Tempest (19 page)

“I hated it there. Ran away as soon as I could, straight back to Gran. They'd come for me, haul me back by my hair sometimes, and every time they did, I waited until their guard was down and I left again. After a year of this, they finally kicked me out, and Gran took me right back. She told me there would always be a place for me with her, and I've been trying to prove her wrong ever since.” He quirked a smile. “But not too hard.”

“What was your mother like?” Colm asked.

“She was fair, like you, only with more red,” Nichol said. They were getting closer to the Cove, and about time. The darkness was starting earlier and earlier as the days slowly grew shorter. “She was proud of her red. Said it made her more like the king, that she was the king of our house. She told my father once that he could be the queen. She even tied a bonnet to his head.” Nichol laughed. “He was good about it. He danced her around the room and then called me his court jester. He said I had to be a midget I was so small, and was I any good at being funny? I was five at the time. I thought he was hilarious.”

“You favor him in more than your looks,” Colm said as they walked into the courtyard and toward the kitchen.

“I could do worse,” Nichol replied with utterly false modesty. Idra pounced on them the moment they stepped indoors, putting them both to work.

Later that night as they lay together on the cot, Nichol's head resting against Colm's shoulder, Nichol whispered, “Do you ever wish you'd known her? Your own mother, I mean?”

“Not often,” Colm replied, perfectly honest. “I had a mother in Desandre. I didn't pine for another. I can look at myself and see the things that she left within me: the color of my eyes and skin, this ridiculous height. She must have been taller than my father. I wonder about her occasionally, but I never go much beyond that.”

“You do well to favor her,” Nichol told him, and Colm snorted gently. “I mean it.” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I think we might be lucky, to be the way we are. No parents to be disappointed by us when we don't meet their expectations, whether it's in what we choose to do or who we've grown to be. Gran accepts me, even when she doesn't like my choices.”

“It's possible,” Colm replied. “Although it's equally possible that we don't realize how
un
lucky we are. I don't know if I'm fulfilling what my father might have wanted for me, but I came down to Caithmor at Desandre's insistence. She recognized things in me that I'd barely begun to come to terms with myself, and she pointed me in this direction. And I'm very fortunate that she did.” He said the last bit looking squarely at Nichol, expecting him to smile and settle in, go to sleep and continue to ignore the tension that ebbed and flowed between them, comforting but vague.

Nichol didn't smile. He didn't look away either, or say anything at all. He just turned his face up and pressed his mouth to Colm's, a soft, sweet touch of lips that became Colm's first real kiss. Neither of them closed their eyes, Nichol perhaps because he wanted to see how Colm took it, and Colm because he didn't want to miss a moment of it, not anything, not the way Nichol's eyes darkened or how they darted between Colm's mouth and eyes. It felt like exactly what he'd wanted, without even being sure of exactly what that was.

Nichol finally pulled back and licked his lips. “I think,” he said slowly, “that I might be the fortunate one. Is this all right?” he added fast on the heels of his compliment. “Because I don't want to make you uncomfortable, you mustn't let me do that to you, and I know that you would if you thought it was something I wanted, and it is, but I don't if you don't. Am I making any sense at all?”

“Very little,” Colm chuckled. “But that's fine. I understand you anyway, and yes.”

“Yes to what part?”

This,
this
was why words were useless. They could spend hours hashing out who felt what at which moment and why, when really all Colm needed to do was close the gap between them again and take his second kiss straight from Nichol's lips, even better and more satisfying than the first. “All of it,” he said when they separated.

“Oh good,” Nichol breathed. “I was hoping you would say that.” He rolled until he was fully on top of Colm, framed his head with his hands and kissed him hard, the gentleness of their early intimacy forgotten as the heat between them continued to build. Colm spread his thighs apart, and Nichol slotted between them with ease, his hips moving back and forth in an unconscious rhythm as he pulled back, licked the seam of Colm's lips, then nipped them only to dive back in a moment later, openmouthed and eager. Colm let him in, let him all the way in, until their tongues danced and his hips finally began to catch on to the beat that was teasing them.

Nichol was hard and Colm grew along with him, until they were hard together. “Every morning,” Nichol said between kisses, “when I feel you against me, I've wanted to do this.”

“Every morning?” Colm gasped as the friction between them increased. He moved his hands down to Nichol's hips and pulled him even closer, his usually elusive orgasm feeding on the heat between them and building faster than it ever had before.

“Well, perhaps not every morning,” Nichol said around a groan. “Some mornings I've wanted to do this instead.” He reached one of his hands inside of Colm's drawers, wrapping hot fingers around Colm's erection and stroking him roughly. Colm stifled the sharp noise that tried to escape his throat and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back for just a little longer.

“Come for me,” Nichol whispered in his ear. His breaths were hot gusts filled with words that set Colm's brain on fire. “I've got you, finally, I've wanted you, and you feel so good, come for me, Colm, come
now
.” And his body, overwhelmed with pressure and pleasure, came at Nichol's command. He spurted into Nichol's hand, wet and slick and copious, so long that he saw black spots circle in his vision by the time his body finally quit.

Colm was barely aware of Nichol letting go of him and thrusting his cock into his own hand, wet with Colm's release. He knew when Nichol came, though, the heightened tension reaching a peak and suddenly collapsing, like a bubble that had been popped.

Nichol sprawled across Colm like he belonged there, like there was no separation between their bodies in his mind and therefore should be no separation in reality. They were sweaty and sticky and undoubtedly smelled, but Colm didn't care about any of that. They stayed that way, pleasured and weary and content, until Nichol said, “Shall I move, then?”

Colm wrapped his long arms around Nichol's back and held him even closer, and Nichol giggled. “Understood. I take it you enjoyed it?”

“I think that would be an understatement,” Colm told him. “I've—I've wanted this. More than I can say.”
More than I should say.
Now was probably not the time to mention he'd listened in on Nichol and Jaime.

“But not so much that you
would
say anything.”

“What would've been the point? You had Jaime and plans that revolved around him—sailing, fighting, adventure. I didn't want to disrupt that, even if I could have.”

Nichol lifted his head to look Colm in the eye. “You don't think much of doing things for yourself, do you?”

“I do think of myself,” Colm said, shifting a little so he didn't have to meet Nichol's stare. It felt too knowing. “Just, within reason, that's all.”

“Within reason. Hmm.” Nichol slid up Colm's body and kissed him again. “Well, it's a good thing you're with me now. I feel perfectly comfortable thinking wildly unreasonable things about you. I'll share them if you're particularly good.”

“How good is good?” Colm murmured against Nichol's mouth, the brief touch enough to begin winding the coil of desire within him tight again.

“I'll show you,” Nichol replied, and then the words stopped and the only sounds were cut-off exclamations of pleasure and the subtle sound of flesh against flesh as they rutted against each other, hips tight together, until they both came again.

They fell asleep exhausted and woke up stuck together, and Nichol laughed at Colm's disgusted expression as they peeled themselves apart.

“A hazard of the fun,” he said, shrugging a shirt over his shoulders. “It'll clean up fast. Come on.”

It was the first time they'd bathed together since Colm's first full day in the city, and the fact that he had leave to enjoy himself now helped to make it much more pleasurable. Colm still didn't think he was much to look at, but having permission to look at Nichol was lovely. Touching him was even better, and if the water had been just a bit warmer, or the wind had been a bit calmer, they would have gotten off again right there, against the dark stones of the house with the smells of lye soap and rain and a tinge of acridity from the nearby latrines all mingling in the air. Instead, they washed each other, quickly, and headed inside to the kitchens.

If Megg had an idea of what was going on between them, she gave no indication of it, greeting them as usual, handing over food and sitting down with them for breakfast. “How did you lads sleep?”

“Very well.” Nichol grinned. “Honestly, I must have been exhausted. I could barely lift my head from my pillow.”

“Fine,” Colm replied for his part, feeling himself blush but resolutely not looking in Nichol's direction.

“Fine, hmm?” Megg looked at him more closely and frowned. “I don't know, love, you look a bit tuckered out to me. Is that a bruise on your collarbone?” Colm's hand flew up to cover the mark he'd almost forgotten Nichol gave him as Megg continued. “It's that floor that's doing it to you, no doubt. We've really got to get you a bed. I know I keep saying it, but it's true. We could even get a carpenter in here if you want, have him reopen one of the old rooms that used to be connected to the family quarters. The inn won't suffer much for the loss of a single bed, and that way you'd have your own place.”

“No!” Colm and Nichol both exclaimed. They glanced briefly at each other before Colm continued, “Really, I'm perfectly happy where I am. You don't need to rearrange everything for me.”

“And we're trading off on the cot now,” Nichol added. “To make things fair.”

Now here,
here
came a smile to be nervous about: small, coupled with dark, sparkling eyes and a head tilt that made Colm wonder what was going through Megg's head, and how much of it was correct. But she just said, “Well, that's lovely of you, lads. I'm glad you've worked things out so well. Now finish eating so I can put you to work on the roof. Some of the shingles have blown clear off, and three of the bedrooms are leaking.” Colm and Nichol gratefully followed her directions and made their escape.

Chapter Fourteen

The season was decidedly autumnal now. The waves rolled more heavily, the air had a bone-chilling bite to it that Colm recognized from the cold seasons in Anneslea, and the traffic in and out of the city was almost entirely local. Those who had come to stay, did stay. Those who meant to leave, had left. Occasionally a courier vessel was sent back from the fleet, bringing news of Iarra's attempts at conquest on the Garnet Isles. They'd achieved a foothold on the northernmost island, exactly where they needed to have it in order to freely move ships and shift troops, but the Queen of the Garnet Isles, Magdeline O'Clare, had formed an alliance with the King of Speir across the sea, who provided troops and weapons for her cities while her own small fleet harried the larger, less wieldy Muiri ships.

“The poor woman's caught between two hungry serpents, and I'm afraid her kingdom will be eaten in the end regardless of whom she allies with,” Megg said sadly when Nichol brought in the report. “Iarra is playing this hard, not leaving himself an easy way to retreat. Why else fight a winter war?” The king's use of tactics in his conquests was a continual source of debate in Caithmor. There were plenty of people who admired his all-or-nothing tactics, but plenty more who had family out there in his navy, the men and boys who were toiling to take control of an island that most of them didn't really care about.

“Ah, well,” Megg said, shaking her head. “There's no sense in fretting over it, I suppose. Was there any personal post for you, Nichol?” The undertone of her voice was clearly asking about Jaime, but for the first time in a long time, it didn't seem to bother Nichol.

“Nothing else,” he said easily. “Anything here at the inn? You're due for a letter, aren't you?” he asked Colm.

“I'm overdue,” Colm replied, and the fact that he was bothered him. He did his best to be timely with his own messages, but Baylee was as orderly as the tides, one letter coming regularly every week. It had been close to two now, and still nothing.

“I'm sure everything is fine,” Megg said. “Probably just a problem on the road, or it might have been lost. Without the traders moving about the country, letters are harder to come by. We'll be lucky to get one a month, and likely none at all when winter hits.”

Colm knew, intellectually, that Megg was being perfectly logical. It didn't make him feel much better in the moment, though, especially not the thought of losing contact with his family for an entire season. He hadn't thought about it… He hadn't considered that at all, and as much as he knew the separation had been necessary, it wasn't one he relished.

“You could have one of the priests send a message for you,” Nichol added, using his I'm-trying-to-cheer-you-up voice. “When they pass prayers, it's supposed to be fairly reliable. It certainly is for Iarra. There's no way he's not in contact with his admirals or his regent back here in Caithmor. That's the most practical magic they're allowed to do these days.”

“Passing a prayer is expensive,” Colm replied regretfully. “Even if mine got to them, they'd never be able to afford to send one back to me. I'll keep it in mind, though. It's always good to have a last resort.”

“And I'll do my best to keep your mind occupied,” Nichol smirked.

Nichol's best was positively transportive, the kind of experience that threatened to keep Colm in a euphoric stupor if he wasn't careful. It had to be obvious to Nichol that Colm had no experience being intimate with another person. Every time they touched, he checked Nichol's face, unable to fight the part of him that had to make sure Nichol knew who he was, and that he was okay with Colm doing this, having this leeway. Nichol never flinched back, never looked dubious, was never anything except gentle and giving. It was a bit of a surprise considering the little Colm knew about how he and Jaime had gone at each other. Perhaps he wanted to differentiate his lovers further in his mind. Colm wasn't sure, but he wasn't going to object. Not yet, anyway.

The first time Nichol used his mouth on Colm, he came almost immediately. It would have been embarrassing if he'd had time to think about it once the aftershocks of his orgasm had faded away, but Nichol didn't give him the time. He crawled back up Colm's body—they were lying on the cot, having gotten much more used to its impractical size—and kissed him hard, openmouthed and tongues touching, and Colm tasted the salt-bitterness of his own spend, and he wanted more. “You,” he'd growled, his voice lower than he'd thought it possible to go, “need to let me do that to you.”

“You liked it that much, then?” Nichol had asked, cheeky as ever. He wasn't grinning once Colm had flipped him over onto his back with nothing but the speed of their movement to keep him from falling off as they switched.

“You really,” Colm said, kissing Nichol's throat. “Really,” he kissed down the center of his chest, “
really
need to let me do that to you.”

“All right,” Nichol had murmured, and then his head tilted back and his throat worked in agonized silence as Colm licked the head of Nichol's cock, taking the pooling liquid onto his tongue and rolling it around. He'd had tastes before, little dots here and there he'd wiped away with his lips, but this was different. This was decadent.

Colm knew without a doubt that simple was the way to go. He'd never had his mouth on another man's cock, and he didn't want to choke or bite or do something else to break the momentum. He used his hand to grip the base, and Nichol's silent moan turned audible for a moment, and that gave Colm a warm feeling from the nape of his neck all the way down to the base of his spine. He knew Nichol liked his hands, and he used that fascination to the greatest effect he could, restricting his mouth to the top third of Nichol's length, sucking him and licking him and finally bobbing his head in rhythm with the motion of his hand.

Nichol's breath began to catch, a sign Colm was beginning to recognize as heralding his orgasm, and when he came, Colm caught every drop of it on his tongue so he could understand the flavor, so he could
contrast
it, so he would know something more about Nichol and Nichol alone. It was sweeter than Colm had expected, the bitterness just an aftertaste but still with salt, rich and musky and warm. Colm finally swallowed and looked up, and saw Nichol staring at him with something like wonder on his face.

“You're brilliant at that. That can't be the first time you've done it.”

“You know it is.”

“I assumed, but…the first time Jaime came in my mouth, I pulled off and spit it out on the floor.”

“I like the way you taste,” Colm assured him, licking the very tip of Nichol's spent cock and enjoying the way it made the other man shudder. “And as soon possible, I want to taste you again.” And Colm did, once more that night and again in the morning.

It wasn't all work and sex between them now. There were still times Nichol needed to be alone, and even times when Colm would carefully avoid him in order to seek his own solitude. Most of the time, though, if they had a moment but not the freedom to disappear to their room, they would go out onto the sea wall or, as the wind became fiercer and snow began to mix with the constant falling rain when winter changed to autumn, explore different places throughout Caithmor.

Colm had been too busy and Nichol too distracted to worry about seeing many of the city's sights during the summer, and autumn had been a time of grief and slow healing. Winter, with its bitter winds and early evenings and the warm, beckoning glows of lanterns and fires, was the time for experiencing what could be seen of the insides of the city.

They visited the Ardeaglais only once, after Megg recommended Nichol take Colm to see the stained-glass sculptures inside the vaulted ceiling of the cathedral. They were supposed to resemble earthly manifestations of the Four, and Colm had to admit they were beautiful, even as his lungs ceased to work properly as soon as they stepped into the interior.

Each of the four points held a statue, placed to catch the light just right as the sun passed through the sky. In the corner closest to the door was a man, his body as black as onyx but his hair and hands brilliant burst of red and orange. His opposite was a blue-skinned woman in robes of cerulean, flowing down her body like a waterfall. The other side held an umber man with fists like boulders, his stance wide and steady. His contrast was a pale woman who looked like she was flying, barely held up by the swirls of white curling around her like wisps of cloud. They had names, but Colm didn't know them. Those names were powerful, and the prevue of priests. Collectively, they were the Four, and that was how they were worshipped.

The statues were gorgeous, or at least had the potential to be in the right light, but at the moment, Colm was too concerned by the sparks flashing in front of his eyes to be too in awe of the architecture. He heard Nichol ask him a question, ask it again in a concerned voice, but Colm couldn't force himself to speak. His whole body ached for light and space and the sky, but his limbs were frozen, and in his mind he saw Honored Srain reaching for him, and the cold splash of water on his limbs, and that strange voice in the other cell… Gods, was that man still suffering down below?

The next thing Colm knew, he was bent in two outside the Ardeaglais, and his back ached from where Nichol had pounded on him to restart his breaths. He felt Nichol's hand raise in preparation of thudding down again, and he forestalled him with a gasped out, “No! I'm fine, no more.”

“This is
not
fine,” Nichol protested, the worry in his tone clear as tide pools on a calm day. “This is probably the opposite of fine, Colm. What—oh gods, it's because of what those
bastards
did to you when you were here, isn't it?” He glared back at the cathedral. “I shouldn't have brought you here, I should have used my head—I'm sorry.”

“Nichol,” Colm breathed, finally able to straighten up. He tried to take a deep breath and was pleased when his ribs barely twinged. “We didn't know this would happen. It really is fine. I'm all right, just…let's not do it again.”

“I can safely say that I'd rather walk through fire than go inside there again,” Nichol said vehemently as they headed back toward the Cove. “So there are no fears over that.”

Apart from his bad reaction to being in the Ardeaglais again, Colm enjoyed their trips around the city. They went to the red light district once, mostly so that Nichol could laugh at Colm's incessant blushing, but it didn't go any further than looking, despite some rather bawdy offers called out to either or both of them as they walked by the establishments. They also visited the Arboretum, the small part of the palace grounds that was open to the public.

Apparently the priests' prohibition on the use of magic for anything other than religious purposes didn't extend to the king, because the air inside the stone walls that marked the Arboretum's entrance was warm and humid, and the trees were tall and spindly, their branches braided together into a solid canopy high above that sang with birdsong and animal calls. The grass was positively virid, and everything glittered with dew that just seemed too bright to be real.

“It's good to be the king,” Nichol murmured as they walked around, admiring the trees from a distance. Guards were posted every ten paces to keep visitors from taking liberties, and they were all very well armed and very ill-tempered.

“It seems to be,” Colm agreed. “Back here, at least.” The last report from the courier ships fit for public consumption had included the destruction of the
Albatross
, one of the larger ships of the Muiri navy. Over five hundred men had been lost with it. People muttered darkly behind their hands and grumbled into their tankards, but the king persisted in his dream of conquest, and none of the ships came home. “Jaime's probably all right,” he added. “He's likely working in the supply ships from Inisfadda, not on the front lines.”

“I don't care,” Nichol replied, too quickly. “I'm not worried about him, really.”

Colm knew it was a lie. Nichol was a better friend than he'd ever hoped for, and a better lover than Colm had ever imagined having, but Colm could tell when his thoughts were far away, even when they were together. Jaime Windlove was a constant shadow at the back of Nichol's mind, along with the body of Blake, and no matter how well he appeared to be now, he never forgot. Jaime, it seemed, never forgave, though, and never sent a letter back despite Nichol writing several to him.

They visited the dancing halls, they visited bars—although Colm rarely drank, and Nichol tended to match him when they were out together—and they even visited Fergus at the Golden Lion, where he tended to be after his wife kicked him out in the morning. Colm had met with him several times over the months, but this was Nichol's first introduction to the man. For once, Colm was pleased to be the one offering up a surprise.

“There he is! There's my stork, flying in on this wintry breeze!” Fergus called out from the table in the corner as Colm stepped inside. “Well, Weathercliff, what do you think of our seaside winters, hmm? Cold enough for you?”

“Not at all, it's perfectly mild,” Colm replied, provoking a laugh from the other man. “You forget I come from the White Spires. As long as I can still feel my fingers and toes, I'm warm.”

“Oh you braw, tough lad. And who's this with you?” Fergus brushed a rogue tuft of hair out of his face and peered at Nichol. “This is your cousin, I take it? What was it, pickle, freckle…?”

“Nichol,” Marley said dryly as he plunked two tankards down on the table, then looked at Colm. “Are you joining us for a drink?”

“Of course they are! Steal some chairs, lads, sit, sit! Marley, they'll need—”

“I know what they need,” Marley said with an eye roll. “Just sit there and try not to think too hard, all right?” He turned and headed back to the bar, and Colm grabbed two extra chairs and pulled them up to the table.