Herb-Wife (Lord Alchemist Duology) (37 page)

"I
suppose. Dayn likely told you the important bits."

"That
she arrived in a screaming fit, and left in cold civility after you
spoke in the garden?" He sighed. "Dayn didn't know what you
said, but the woman's apparently not brought a judge into the
matter."

"I
asked Saydra to give the note to Thioso. Or the watch commander."

"You
don't think that was of interest?" His voice held a baffled,
wondering tone.

"I
suppose it might've been."

"Kessa,
are you all right?" And that was worry.

"Yes."
She'd not smashed the mirror to use the broken glass on her wrists
and bleed her life into the waste cistern. "You can open the
door if you want."

It
creaked. She watched its edge pass over the bit of bare wood before
it dragged lightly at the rug. Grays and blues and greens, like
walking through water, sometimes wondering if she were drowning.

After
a moment, he said, "Are you . . . still in pain?"

"Only
if I move wrongly."
Or think too much.
She slid the comb
through her damp hair again, looking no higher than his bare feet,
and the loose, worn cuffs of his trousers. His toenails wanted
trimming. "I'd not like to climb a roof, but just walking is all
right. I don't think I've bled enough to note since yesterday
afternoon."

"It . . .
has occurred to me, that I've indeed been remiss." He leaned
against the doorframe, not coming in more than a finger's width. "And
you did accept my bargain."

That
night, my way. Another time, his.
The comb clacked against the
table as she set it there, trying to sort out what she felt. Fear, in
part – but she wasn't sure what she was afraid of. "Yes."

"Come
here?" he asked, in that carefully diffident tone.

She
stood, holding the robe closed at the neck by habit, and walked to
the doorway. (He wore a short, gray tunic as well as the pants, its
sleeves uneven lengths and neither more than half-way past his
elbows. It was probably presentable as house-clothing if he wore his
usual robe over it.)

He
put his palms against her shoulders, making little circling motions.
Then he stroked towards her neck, and away again. Kessa closed her
eyes and let her head tip up and back, feeling like a rag doll forced
to stand upright. She let both her arms drop to her sides, and the
towel fell free from her shoulders as well.

Iathor's
hands went up her neck, fingers splayed so she didn't fear choking.
One palm brushed against the piercing wire in her ear, and it sent
goosebumps along her back and jaw. He cupped her face and murmured,
"I believe we had some success with this . . ."

He
started with a gentle kiss, as if he knew anything harder'd be too
confusing and alarming. Lips on lips, and delicate licking, light,
shallow, deeper . . .

Her
hands tried to go up against his sides and back, but the doorframe
blocked one, and she could only hold the hem of his tunic there. She
pressed the other, fisted, against his shoulder blade.

Responding
was difficult: fear of getting it wrong, too-much focused on the feel
of
him
 . . . She tried pressing her tongue
against his, and he used that, stroking down the side of hers. He
slid a hand to the back of her neck and head, gently dragging her
hair along with it. His other arm went around her shoulders, holding
her up.

He
didn't pull away from the kiss so much as move it, brushing his lips
along the corner of her mouth, along her jaw, to her un-pierced ear.
He traced along its outer edges with lips and tongue, and mouthed the
lobe. She felt his teeth, just long enough to stiffen in alarm, then
he started kissing down her neck, pulling her head back gently. That
last was nearly unnecessary; she'd been tipping her head even as she
felt the soft tug in her hair.

Goosebumps
followed his mouth, spreading down her back and chest. She was more
disappointed than relieved when he stopped at the edge of her robe
where it went over her collarbone. He moved his fingers against the
back of her head, and before she could anticipate what he might do –
he kissed her chin.

That
was confusingly
silly
; Kessa made a little
er?
noise.

He
chuckled, which would've been annoying, except he'd started kissing
her mouth again, and her indignation just suggested trying to kiss
him back. It didn't seem to chastise him; he only stroked his tongue
against hers while she dared to lap at his mouth. She felt the
eyetooth that overlapped its neighbor, reminding her of his grin,
which made her more confused, with quick-swimming minnows in her
belly.

When
her kiss faltered from it, he moved his own again, along the other
side of her jaw, to where the piercing wire was a loose, twisted ring
in her left earlobe. When he nuzzled it, there was only a faint ache,
more like stressed muscles after a night of work, and she tilted her
head further for him. When he took her earlobe, earring and all, into
his mouth . . . She whimpered.

Iathor
stopped. "Still sore?"

"
No.
"
Which wasn't quite right, but the alchemy of truth was in leaving out
irrelevant details.

His
oh!
was enlightened. He went back to toying with her earlobe
and earring, using lips and tongue and warm wetness until she
whimpered again, and would've tried to return the sensations if only
she'd been able to remember which hand had to go where.

When
he moved his concentration to her neck, it was relief and frustration
combined. When he put his mouth where neck joined shoulder, and
sucked
, with his teeth pressed against her flesh but not truly
biting . . . She found she'd made a noise like a groan
and growl combined.

"Your
bed's closer," he whispered by her ear. "Have I
permission?"

She
nodded first, before she could find the words scattered on the floor
of her mind. "Yes."

He
stepped inside, still holding her, turning them both in what might've
been a dancing move. Kessa pressed her cheek against his shoulder,
watching dimly as he freed a hand to close the door and give the
handle the firm jiggle it sometimes needed to latch.

Then
he turned them both again, and she was surprised she didn't stumble
as Iathor guided her towards the lady's bed. He paused, untying the
bed-curtains and giving the side-one a shove to send it further
across, then pulling closed the ones at the bed's foot. The little
wood rings clicked and slid.

She'd
another Incandescens Stone lamp by her bed, much like his with
colored glass shields that could be slid across it to dim the glow.
He chose amber glass; the metal between the panes cast shadows as the
room shifted from blues to greens in the light.

He'd
his arms around her shoulders; she leaned back against him
experimentally. Quietly, he asked, "You're still all right?"

The
wedding dress'd slipped down to bind her arms, and she'd been too
confused to free herself. But he'd been at her back, then, too . . .
She put her palms against the sides of his legs, behind her. "Yes."
There might be nuances, but the words still scattered like leaves
inside her mind.

"Mmm."
He nuzzled her hair away from her ear – and earring –
and though the angle was more awkward, it made her catch her breath.
She almost didn't notice when one of his arms slid lower than her
shoulders, past her chest, until his fingers were on her hip, sliding
to her thigh . . .

She
flashed again to the dark alley, alchemy-smeared fingers shoving her
dress up. Her shoulders tightened, and she flinched to push away
before she remembered.

"Kessa."
He moved his hand up, against her ribs. "Please. What happened?"

She
had to pick up the words now. "Nothing. It's stupid. Just
pawing. Just . . . fingers. With that ointment. Barely
touched more than my leg. Mayhap not even enough to make my blood
weaken." She tried a breathy laugh. "I don't know
why . . ."

"Chh."
Iathor nuzzled her neck again. "I'll find other things to do
with my hands. Here, sit."

She
let him turn her, and closed her eyes as he guided her onto the bed.
He followed, reaching to take her shoulders so she had to turn and
lie entirely on the bed, pushing away from the edge to curl against
him. Her robe slipped from one leg; she wondered if she should untie
its belt.

The
angle was too awkward for good kissing, and her earring was more
against the pillows than accessible to him. Still, he kneaded at her
back, and down to her waist and lower till she tensed at the touch.
It was a different kind of exploration than the kissing, and she
tried to mimic it, the soft fabric of his tunic under her palms and
fingers. It felt nicer than it looked.

He
rolled her to her back, kissing again, and she was distracted by the
pressure of his body, making it harder for her to breathe for a few
moments. But there was more room for breathing when her arms were at
his back and ribs rather than curled between them, once he'd propped
himself on his elbows – and less thought for it when he moved
to lap at her ear and earring again.

With
his own heat against her, she didn't notice how slack her robe was
until he kissed down her neck and didn't stop at her collarbone.
Fleeting shame for her small, easily concealed breasts found no words
before he'd put his mouth to one, with slow, flat-tongued strokes. If
she'd been a cat, she would've purred, throat clogged with wonder and
diffuse urgency. She tried to choke off her pitiful attempts, but
only succeeded when he sat up to pick at the knot of her robe.

He
didn't open her robe immediately, once the belt lay loose to either
side of her, and she was glad to be even that hidden. Before she
could do more than begin to think he should take his pleasure and
have done, he leaned to put his fingertips against her neck, and when
he sent one hand up to toy with her earring and the other to her
breast . . .

It
was embarrassing, to not even know which way to writhe or where to
put her hands, to find she was whimpering again. She tried to stop,
but it felt so much better when she didn't
think
so much. It
was a relief, though, that he wasn't watching when he moved his hand
from her earlobe to brace himself and put his mouth to her other
breast. She held his shoulders and tried not to push against him as
she might've leaned into his hands rubbing her back.

He
cupped her sides in his hands when he started kissing and nuzzling
down towards her navel, with his fingers a comforting pressure
against her skin, slipping down to her waist. One was on her bare
skin; the other pressed her robe against her.

She
didn't know why her breath caught, when he paused and laid his cheek
against her belly. She held his shoulders, and felt oddly secure.

Then
he began to kiss lower, and she squeaked in surprise and confusion.
He paused, his head against her thigh, and said, "Chh. Call it a
perversion."

She'd
found rumors about him, when she'd sent her fagin brother looking for
what skeletons he might hide, shortly after Iathor'd proposed. His
visits to the Cat and Birch, eventually explained as night patrols,
not sport.

He
kissed between her legs much as he'd kissed her mouth: starting soft
and gentle, with his tongue delicately going between her lips, until
he found the places that made her catch her breath or moan. Little
bites, sucking, lapping as he had at the ceremony, until her hands
were in his hair and his were at her hips to hold her more still than
she could hold herself.

It
was indescribable. Roiling tension that went from where his mouth was
to the top of her head, building, bubbling, boiling over in a sudden
relief, as if she were the potion drunk down in convulsive swallows.
She squeaked and pulled his hair when she was suddenly too sensitive
to bear too-direct touch. He responded with gentler nuzzling, till he
laid his head on her hip while the last clenchings faded.

With
her mind more clear, she could
feel
his smugness; the way he
smiled against her skin, and rubbed her hip with one hand. She
might've been a particularly tricky potion, prepared exactly
according to the recipe and unable to object. With one of her hands
slipped to the bed, and the other's fingers still wound loosely in
his hair, she said, "I hate you."

With
smug cheer, he said, "Well, that's not the usual reac–ow."
She'd pulled his hair.

"I
hate
you," she repeated. "I don't know who I am
anymore. I didn't want to be the rescued maiden. I was content being
left alone . . . and now, you make me . . .
want you. Want what you want. You're washing me away. I hate you."
She didn't know why she wasn't sobbing; perhaps it was too much
effort, as her heart slowed from its earlier pounding.

"If
you're going to order me out," he said, "you'll have to let
go of my hair."

"I
don't want to," she whispered, but she did, trailing her fingers
along his ear and wondering what the sensations did to him.

He
propped himself on his elbows to rub his cheek against her belly,
leaving damp streaks. "You still taste of the potion you made, a
little." The words or tone or thought of the little seed
growing . . . It made her chest tighten. It made her
reach for his shoulders again.