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“Yay!”
“Goodnight, Lord Liam,” Leif said, tone shifting, becoming almost warm, tinged with amusement.
“Goodnight, Your Majesty!”
“It’s ‘your grace’ for a prince,” Reggie said, fondly.
“And it’s just Leif for this one,” Leif said. “Sleep well.”
More scraping of boots, and then Leif strode into view.
Amelia flinched back before she could think better of it, and then froze, and chastised herself for wanting to hide. Her face was still warm, and Leda’s teasing still fresh in her mind. But Leif never looked her way. He walked, rather stiffly, still sore, doubtless, to the foot of the steps, and started up them, hand reaching for the banister straight off.
She relaxed.
But then, a beat later, Ragnar appeared in his wake, and he was a bit of a mess.
Both of them were, now that she bothered to notice properly. Twigs and grass in their tangled hair, bits of dead vegetation clinging to their clothes, as though they’d gone rolling through a field and not brushed themselves off.
Rolling through a field…
Belatedly, she realized what that might imply. What they might have beendoingin said field, and her face flushed hot all over again.
Leif passed farther up the stairs, out of sight – but Ragnar stopped at the foot of them, hand resting on the banister. Then his head turned, sharply, toward her, hair flying around him like a swept cloak, bits of twig clattering to the floor. In the dancing light of the wall sconces, she saw his face half in shadow. The glow of his eyes, the white flash of his sharp teeth, bared in a grin that stripped her to the bone, and revealed he knew the exact bend of her thoughts.
He held her gaze a long, meaningful moment, and then turned, and continued up the stairs after Leif.
After a beat, Amelia realized she hadn’t drawn a breath in some time, and did so now, lungs burning.
“Gods,” she murmured.
Leda could tease all she wanted, but thisthingbetween them, this brewing, unspoken aura of tension, was no laughing matter.
~*~
Connor might have been born to the duchy of Inglewood, the firstborn, the rightful heir, but the reason he’d (barely) escaped his brother the usurper’s assassination attempt, and had found himself a duke once more, was because he knew when retreat was the wiser course of action.
Now, for instance.
He crossed blades with Prince Leif of Aeretoll in a half-dozen heats, then begged off to go sit on the wall in the shade and sip water…and lament his lack of fitness and training, by comparison. He’d been a bit of a spoiled lord, in his time as duke, but the years in the wood, learning from and then leading the Strangers, had hardened him, in mind and body; he was wiry, now, trim and well-muscled for his age; could climb a tree as well as any boy, and run two miles while hardly breaking a sweat.
But there were men, and then there were beasts of men, and Leif Torstansson fell into the latter category. Connor had never thought of himself as a small man, and he wasn’t…but Leif was in a class all his own. Each meeting of the blades had rang out like a warning gong, echoing off the wall, and the blows had radiated up Connor’s arms, biting into his shoulders and his neck, teeth gritted against the weight and strength that bore him, stumbling, backward across the yard.
Now, he perched breathless on the wall, slowly draining a water skin in long draws, fear kindling in his belly as he watched Reggie prepare to take his turn against the Prince of the North.
The day had dawned cold, but in the way of the best springs, the sun had quickly heated the air, and then the soil, so that, by one o’clock, it was downright warm. Connor’s shirt clung to his damp back, and he could see the beginnings of sweat patches under Reggie’s arms as he pulled his tunic off over his head and tossed it to the side. He folded his sleeves back to his elbows, and loosened the laces at his throat for better airflow. Without his tunic, and coat, and their collars, his throat was on full display, the rope scar dark against his pale skin, vivid in the brightness of the afternoon. Connor thought it suited him – and had told him so, by the light of a lone candle, tangled and sweaty in his tent – that it was a badge of honor, a sign of the steel that lay beneath his silken exterior.
He fluffed his hair with one hand, then pushed it back, his sword held in the other, executing a series of wrist rotations as he paced in a tight circle, breathing deeply and working himself up. Silk or steel, rough or refined, men all hyped themselves in some version of the same way: you had to get the blood pumping, and the adrenaline flowing. You had to want the fight, to go reaching for that chime of sword against sword. It was a vicarious experience as well, a thrill that infected the audience as well as the participants. Spectators had gathered for Connor’s match with the prince, and more were arriving now, hoisting themselves up on the wall with waterskins, and wineskins, and ham rolls. They were talking, and taking wagers, and slagging one another. A few hooted bawdy comments at Reggie, whose stride had taken on a distinct swagger; he shot them a rude gesture, and earned guffaws of laughter.
Connor didn’t share their eagerness and high spirits, not after having faced Leif himself. Reggie was quicker than Connor, and his form was better, his posture precise; he’d had better sword masters than Connor had, and hadn’t spent his youth drinking and carousing and horse-racing like Connor. But none of that mattered with an opponent of Leif’s size and ferocity.
A glance proved that Leif had gripped the blade of his sword in one hand, and was working through a series of overhead stretches, raising and lowering the blade, leaning side to side and then twisting his hips. He wasn’t quite able to hide a wince; he wasn’t fully healed, yet, and was still sore. More than once, Connor had seen his torso give way, when his ribs barked too loudly, and he’d been forced to disengage from the spar and try again. Even so, he’d easily bested Connor. Shudder to think what he’d be capable of at full strength.
Connor caught Reggie’s eye on his next pass, and tilted his head to summon him over.
Reggie sighed as he came, rolling his shoulders, working his head side to side to stretch his neck. He looked impatient, and like he was expecting a lecture and already tired of it. He stopped two feet away, and Connor said, “Come here.”
Reggie lifted a brow. He was in a bratty mood, apparently.
