
together and pushed her hair back from her forehead, snagging it in
the tangled braids. She’d slept in them, which would make them an
unholy mess to desnarl.

The least of her problems, really.

Giving it up, she drew up the sheet higher,
using the movement to scoot back a little from his rapidly
intensifying sexual energy. “You were dreaming.”

He grimaced, then sat up, too, and scrubbed
his hands over his scalp. The curls sprang back in the same
bountiful disarray as before, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah.
I do sometimes. Sorry if I disturbed you.”

“More like you disturbed yourself.” She
wasn’t sure if a hard man like him would welcome comfort. “It
sounded bad.”

“Sometimes they are.” He shrugged it off,
chagrin and irritation both rippling off him with the gesture.
“Made Natly crazy. Said she couldn’t sleep with me fighting golems
all night. Yelling and kicking and such like.”

Ah, so she’d shared his bed. Though, of
course Oria had known that—had glimpsed their lovemaking in Lonen’s
head, much as she hadn’t wanted to. Of course they’d slept together
afterwards.

“So she stopped—sleeping with me, I mean.”
Lonen watched her with gray eyes gone clear and calm, now that the
dregs of the nightmare had left him. “And I didn’t much care, I
found.”

Curious. “Why not?”

“Because a lot of those dreams weren’t
fighting golems, but were having sex with you.” He grinned. “It
kind felt disloyal to be longing for you
and
keeping her
from a good night’s sleep while doing it. Ah, there it is. I like
being able to see you blush again.”

She clapped hands over her cheeks, which did
feel hot. “I should put on my mask.”

He stopped her as she reached for it,
carefully catching the trailing cuff of her undergarment. “Don’t.
Not yet. During the… ceremony, or whatever in Arill you’d call that
thing we endured, Febe said I alone get to see your face, something
about a husband’s privilege.”

Of course that would be customary. Her own
parents had always removed their masks once private with each
other, and with their children. She hadn’t thought of that aspect.
She and Lonen would not have children to share her face with, but
she would have him. She drew her hand back, leaving the mask where
it sat, though she felt exceptionally exposed.

The wedding ritual had been something to
endure, for sure, and she wouldn’t blame him for being unsettled,
even frightened by it. Much as in her own testing, something in the
binding light had looked out at her. Like the Trom and yet not. It
spoke to her without words, though she imagined the hissing voice.
Princess Ponen.
She shuddered at the memory and Lonen tipped
his head, studying her. “Cold?”

As if. The morning heat already sat heavy on
the day, not a breeze stirring. “We should get up.”

“Should we?”

“I should summon Juli. We’ll need to
eat.”

“We have time for that. The council meeting
isn’t until this afternoon, right? And Juli said you were to
rest.”

Well, yes. But it felt… dangerous to be in
bed with him, with his masculine exuberance sizzling hot on her
skin and his gaze wandering over her, seeing more than anyone ever
had. She wasn’t at all sure how to handle him, what one did with a
husband in one’s bed in the morning. When one couldn’t do the
normal thing. Even then. “Do you want to tell me about your
nightmare then?”

He gave her a curious look. “I figured you
would have seen it in my head.”

“No. Just fragments and … feelings.” She
fidgeted with the sheet. “I really do try not to prowl about in
your mind. It’s more that you sometimes project images rather
forcefully—as you know, since you’ve discovered how to do it
deliberately.”

He grinned, unrepentant. “Seems only fair, to
balance out the power. But I don’t project the same way when I’m
asleep and dreaming?”

“Perhaps it’s the nature of dreams—nothing
coherent came through.”

“I have some privacy there then.”

“Yes.” She twisted the sheet in her fingers,
choking back the apology that wanted to spill out.

“I was fighting the Trom,” he offered. “They
were at the door, trying to get in and I was afraid they’d get to
you. And then I turned, and you were one of them, coming at me with
your hand upraised, and I knew you’d kill me.”

By Sgatha’s light, it wouldn’t be so. “It was
only a dream,” she managed to say around a tongue gone thick and
dry.

“I know that. And still it seemed—I don’t
know. During that ritual I thought I saw something odd about your
eyes.”

“I barely remember anything about that
ritual.” She laughed, but it came out far too ragged and
breathless.

It worked well enough to distract him,
though, because he smiled with her. “That was a hell of a thing,
wasn’t it? You’ll like our wedding in Arill’s temple much better.
It will actually be pleasant. Fun even. I have to tell you,
Oria—you Bárans do
not
know how to have a good time.”

“Yes, well, dealing with the magics that we
do, we have to be a disciplined people. The temple and its rituals
safeguard us in myriad ways. We observe rules to make sure the
magic doesn’t destroy us, or that we don’t destroy each other.”

“Disciplines like
hwil
.” He studied
her face intently for a reaction and she regretted that her mask
sat so far away.

“What do you know about
hwil
?” She
sounded, and felt, stiff.

“Juli told me some, last night when I brought
you here.”

“Juli shouldn’t have—”

“Juli realizes that I’m going to need to know
some of these things that you think to withhold from me. This is an
important aspect of your life—and of any possibility that we’ll be
able to touch each other—so I think it’s obviously valuable for me
to be aware of its properties.”

“Understanding
hwil
won’t change
anything, Lonen.” She realized she’d clenched her hands into fists
by the bite of her nails into her palms. “I can’t just
learn
to bear someone else’s touch.”

“How do you know—have you ever tried?”

“What I’ve tried is to explain that I haven’t
had much opportunity to practice any of this!”

“Don’t get all huffy with me.” He pushed a
few pillows into a better position and leaned back against them,
stretching lazily and then putting his hands behind his neck,
displaying his furred chest to excellent effect. “Tell me what
hwil
feels like.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“First of all, relax. We’re just having a
conversation.”

“In bed.” Practically naked.

His smile stretched across his face as lazily
as the rest. “A good place for it. How about this—do you have a
hair brush?”

“Why?”

“Your braids are all messed up and it looks
uncomfortable. Maybe you’ll feel better if I take them down for
you.”

“You’re obsessed with my hair.” Though the
snarled things
were
pulling uncomfortably.

He shrugged a little, gray eyes dancing with
that mischief that sparked in blue stars from him. “I can’t deny
it. Get your hair brush, Oria.”

She huffed out an impatient sigh, but got out
of bed to retrieve the thing—though taking a moment to tie the
neckline of her undergarment closed. The man was as relentless as
Chuffta chewing a bone.

“
Hey!”

“
You know you are. Speaking of, have you
hunted recently?”

“
Want some alone time with the new mate,
huh? I can do that.”
The derkesthai stretched his wings, yawned
mightily, then took off out the open terrace doors.

“Where’s Chuffta going?”

“To hunt. Since we’ll be here for a while.”
She stood uncertainly, holding the brush, arrested by Lonen’s
intent expression and a wave of particularly intense desire from
him. “What?”

“With the light behind you like that, your
gown is nearly transparent. I can see all the lines of your
body.”

She grabbed up her gown, wrapping it tight
around her.

“Don’t do that, Oria,” Lonen coaxed. “You’re
so beautiful. I love seeing you.”

A whisper of pleasure ran through her at
that. Ah, vanity. “Well—I shouldn’t give you … ideas.”’

“I’ll tell you a secret.” His smile went
crooked and he lowered his voice to a loud whisper. “I already have
the ideas.”

She had no response to that, so she indicated
a chair with the brush. “Want me to sit here?”

Lonen spread his legs and patted the sheet
covering him between them. “You come here.”

“I can’t—”

“I won’t touch your skin,” he said, calm and
insistent, but a challenge glittering in his gaze. “Trust me.”

“Fine.” Aware she’d huffed again, making him
laugh at her, she smacked the glass handle of the brush into his
palm hard enough to sting, then climbed onto the bed to sit
cross-legged between his spread thighs, carefully adjusting the
long chemise so it covered her. He waited for her to settle, then
began carefully plucking at the braids, unwinding them and undoing
the ribbons that held the ends.

“My mask knife is right there,” she said, “if
you want to cut the ribbons instead.”

“Why not just untie them? It’s wasteful to be
cutting them all the time.”

She didn’t have a ready reply. “I never
thought about it. You think about wastefulness more than I do.”

“A Destrye trait, I suppose. We don’t have
all the riches you do in Bára, so we’re careful of what we do
have.” He had one braid unplaited already, picking up the brush
again to smooth it through the loosened locks. “I’ve never seen
hair like yours before. It looks like metal, hammered to a bright
polish. I’d like to have your
beah
made of copper just like
this, to match, if that’s all right with you.”

Uncomfortable, she shrugged a little. “It
doesn’t matter to me.”

“It matters to me.” His voice stayed even,
but annoyance seeped from him.

“Lonen…” She tried to think of a way to
explain without making him angry. “I see what you’re trying to do
here and—”

“What am I trying to do?” he interrupted. Not
irritated, but drawing her out with the teasing tone.

She pressed her lips together. She would not
amuse him further by huffing. “You know perfectly well.”

“Yes, but I want to know what
you
think I’m doing, as I’m not able to read
your
thoughts and
emotions.” He had more braids undone, and worked at a stubborn one,
tugging a little. “Sorry—these are very tangled.”

“I’m sure. I don’t usually sleep in them. I
can call Juli. You don’t have to do this.”

He kept a hold of the braids when she started
to move away. “Oh no, you don’t. You’re not wriggling out of this
so easily. Besides, I’m enjoying myself.” He was good at it, too,
surprisingly deft.

“I wouldn’t think a man like you would want
to tend a lady’s hair.”

“A man like me?”

“You know. Big, strong warrior.”

His amusement went sharp, desire heightening.
“Not any woman. You. What do you think I’m trying to do?”

“You never give up, do you?”

“No, so you might as well capitulate, my
captive bride.”

That shouldn’t give her a shiver of answering
desire. Likely it came of being so close physically, surrounded by
his feelings, his usual intense sexuality more sensual, echoing his
lazy mood.

“I think you’re trying to seduce me,” she
finally said.

“Of course I am.”

“I can’t believe you admit it.”

“Stop wiggling—I don’t want to cut your hair
by accident and this ribbon is too knotted to untie. There’s no
‘admitting’ to it. You’re my wife, Oria, I want us to be easy
together. I want you to trust me.”

She sighed for his obstinacy. “It’s not a
real marriage. Ow!” She clapped a hand to the braid he’d tugged
sharply.

“Then don’t say untrue things. You were there
for that Arill-cursed ceremony. I might be mind-dead but I can feel
the bond to you inside me. We’re married as married gets and I’m
not spending the rest of my life tied to a woman who dances around
me like a deer darting into the shadows at every movement.”

She wanted to protest that she didn’t do
that, but she probably did. “It’s not you, though. It’s because of
how I am.”

“You said I intimidate you.”

“Badgering me into staying in bed with you
and letting you brush my hair while we’re both nearly naked is not
making me feel less intimidated,” she snapped.