Strongman (7 page)

Now Barnaby said, “Go with your gods, Fort.”

“And you.” Fort lifted a hand in farewell and turned. As he did so, someone shoved the door open and a shaft of late afternoon sunlight laid itself across the crowded, dusty interior of the shop like a bar of butter taffy. Fort tilted his head, his attention caught by a fugitive gleam coming from the wall where Barnaby had hung musical instruments, two flutes, an old hand drum, a lap harp, a mandolin with a ding in it, a penny whistle.

Drawn, he ran a finger over the dusty wood of the harp’s forepillar. An elderly aunt had given his sister Constance a small harp like this, a child’s toy really. Surprising for such a pious woman, but it all went to show you never knew. He could recall Constance sitting hunched over it at the farthest end of the barn loft, plucking strings at random, strangely graceful in her coltish way. A girl on the verge of womanhood. She’d had no ear at all, but she’d enjoyed the gentle, discordant sounds. Their father, on the other hand, had been a conservative even among the Brethren, condemning music as both frivolous and sinful.

In the end, the old man had found them out. Fort remembered how he had turned, shielding his sister with his body, knowing the guilt was writ large on his face. “’Twas me, sir,” he’d stammered, his stomach cramping with the knowledge of what was to come. “Just me. I made her play it.”

“Ay, but she led you on, didn’t she? Led you into sin!” Slowly, Sobriety McLaren unbuckled his belt. He wavered a little on his feet, but his children knew better than to think the liquor would defeat him. They’d long since stopped thinking of the irony of their father’s given name. Sobriety’s huge hand had circled Fort’s skinny biceps, sour breath gusting into his face. Though Fort had been as tall as his father, he was all broad, bony promise, yet to fill out. “What else have you been doing up here, boy? What else?”

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Strongman

It sickened him now, what his father had been thinking. Then, he’d been too young to understand, sick with terror and impotent rage. Constance was tall too, but so slender, he still wondered how she’d survived that beating, because—

“Pretty, isn’t it?” said old Barnaby at his elbow. “Do you play? I can do a good price, a special price.”

Fort let out the breath he’d been holding. She’d be dead now, his sweet, shy sister, worn out with childbearing, with beatings, with labor in the fields. Like most of the females who belonged to the Brethren of the Straight Church.

“No,” he said sadly, stroking the small chips of lighter, contrasting wood inlaid in a sinuous pattern on the pillar. “I don’t.”

“I do.”

Griff stood directly behind him, bathed in a waterfall of sunlight.

Fort blinked and something stirred low in his belly. “You? What are you doing here?”

Griff shrugged and stepped forward, out of the light. “Buying a harp.”

“No, you’re not. I am.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Barnaby shook his head in delighted reproof as he shut the door. “Let me brew the roberry.” He disappeared behind a curtain, rubbing his hands together.

Fort stared. He couldn’t think of a word to say. It wasn’t the sight of Griff that was disconcerting. It was the way all the fury of the morning had drained away, leaving only uncertainty, laced with a dark thread of need—so disturbing Fort had to move to break the tension or go mad. He picked up the little harp, turning it over and over in his hands, his head bent.

A whisper of displaced air and Griff’s nimble fingers reached past him to caress the carvings on the soundboard. “It’s a gaeta vine. See?” Their shoulders brushed.

Casually, Fort stepped away from the contact. “So it—”

The words tangled on his tongue.

There were dark smudges on the golden skin of Griff’s smooth throat, perfectly visible because he wore a loose shirt only half-laced, almost as if he wanted the world to see. Fort knew if he raised his hand, his fingers would fit over those bruises with absolute precision.

Marked
. He’d marked the man, as surely as if he’d collared him, attached a leash.

Pleasure rolled through him, an all-encompassing tide of bone-deep satisfaction.
My
marks
.

His gaze flew to the tumbler’s face, but Griff was finishing a sentence. “…agreed then?”

Fort shook himself out of his daze and turned to take a roberry cup from Barnaby.

“Tell me again.”

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Denise Rossetti

“You buy it. I’ll teach you to play.” Griff held out his hand. “Done?”

Shit, he mustn’t touch, not even formally. “Never mind bloody music lessons.” He ignored Griff’s hand, draining his cup instead. Griff went completely still. He let his arm drop, hurt pinching his expressive features. Fort stiffened his spine. “I’ll buy the harp anyway.” It was better this way, by far. “How much?”

Barnaby named a price so outrageous both men snorted with derision. But Griff sobered quickly, launching himself into the haggle with a shrewdness Fort found a little alarming. He was no fool, Griffid Ringman, and no pushover either. Good-natured he might be, but if the tumbler made an enemy, Fort suspected he’d be a formidable opponent, subtle and focused, attentive to the fine-grain detail vendetta required. He’d have to be pushed though. The basic decency of him, the
goodness
, would flinch from causing pain. Fort stifled a sigh. No wonder Griff posed such a danger to his sanity.

Barnaby complained bitterly and at length, but in the end, he threw in a spare set of strings and a battered case made for a larger instrument. They left the old man muttering over his money, shaking his head, but Fort thought he was well-pleased with the transaction.

“Bruise had to come in to buy extra straw for some reason.” The tumbler’s lips tipped up at the corners, very slightly. “We can catch a lift back in the cart with him.”

He squinted into the sky. “If we get to the vranee market before the Shadow catches the Sun.”

* * * * *

How Griff did it, Fort was unable to determine, but by the time they’d found Bruise and settled themselves on the dusty, sweet-smelling bales in the back of the cart, he’d soothed the last of Fort’s bad temper away. He showed no self-consciousness, no awareness of his transgressions of the previous evening, which made it easier for Fort to shove them into a dark recess at the back of his mind.

Instead, they talked politics. Unlike most men, who backed down at Fort’s first frown, Griff was more than happy to argue his point to the death, a militant gleam in his eye. As the cart rattled along, they barked and growled at each other in perfect accord, but in the end, Griff threw his hands up and agreed to differ on the finer points of Valaressan foreign policy and the sovereignty of the Empty Lands.

Fort glanced up in surprise as Bruise swung the wagon onto the rutted meadow behind the menagerie tent. Griff leaped down, all power and grace, while Fort had to stand and stretch his stiff limbs first, especially the scarred thigh.

Griff strolled away toward the concourse. “Come to the show tonight and we’ll have supper after,” he called over his shoulder. “Ember promised me an egg and noodle thing.” He winked. “Plenty of cheese.”

“Don’t bother, Griff, I’ll be fine.”

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Strongman

But the other man just flipped a hand. “I’m late already. See you later.” And he disappeared into the press of Fairgoers.

* * * * *

Griff waited ‘til he was past the menagerie tent, past Magrit’s stall and the Big Top, before he allowed himself to blow out a long breath. Slowing his pace, he turned away from the chattering crowds into the narrow space between two brightly painted wagons. He leaned against one, bracing a hand against it and resting his forehead on his clenched fist, grateful for the solidity.

He still had a chance then. But gods, the power of the man was nothing next to the power of what he was holding inside him. For a horrible moment, in old Barnaby’s shop, he’d thought Fort was going to strike him. The way he’d looked up, the delicate harp incongruous in those powerful hands, his mind obviously in the grip of an agonizing memory… A killing rage had burned in his eyes, glittering like a drawn blade.

A long shiver rolled up Griff’s spine, raising gooseflesh on his chest and neck. He rubbed at his arms. Traveler save him, Fort had seen some things. And gods, he knew the man been a mercenary,
but
what had it done to him
?

Not for the first time, Griff doubted his own common sense. Because if it meant Fort would smile at him,
for
him, he’d get to the root of it, try to drain the festering poison from the wound. He squeezed his eyes hut. Twister, he must be mad.

Did he have the resources? More to the point, did he want enough? Really
want
?

Standing deep in the shadows, the Fair bustling around him, Griff relived that mind-numbing kiss. It wasn’t difficult. He’d spent the night fixing every detail of it in his memory—the unexpected softness of Fort’s lips, the way he’d nipped his chin, the uncompromising power of that big body rolling him under and pinning him down, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, the strong hands restricting his breathing. He’d known then, with every fiber of his being, that he was safe.
Needed
. It was crazy. The shiver became a shudder of longing.

Oh yes, he
wanted
enough. His decision to take the initiative last night had been a crazy impulse, so strong he’d had to go ahead with it even though he’d been almost certain he was going to get himself killed. But he’d risked everything in that little wagon last night and Twister’s balls, he’d won!

He hadn’t been alone in that kiss, not after the first frozen second.

Without the beard, Fort was somehow revealed and concealed simultaneously, the line of his jaw stern, his cheekbones broad and high. The planes of his face held secrets in an iron grip, despite the smooth, freshly shaved olive skin. He was going to be a handsome old man, Fortitude McLaren, very much in the patriarchal style. Griff smiled, but painfully. In all that masculine severity, Fort’s mouth, the generous shape of his lower lip, was startlingly sensual.

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Denise Rossetti

And he had no idea how he affected Griff, none at all.

* * * * *

Ruler God, never again!

Unobtrusively, Fort inhaled lungfuls of cool night air, scented with the odor of grilled meats and spun sugar and beer. He hadn’t realized that Griff was part of the trapeze act, nor that, as part of the grand finale, he threw the knives blindfolded. Fort had come within a hairsbreadth of charging out of his seat and into the ring to— What?

What had he intended to do?

He flexed his fingers. Gods, he’d lived long enough to see men do some

breathtakingly stupid things, but this—! Someone should grab Griff and shake the life out of him ‘til he promised—

He clamped a hand on the tumbler’s shoulder as he strolled along beside him, chatting cheerfully about nothing in particular.

“What?” Griff came to a standstill. He studied Fort’s expression for a long moment, the stage makeup giving him the look of a hard-muscled faerie, a creature made of mists and legend. “You’re pissed about something, aren’t you?”

When Fort couldn’t immediately summon a reply, the other man’s face hardened and he shrugged off Fort’s restraining hand. “Fine. I’ll relieve you of my company.” He turned away.

“No.” Fort spun him around, holding him in place without effort. “I was…” he ground the word out under his breath, “scared.”

“Twister, why?” Griff’s forehead creased, then his teeth flashed. “Ah,” he said, on a note of discovery. A devilishly slanted brow quirked.

“How can you
do
that? Night after night?”

Griff shrugged, his dark eyes fathomless in the moonlight. “My family’s been in the Fair for generations. I started as a child and never stopped. Scared, huh?” He stepped right into Fort’s body until they were chest to chest. “For me?”

The iron band cramping Fort’s guts tightened. Very deliberately, he pushed the disturbing memory aside. Griff’s lithe body, somersaulting in the shadows of the Big Top, so very, very high above the unforgiving floor. But the edgy sensation had settled in his gut, the unresolved tension quivering in his muscles. He pulled away and got his feet moving. “No,” he managed. “I was worried you’d puncture Katahaya. Terrible waste, that.”

“True enough. C’mon, I’m starved.” Griff nudged Fort’s arm with his shoulder.

“Ember’s wagon is down here and mine’s just beyond.” After that, he said nothing more, but he hummed under his breath the rest of the way.

Like Fort’s, Griff’s van was in the outer circle of the Fair, closest to the surrounding trees. Unlike his, it was relatively new and big enough to have a separate sleeping area.

Positively spacious in comparison with his own shabby quarters. But Fort wouldn’t 40

Strongman

have swapped, not for anything. Absently, he changed his stance, easing the weight on his bad leg, while he eyed the width of the bed with some degree of envy.

“Like it?” Griff pulled a folding table away from the wall and set the steaming dish on it.

Fort picked up the shirt slung over the back of a chair. “Not very tidy, are you?” he said severely, folding it in a couple of rapid moves. Order was always reassuring, especially military order. His fingers flexed, gripping the fabric, creasing it. Lufra, he knew right now he’d never be able to watch another show, not if it turned him into a gibbering idiot the way this one had done.

Griff watched his hands, apparently fascinated. “No,” he said. “No, I’m not. Put it on the dresser and let’s eat.”

Ember’s noodle dish disappeared rapidly while Fort and Griff thrashed out the implications of Valaressa’s latest treaty with the Children of the Mother. Fort stretched his bad leg under the table, trying to get comfortable, as the tumbler kept up the lively banter. Still arguing, Griff cleared the plates, brewed roberry and dug out a squat bottle of Aetherian brandy.

Fort’s brows rose. “This a special occasion?”

Griff thunked the bottle down on the table and put his hands on his hips. He was still wearing those gods-be-damned tights. Fort hauled his gaze back to the tumbler’s face, but that was worse, because Griff was smiling and there was something so hot, so tender and teasing in his eyes, that Fort had to set his jaw against the surge of pained arousal.