Dark, Devastating & Delicious!: The Marriage Medallion / Between Duty and Desire / Driven to Distraction

Chapter Ten

The cave was a tunnel for about a hundred feet. Then it opened to a wide, shadowy chamber. Eric went directly to the circle of stones at the center. Within the circle a fire was laid and waiting to be lit.

He lowered the torch to the kindling and the fire caught. The smoke spiraled up and disappeared into the shadows above. Apparently, there were gaps in the rocks up there, a natural flue that let the smoke escape.

Brit swiped off her wet beanie, dropped it to a nearby rock and raked her fingers back through her hair. Ugh. Dripping and tangled. She really should have taken a moment, back there when it started raining, to unzip her collar and make use of the waterproof hood built into her jacket.

Eric stuck the torch into the dirt. He turned it until the flame went out, then dropped the heavy stick beside the ring of stones. He glanced up to find her staring at him and returned the favor with a dead-on kind of look.

Well, okay, she thought, shrugging and raising her hands, palms out. All my fault we’re here. Message received. My bad.

He didn’t seem particularly mollified by her show of meekness.

So fine, she thought. Be that way.

She shifted her glance to the licking, rising flames of the fire and her low spirits lifted a fraction—at the brightness and warmth and the cheery crackling sounds it made. She took a look around. Gleaming in the far shadows, near another tunnel opposite the one they had come through, she could see a small pool.

“A spring?” she asked, and then wished she hadn’t. He probably wouldn’t even bother to answer.

But he did. “The water is clear, very cold—and safe to drink.” He took the reins of his horse from her. “We must see to our mounts.” There were supplies stacked on a ledge of rock near the cave wall: a pile of blankets, a bag of oats, a bucket….

From his saddlebag Eric produced a brush and a curry comb. “Put your pistol aside.”

She did as he instructed, removing her coat so she could take off her shoulder holster, setting the gun and the holster on a flat-topped rock a few feet from the fire. She was shivering, so she put her coat back on.

They unsaddled, wiped down and brushed the long-haired horses, unbraiding and combing out their manes so they would dry. It took a while. They had to share the comb and brush. Midway through, no longer cold, she took off her coat and set it on a rock, the outside spread toward the fire to dry.

They were silent as they worked. Eric wore a grim look the whole time. Did she blame him?

Not really.

“I’ll feed the horses,” he said when the job of getting the animals dry and groomed was done. “Take off your wet clothes. Lay them out to dry.” He tossed her a blanket to wrap herself in.

Her socks were dry, thanks to her heavy boots. But upward from there to her waist she was wet to the skin.

On top, the news was better. Her water-repellent jacket, though damp on the outside, had protected her underneath. Water had gotten in around her neck, but not a lot. It would dry quickly if she stood near the fire.

Her bandage was fine. Hooray for small favors.

She retreated to a corner of the cave, where she took off her boots and then hopped around in her socks, getting off the clammy jeans and thermal pants. Eric never glanced her way—or if he did, she didn’t catch him at it.

Yeah, okay. It was kind of childish, to keep darting suspicious looks his way to make sure he wasn’t peeking. As if it mattered if he watched her hopping around without her jeans on. He wouldn’t have seen much, anyway—just her looking seriously awkward, with bare legs. And given his current mood, why would he bother?

She wrapped her lower body in the blanket, put her boots back on and hobbled to the fire carrying her two sets of soggy pants. Once she’d spread the clothes on the rocks several feet from the flames, where they could soak up the heat without getting singed, she got her comb from her saddlebag and perched on a rock to work the tangles from her hair.

About then Eric finished with the horses and withdrew to a corner of his own to hop around getting out of his wet things—not that she watched him. Of course she didn’t. She just knew what the procedure entailed, having done it herself a few minutes ago.

Soon enough, a blanket tied at his waist, he joined her at the fire. He was bare-chested. His thick shearling jacket didn’t have a zipper. Water must have gotten through…

She realized she was staring at him again—and no, not at the medallion, though it gleamed against his skin. She was looking at his beautiful, muscular, smooth chest.

She blinked, jerked her glance downward and regarded her boots as she yanked at the tangles in her hair.

He chuckled.

She looked up, glaring, sharp words rising to her lips.

“You have something to say?” His eyes were gleaming.

She cleared her throat. “Uh, no. Not a thing.”

Really, why rag on him? She was grateful to him, she truly was. If she’d been on her own, she’d have ridden right up on those four mean-looking characters with that poor dead doe. And even if she’d somehow gotten past them, she’d be out in the rain right now, soaked to the skin, wondering what to do next—instead of safe in a warm, dry place, reasonably comfortable while she waited out the storm.

“Well,” she said cautiously, daring to hope they might manage to be on good terms while they were stuck here. “I guess you’re not that mad at me.”

He was laying his clothes on the rocks, the lean, strong muscles of his arms and shoulders bunching and releasing as he worked. He sent her a glance.

She realized she was doing it again—staring at his body. She jerked her gaze downward.

“A fine pair of boots you have there.”

She couldn’t help smiling. “I like ’em.” She lifted her head. His eyes were waiting. “So. We’re okay then—I mean, you and me? You’re not totally furious with me for getting us into this jam?”

He seemed to consider, then replied. “I confess, I was angry. But while you were looking at your boots, it occurred to me that I might as well blame the rain for falling as be angry at you for going where you think you have to go.” He half sat on a steeply sloping rock.

She worked a final stubborn knot from a damp lock of hair. “I don’t just think I have to go there.” He only looked at her. She read his expression and couldn’t help grinning. “Determined to avoid an argument, are we?”

“I am trying with all my might.”

The knot came free. “I can see that. And I’ve got to say you’re doing an excellent job.”

They had jerky in their saddlebags and dried apples and grain bars—pressed oats and nuts, sweetened with honey. They spread blankets on the floor and sat down for lunch, using their saddles for backrests.

Brit had two sticks of jerky, several dried apple slices, a grain bar and a precious bag of M&Ms laid out on a handkerchief at her side. She took one of the jerky sticks. “So now can you tell me how you knew those men were on the trail?”

He was chewing on a bite of grain bar. He swallowed. “The truth is, I don’t know how I knew. They might have made a noise that I heard somewhere below the threshold of my conscious mind. Or maybe it was the quality of the silence.”

Silence? The wind had been blowing, making the tree branches sway and sigh. And what about the jingle of their bridles, the soft clop-clop of the horses’ hooves?

He must have seen by her expression that she didn’t understand. “It’s… an instinct, I suppose. An instinct one develops, over time. When we pass through the forest, the smaller creatures—all but the foolish squirrels and some of the cheekier birds—go quiet, wary of us as potential predators. Though there is the noise of our passing, there is also a circle of silence around us as we move. When those men got too close, they brought their own circle with them. I sensed it.”

She gestured with her piece of jerky. “Ah. Well. Now, that explains it.”

“You still do not follow?”

She stared into his eyes for a moment. “Yes. I follow, at least to a degree…”

He tore off a bite of jerky and so did she. They both chewed. Great thing about dried meat—really kept the old jaw muscles in top form.

She swallowed. “So you’ve spent a lot of time here, in the Vildelund, over the years?”

“I have.”

“Your father brought you?”

He shook his head. “My father had his work at the king’s side in the south, demanding work that left few opportunities for family trips. But my mother loved the Mystic life. She would come often to the Vildelund for lengthy visits. Much of the time I would come with her.”

She thought of her brother and wondered. Sif had said he used to come here. “And Valbrand? Did he come, too?” He sent her a look. She bristled. “What? Now I can’t even ask you about him? We talked about him the other night.”

He considered for a moment, then granted, “That we did.”

She set down her half-eaten grain bar. “I just want to… know about him. Please. It means a lot—to hear how he felt about things, about how he was.” She used the past tense without the slightest hesitation, though she didn’t for a minute believe her brother was really dead. It only seemed to her the best way to show Eric that, right now at least, she wasn’t leading him anywhere, wasn’t trying to trip him up. She was only a sister longing to learn about the brother she had never had the opportunity to know. She asked again, “Did Valbrand used to come to the Vildelund with you?”

And he answered. “Yes. Many times.”

“Did he like it here?”

“He did.”

“Why?”

“He liked the wildness of the land, I think, the peace that can be found in living simply.”

“The same things you like.”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t think much of the life at court, then?”

A ghost of a smile haunted Eric’s fine mouth. “Ah, but he did. He loved the life at court.”

She made a small sound in her throat. “Well. Easy to please, wasn’t he?”

“You could say that, I suppose. Valbrand had a talent for living within each moment. Wherever he was, he never wished himself elsewhere. He always seemed to enjoy himself at functions of state. No matter how long or tedious the event, he would be alert and smiling, thoroughly engrossed.” Eric stared into the fire as though looking into a kinder past. “That was your brother. Always interested. And seeing the good first, in every man.”

Though it was off the all-important subject of her brother, she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “And what about you? Do you enjoy the life at Isenhalla?”

“Not as much as Valbrand did.” They shared a glance. He added, “But I do find it stimulating. After all, His Majesty and my father are responsible, to some extent, for the well-being of every Gullandrian. It’s important work that they do. I grew to manhood knowing that the time would come when I would step forward to assume the sacred duty of helping my king—your brother—to rule this land. I was content in that knowledge. I was committed to preparing myself fully for the future I knew awaited me.”

“And now?”

His mouth had a rueful curl to it. “Now I would say that I no longer see my future as a clear, straight road before me. There are twists and turns, corners I cannot see around.”

“You mean, since my brother was lost at sea?”

He studied her face for a moment, his eyes narrowed. And then he stuck out his right arm, wrist up. She saw the white ridge of scar tissue. He said, “Valbrand had a scar to match this one.”

“From when you were bloodbound to each other?”

He nodded. “In the bloodbinding ceremony, each of us was bled—a copious bleeding, believe me—into the same deep bowl. Then, our wounds still open, we took turns, the blood running free down our arms, passing the bowl back and forth, drinking our mingled blood until every drop was gone.” He let his arm fall to his side. “So I have drunk your brother’s blood—as he drank mine. When he was lost, I lost not only my dearest friend and bloodbound brother, but also my future partner in the work of ruling this land. It was a terrible blow, a cleaving at the center of who I am. As if half of my true self was slashed away.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing, only reached out and brushed her fingers down the side of his arm in a wordless acknowledgment of his loss. Though she remained certain Valbrand had returned, she had no doubt Eric had once believed him dead—and that that belief had changed him in a deep, irrevocable way.

Eric caught her hand, clasped it briefly, then let it go.

She felt a warmth all through her. A closeness to him that had nothing to do with desire. This was something else. It was what she’d sensed between them two nights ago, in Rinda’s tent in the camp of the kvina soldars.

The closeness of comrades…

There was wood—maybe half a cord—stacked near the supplies against the cave wall. And a much smaller pile of logs nearer the fire. He rose with surprising grace, given the way the blanket was wrapped so close around his legs, and got a fresh log from the smaller pile. He crouched to add it to the flames.

She let herself admire the fine, strong shape of his back, the play of light and shadow on the bumps of his spine, the healthy bloom on his smooth skin as he positioned the log in the fire. A few winking sparks shot up, weaving toward the darkness above for a brave, soaring moment, then surrendering to gravity and gently showering back down.

He returned to the blanket and got comfortable against his saddle. “And what of you, oh fearless one? To whom are you bound?”

She rolled her eyes. “Fearless. Right.” She met his eyes. “No, really. I’m far from fearless.”

“Yet you never let your fear rule you.”

“That’s right. Hey. Talk to my mother. She claims I actually seek out the things that scare me.”

“And you would do this because…?”

“Well, my mother would say, for the dangerous thrill of confronting my own fear.”

“And does your mother have it right?”

She sighed. “Maybe. Sometimes. I’ve always felt… out of place, I guess. As if I’m looking for something and it’s never there.” She swallowed, though her mouth was empty.

He asked, his voice gentle, “What things truly frighten you?”

She thought for a moment. “Oh, dying. Original, huh? I guess I’m like most people—not up for that yet.”

“Yet you could face it. You have faced it. Recently.”

Her hand went automatically to her shoulder. He nodded and she found herself nodding in response.

He said, “You will face death again, there is no escaping that.”

“Yeah. But I’d seriously prefer if I didn’t have to do it anytime soon.”

“Your mother might say otherwise.”

“She would definitely say otherwise.”

“Mothers can be so irritating—they are too often right.”

She made a humphing sound. “Unfortunately.”

He shrugged. “The time will come, for all of us, when death will win the day. Our forefathers understood this. They asked only for the chance to die fighting.”

Our forefathers. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see them. The bold Norsemen of old in their serpent-thin ships, brutal men bound only by their warrior code, eyes on the far horizon, rowing hard and steady toward the next settled, prosperous, ripe-forthe-picking coastal town.

Eric said, “Death is the one constant, the thing to which we all ultimately surrender, even as we spend our lives denying that death will have us in the end.”

What was there to say to that? Nothing—which was exactly what she said.

He asked, “And my original question—to whom are you bound?”

That was a fairly easy one. “My family. My mother, my sisters. My father. Strange. I never knew him for all those years. But the moment I met him, I felt that I’d known him all of my life.” She glanced away. She was thinking that she felt the same way about the man who sat beside her. But she didn’t want to say it. It would be way unwise, given the circumstances—the two of them, alone by the fire until the storm passed, wearing blankets instead of their clothes.

“Who else?” he prompted.

She did look at him then, chin high, defiant. “My brother.” It came out sounding like a taunt.

He didn’t rise to the bait. “And…?”

One more person came to mind. “A friend. She lives in Los Angeles. Her name is Dulcie Samples. I met her at a writers’ workshop. She has red hair and honest hazel eyes and the biggest heart in California.”

“A friend and a true one.”

“You got it.”

“A friend found at… a writers’ workshop?”

“That’s right.”

“You are an author?”

“Wannabe.”

“Wanna—”

“Want to be,” she clarified. “I’ve started ten novels. Haven’t finished a one.”

“You say that with such bravado. Why?”

“I didn’t finish college, either. Some have remarked that there seems to be a pattern here.”

If there was a pattern, Eric didn’t seem particularly concerned about it. He asked, “And your friend, Dulcie?”

“She’s written three, I think—all the way through to the end. Hasn’t sold one yet, but I really believe, for her, that day will come.”

“For her—yet not for you?”

She waved a hand. “I gotta be honest. All that sitting, I just can’t stick with it.”

“A woman of action.”

“Well, yeah. I guess so.” A few feet away, Svald shook her head and snorted. “See? I get no respect. Not even from my horse.”

“I respect you.” He was looking at her teasingly, but it didn’t matter. She knew he meant what he said. His expression changed, turned more serious. “And what about men? Other than your father… and your brother. Is there a man to whom you feel bound?”

“Not… at the moment.” Was that a lie? Maybe. Maybe she did feel bound. Just a little bit—to Eric.

Did he sense she felt that way? If he did, he let it pass. “But there have been men you have… cared for?”

Was this somewhere they ought to be going? Probably not. Still, she heard herself answering, “A few. Somehow, it just never seemed to work out.”

“Good,” he said.

She couldn’t resist. “Fair’s fair. What about you?”

“A dalliance or two. Foolish. Long over. For the past seven years, I’ve been waiting for you.”

Oops. No doubt about it now. Time to change the subject.

But she didn’t. “Eric. Come on…”

His grin was slow and lazy. “Lead the way.”

“Oh, puh-lease. Seven years is pretty close to a decade—and you’re how old?”

“I am thirty.”

“That’s… wild.”

“No. It is simply the truth.”

“I gotta ask, when you say you were waiting for me, you don’t really mean me, specifically?”

“That is exactly what I meant. You. Specifically.”

“Get outta town.”

“Since we are not in town, I will assume that is simply one of your American expressions.”

“Good thinking. But seriously, at the age of twenty-three, you suddenly decided, ‘Hey, enough of this dallying. I’m waiting for Brit.’ Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Ah. I understand your question now. The truth is that I was waiting for you, specifically. But I didn’t know who you would be until you came here, to the Vildelund, in search of me. Until I saw that you wore my medallion.”

She found she was staring at his chest again. Staring at the medallion, she told herself.

Yeah, right.

Their saddles almost touched. It was way too easy for him to slide over next to her. He cupped the back of her neck, his warm fingers gliding up into her almost-dry hair.