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The yeoman delighteth to talk of yeomanry
The plowman his land for to air and sow
Thus nature worketh in high degree and low
For if there were one of the gentle blood
Consigned to yeomanry for nourishment
Discretion comen he should change his mode
Though he knew not his parents verament
Yet nature would work, so by entendyment
That he should follow the conditions doubtless
Of his true blood, by outward gentleness”
Two-thirds of the way through the poem’s recitation, Peregrine had gone a noticeable green shade. That boded ill. Sure enough, Peregrine frantically began to seek for something by the cabin’s bunk. Sebastian’s words faltered as he watched the omega struggle. At last, he found what he sought: the chamber pot. For a bare second, Sebastian thought Peregrine might have grabbed it to dash its contents at him, as sometimes happened to public orators, but instead, Peregrine vomited into the vessel, which wasn’t, when you got down to it, much better.
Sebastian knew he was no elocutionist, but he hadn’t thought his efforts sick-inducing. He threw down Alistair’s precious book and was at the bunk’s side in an instant, stroking Peregrine’s fine, silky hair.
“The poetry was Alistair’s idea,” he told Peregrine as he voided into the chamber pot. “Not mine. He holds the blame.” That was petty, but if the omega had to despise someone, Sebastian would rather it be his harebrained brother.
Peregrine let out a wheeze of laughter, then groaned. “It wasn’t the poem, my lord. It was lovely, and I thank you for trying to entertain me. I apologize for ruining your efforts. That was not well done of me, but my body was not being cooperative.”
Sebastian considered that. “So the poetry did not cause you to vomit?”
The omega wheezed out another short laugh. “No, my lord.”
Sebastian stiffened. “Then whatever is the matter? Have you the plague? I can send Alistair to fly with a message to bring Everard. They could be here in a day or two.” Humans were so very fragile, and omegas even more so. Sebastian didn’t know what he’d do if the young man he’d taken into his care grew ill and died while he was forced to watch.
Peregrine shook his head. “I’m fine, my lord. Nothing is amiss.”
“The very full pot by my foot tells a different tale, omega. Either you hate poetry or you’re ill. Either way, I will fix this.”
“There is nothing to fix, my lord. Not unless you can stop the tide. I’ve never been sailing before, and my head and stomach do not like it, it seems.”
That was puzzling. Sebastian frowned. “You’ve never sickened in my presence before.”
Peregrine colored. “Ah, as to that. For some reason, the tossing of the ship ceases to bother me when you touch me, and it’s rare indeed that we’re together without being in contact.”
Sebastian frowned harder. “Is this why you’ve been eating precious little?”
Shyly, the omega ducked his head. “Yes, a bit. Also, the portions are very large. I’m not used to so much in the way of provisions at each meal. Even without my affliction, I’m afraid I could never eat a quarter of what you serve me.”
“Hm.” Sebastian, still frowning, thought about the situation. “But you’re fine if I touch you?”
The blush sprang back to Peregrine’s cheeks. “Even holding my hand helps, but the more you—”
Sebastian ripped off his shirt.
“My lord dragon,” Peregrine squeaked. “It is the middle of the day!”
“I need to make you better,” Sebastian said with a shrug. “This must be some form of draconic magic. I’ve not studied it much. In truth, I’m not much for studying.” Carefully, he plucked off the loose shirt that was Peregrine’s only clothing. “I prefer bashing my foes about the head to using diplomacy. That’s my brother Geoffrey’s concern. But from what little I do know of dragon magic, if me touching you helps relieve your illness, more skin contact will only improve your situation.” Sebastian crawled into the bunk and pulled Peregrine onto his lap so the boy’s back was against his wide chest.
“You can’t spend the entire voyage in here with me,” Peregrine said gently and, Sebastian thought, somewhat wistfully.
