left to finish the last of his leg of lamb before a succulent slice of chocolate cake was placed in front of him. Feeling slight disquiet in his stomach from the richness of the food, he took a deep inhalation from the cake, then two small bites and decided that stopping was the wisest course. With a last look around the table, he stood, and the servant behind him quickly helped him move his chair.
The Baroness turned her head. “Calling it a night already?”
“I think so,” he said. “I’m not quite sure what time it is, but I’m tired and I have an early morning meeting tomorrow.”
“I should probably turn in as well,” she said, aided by the servant behind her who darted in and helped her move the heavy wooden seat so that she could stand. The Baroness turned to Ryin and Nyad. “Good night, you two.”
Cyrus didn’t hear their replies, as he was already looking toward the door. Martaina waited beside it, and as Cyrus offered his arm to the Baroness out of politeness and she took it, he saw the elven woman’s face crease with a smile that she hid by turning away and looking at the musicians at the other end of the room.
“Something funny, Martaina?” he asked her as he passed through the door.
“Not a thing, sir,” she said, still amused when she turned back. “There’s a steward in the foyer providing us escort to our rooms,” she said. “I’m told the one that they have for you is quite palatial, fitting with your numerous and august titles.”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Now you’re making fun of me.”
Martaina smiled. “Not at all, sir. Shall I come get you at sunrise for your meeting?”
“The count said he’d send someone,” Cyrus said and turned back to the Baroness. “Get some rest.”
Cyrus walked into the foyer, the Baroness’s arm tucked through his. A man waited in the middle of the room, with two others behind him. “Sir and Madam,” the man said with a little bow, his silk crimson shirt moving delicately as he dipped low. He looked first to Cyrus. “I have a room for you, General. Will your companion be needing a room of her own?”
Cyrus felt a brief awkwardness before he looked at the Baroness, a slight smile on his face as he felt the rush of the wine, causing his head to swim. “I don’t know,” he said. “Do you?”
She tilted her head in surprise and looked back at him. “I don’t know. Do I?”
Cyrus felt the moment slow down around him, looked at her, her green eyes locked on his. The smell of the lamp oil filled the hall and gave off an oddly intoxicating scent. Cyrus could feel his head swimming in a fog, the wine mixing with the fatigue to make him smile more than he should have. He saw the faintest hint of a flush on the Baroness’s cheeks, and he smiled, the weight of other things on his mind gone, blown away in a carefree breeze for the first time in months. “No,” he said. “Tonight, I don’t think you do.”
She smiled at him, then looked to the steward. “I won’t be needing my own accommodations,” she said. “But thank you for asking.”
“Very well,” the steward said, bowing again. “If you’ll follow me.” He led them up stairs, through corridors, winding around passages. The steward kept up a steady stream of commentary throughout, but Cyrus did not listen; his eyes and attention were fixed upon the Baroness, who had scarcely taken hers off of him. He could see the levity within her expression, mixed with more than a little amusement but tempered with the slightest bit of concern.
“Here we are,” the steward said, ushering them through a set of double doors off a long, torchlit corridor with lamps hanging overhead for good measure.
As they entered the room, Cyrus stopped in mild surprise. It was indeed palatial; white marble floors filled the cavernous entry. Stuffed chairs and a long sofa made of cowhide and stuffed with down made up a sitting area in front of a fireplace. A luscious bearskin rug was in front of the hearth, where a fire blazed quietly. The walls were the same sort of plaster that had been present in the dining room, but the ceiling was far, far above them and three different chandeliers cast their light down upon the room.
Cyrus walked, the Baroness on his arm, to the center of the room. “Your bedroom is in there, sir,” the steward said. “There is a garderobe-a toileting room-in a separate closet on the other side of it. Is there anything I can get for you?”
Cyrus looked at the Baroness, who shook her head. “You may leave,” she said. “Thank you.” The steward nodded his head, bowed, and made his exit, leaving Cyrus alone with her, a growing unease in his belly, a nervous sort of tension that caused him to taste bitterness in his mouth. “What’s wrong?” she asked, hovering closer to him, close enough that he could feel her, feel his body ache for her to come closer.
Cyrus swallowed heavily. “Why are you doing this?”
She stepped closer, pressed against his armor, her cloth riding blouse giving him the strangest urge to run his hand across the fabric. She took hold of his gauntlet and pulled it slowly off; Cyrus felt his palms sweaty, sticky, and wished he could wipe them somewhere. He felt a tinge of embarrassment as she took his hand in hers and placed it on her back. “Because I want to,” she breathed, whispered in his ear. She pulled back and looked at him, locked eyes, stared him down, and the animal urge within consumed him and he kissed her, deeply and heavily, breathing hard as he broke from her. “Because although it may have been a long time for you since your last lover, for me …” her hand stroked his cheek, “I have never been with a man I have freely chosen.”
She pressed her lips against him, again, and he felt the rising tide of his desire. His fingers went to the straps on his pauldrons and loosened them, then he lifted them over his head and dropped them to the floor where they landed with a fearsome clatter. His breastplate and backplate went next, along with the gorget that protected his neck, his lips firm against hers the whole time. He heard his remaining gauntlet hit the floor then the vambraces from his arms and bracers from his forearms, each making a clank of its own.
“I didn’t know that it would be so easy to get you to agree to take off your armor,” she said, breaking away from him, “but so hard to actually get it all off” She dived back in at him again, pressing her lips against his neck, kissing, suckling, causing a little thrill of sensation to run through him.
Her lips met his again and he thrust his tongue into her mouth, swirling it against hers as he kicked off each of his boots, one at a time. His greaves fell off next, and she helped him slide the chainmail that undergirded it all over his head, leaving him in only his cloth underclothes. She stepped back from him for a moment, her eyes on his, and he could feel all the heat between them as he pulled off his undershirt.
He reached for her, his fingers caressing the collar of her shirt, and he unlaced the front of it, starting to slip it over her head. Her hand came up quickly and found his, stopping him. “Please,” she said, and he could hear a hint of pleading in her voice, “not out here.” She turned her head toward the bedroom. “In there. In the dark.”
“All right.” He reached for her and lifted her up, and she squealed in pleasure as he cradled her in his arms and kissed her again. He carried her into the bedroom and laid her upon the bed, extinguishing the lamps, plunging the room into semi-darkness. He could see her face in the narrow shaft of light coming from the main room, saw her eyes as they flicked toward the door. He got up and drew it nearly closed, so that only a crack remained, shedding a narrow band of the luminescence as he returned to the bed-and to her embrace.
Chapter 15
When Cyrus awoke in the morning, it was just before sunrise. He felt a lazy smile on his face. The Baroness lay curled against his side; he had awoken in the night and they had made love again, madly, feverishly, and afterwards held each other until Cyrus faded into another deep, dreamless sleep. His fingers traced lines along the maddening number of scars that crisscrossed the skin of her back and belly, and he wondered at the sort of man who would do such a thing.
The morning light was shining into the main room of their suite, brightening the interior of the bedroom as well. Cyrus heard a faint knocking in the distance and paused, listening for it. It came again, a moment later, and he gently shifted the Baroness off his arm, laying her head upon a pillow, and rolled out of bed, grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around himself as he walked out into the main room.
There was another insistent rapping as he drew the bedroom door shut. His bare feet padded on the cool marble and when he reached the door, he opened it to find Martaina waiting outside with a young boy.
“Sir,” Martaina said with a thin smile. “Count Ranson has sent a page for you-he is ready for you and the
