Automatically she counted the pallets and came up one short, but before she could ask Gawain about it, he nudged her shoulder. “Come over here, lass. Look what we did for you.”
Obediently she followed him to one of the two corners closest to the fireplace. He lifted a curtain stitched roughly together from the cottage curtains, and with one hand urged her to step inside. She complied and discovered they had created a tiny bedroom.
Two walls were the stone walls of the great hall, and the other two were built from crates and boxes of supplies. The double bed from the cottage was inside, and someone had even made it, complete with blankets and pillows. The bedside table held an oil lantern. Her luggage was stacked neatly at the foot of the bed, and the dresser was tucked in one corner.
The area was small and cramped, but it was private, and it offered a degree of comfort she hadn’t been expecting. “This is amazing and incredibly thoughtful,” she said. Her argument with Nikolas had left her feeling so raw she had to blink back tears. After giving herself a moment to recover by looking at everything, she faced him with a smile. “Thank you so much.”
Gawain hadn’t stepped inside. There wasn’t enough floor space to accommodate his large bulk in addition to hers.
Smiling briefly at her pleasure, he told her telepathically, Until we find out who the traitor is, Nikolas and I will be sleeping right outside. Nobody will get past us, lass.
Aloud, he added, “Well, you have enough walls for now. Eventually those will disappear as we use up supplies, but hopefully by then, we’ll either know if it’s safe to use the bedchambers, or we’ll have reached some other solution.”
“It’s wonderful. I love it.” Impulsively she gave him a hug. Looking surprised and pleased, he hugged her back.
“Come get yourself some supper. There’s oxtail soup and sandwiches.”
Oxtail soup sounded decidedly odd, but she followed him to the dining table, where she was greeted with friendly looks and a few smiles. Nikolas hadn’t returned yet, and abruptly she knew she couldn’t face him again that night.
When one of the men—Gareth, she thought—made as if to shift over to make room for her, she told him, “Don’t bother. I don’t mean to be unfriendly, but I’m so tired I can hardly stand upright. I just want to grab one of these sandwiches and go to bed.”
“No shame in being tired,” Gareth said. “You fought well tonight.”
“Thank you.”
“Wait,” Rowan said as he stood. He dug out a large mug, filled it with steaming soup from a camp stove, and offered it to her. “Take this.”
She accepted it, along with a sandwich, and retired to a chorus of good nights. Setting her food on the bedside table, she pulled the privacy curtain down, and her bedroom fell into shadow.
She had the brief impulse to light the lantern but then realized she didn’t know how, and suddenly the small task and her lack of knowledge became obstacles too big to overcome. Stripping out of her jeans and sweater, she crawled shivering between cold sheets. While she waited for the bed to warm up, she sipped at the soup, savoring the warmth and the rich, meaty flavor, and ate a few bites of the ham and cheese sandwich.
By then the worst of the chill had left the sheets, so she stretched out horizontally, and as she listened to the men’s quiet conversation, she plummeted into a black pit.
For a while.
Then she was running through the warehouse while the gunman chased her. She rounded a corner, looking for a way out, but it was a dead end. As she whirled to run the other way, the gunman walked around the corner.
He brought up his gun. She stared down the barrel and heard the flat tat-tat-tat as he shot her, and she was falling.
Always falling.
Rodrigo, she tried to call. Help me.
She plunged awake as a hand settled over her mouth. The men had gone to bed, and the indirect light from the fire had died down, leaving the space in near total darkness.
A figure leaned over her, weight pressing down the edge of the mattress, but before she had time to panic, Nikolas whispered, “Shh, it’s me. It’s all right.”
She gripped his wrist, shaking, and his hand shifted from her mouth to stroke the hair back off her forehead.
He said telepathically, You were having a nightmare and whimpering.
Unsurprised, she nodded. Sorry I woke you.
He exhaled, an impatient, nearly inaudible sound. Move over, Sophie.
She hesitated, torn between wanting to so badly she could practically taste it and remembering the bite of the last things they had said to each other. Her telepathic voice sounded small and uncertain to her own ears. Maybe that’s not such a good idea.
He brought his forehead down to hers. Let’s take a time-out. You still meant everything you said, and so did I. Let this be its own thing. We can go back to fighting again tomorrow.
Was that okay? Maybe that wasn’t okay. Maybe she was supposed to stay strong on principle, but he was here and offering, and principle didn’t have arms to put around her. Still trying to decide how she felt about it, she slid to one side of the bed.
Lifting the covers, he slid in beside her. Long, hair-sprinkled legs entwined with hers as he gathered her into his arms. The comfort was immediate and staggering.
She turned into him, burying her face in his chest while he stroked her hair. He wore nothing but a pair of silk boxers, she discovered, as she fitted her body to his. He was longer, broader, and more muscular than she, and the sensation of his bare body against hers caused a tension that was coiled tight inside of her to ease.
Obediently she followed him to one of the two corners closest to the fireplace. He lifted a curtain stitched roughly together from the cottage curtains, and with one hand urged her to step inside. She complied and discovered they had created a tiny bedroom.
Two walls were the stone walls of the great hall, and the other two were built from crates and boxes of supplies. The double bed from the cottage was inside, and someone had even made it, complete with blankets and pillows. The bedside table held an oil lantern. Her luggage was stacked neatly at the foot of the bed, and the dresser was tucked in one corner.
The area was small and cramped, but it was private, and it offered a degree of comfort she hadn’t been expecting. “This is amazing and incredibly thoughtful,” she said. Her argument with Nikolas had left her feeling so raw she had to blink back tears. After giving herself a moment to recover by looking at everything, she faced him with a smile. “Thank you so much.”
Gawain hadn’t stepped inside. There wasn’t enough floor space to accommodate his large bulk in addition to hers.
Smiling briefly at her pleasure, he told her telepathically, Until we find out who the traitor is, Nikolas and I will be sleeping right outside. Nobody will get past us, lass.
Aloud, he added, “Well, you have enough walls for now. Eventually those will disappear as we use up supplies, but hopefully by then, we’ll either know if it’s safe to use the bedchambers, or we’ll have reached some other solution.”
“It’s wonderful. I love it.” Impulsively she gave him a hug. Looking surprised and pleased, he hugged her back.
“Come get yourself some supper. There’s oxtail soup and sandwiches.”
Oxtail soup sounded decidedly odd, but she followed him to the dining table, where she was greeted with friendly looks and a few smiles. Nikolas hadn’t returned yet, and abruptly she knew she couldn’t face him again that night.
When one of the men—Gareth, she thought—made as if to shift over to make room for her, she told him, “Don’t bother. I don’t mean to be unfriendly, but I’m so tired I can hardly stand upright. I just want to grab one of these sandwiches and go to bed.”
“No shame in being tired,” Gareth said. “You fought well tonight.”
“Thank you.”
“Wait,” Rowan said as he stood. He dug out a large mug, filled it with steaming soup from a camp stove, and offered it to her. “Take this.”
She accepted it, along with a sandwich, and retired to a chorus of good nights. Setting her food on the bedside table, she pulled the privacy curtain down, and her bedroom fell into shadow.
She had the brief impulse to light the lantern but then realized she didn’t know how, and suddenly the small task and her lack of knowledge became obstacles too big to overcome. Stripping out of her jeans and sweater, she crawled shivering between cold sheets. While she waited for the bed to warm up, she sipped at the soup, savoring the warmth and the rich, meaty flavor, and ate a few bites of the ham and cheese sandwich.
By then the worst of the chill had left the sheets, so she stretched out horizontally, and as she listened to the men’s quiet conversation, she plummeted into a black pit.
For a while.
Then she was running through the warehouse while the gunman chased her. She rounded a corner, looking for a way out, but it was a dead end. As she whirled to run the other way, the gunman walked around the corner.
He brought up his gun. She stared down the barrel and heard the flat tat-tat-tat as he shot her, and she was falling.
Always falling.
Rodrigo, she tried to call. Help me.
She plunged awake as a hand settled over her mouth. The men had gone to bed, and the indirect light from the fire had died down, leaving the space in near total darkness.
A figure leaned over her, weight pressing down the edge of the mattress, but before she had time to panic, Nikolas whispered, “Shh, it’s me. It’s all right.”
She gripped his wrist, shaking, and his hand shifted from her mouth to stroke the hair back off her forehead.
He said telepathically, You were having a nightmare and whimpering.
Unsurprised, she nodded. Sorry I woke you.
He exhaled, an impatient, nearly inaudible sound. Move over, Sophie.
She hesitated, torn between wanting to so badly she could practically taste it and remembering the bite of the last things they had said to each other. Her telepathic voice sounded small and uncertain to her own ears. Maybe that’s not such a good idea.
He brought his forehead down to hers. Let’s take a time-out. You still meant everything you said, and so did I. Let this be its own thing. We can go back to fighting again tomorrow.
Was that okay? Maybe that wasn’t okay. Maybe she was supposed to stay strong on principle, but he was here and offering, and principle didn’t have arms to put around her. Still trying to decide how she felt about it, she slid to one side of the bed.
Lifting the covers, he slid in beside her. Long, hair-sprinkled legs entwined with hers as he gathered her into his arms. The comfort was immediate and staggering.
She turned into him, burying her face in his chest while he stroked her hair. He wore nothing but a pair of silk boxers, she discovered, as she fitted her body to his. He was longer, broader, and more muscular than she, and the sensation of his bare body against hers caused a tension that was coiled tight inside of her to ease.
