Tempest (9 page)

“Hi, Grandad,” Nichol said, bending over next to Megg. The seal let him caress his head as well. “It's good to see you again.”

“Darling, this is Desandre's eldest,” Megg added, motioning toward Colm. “His father came from these parts. Tell me, do you think he might have some selkie blood in him?” She looked up at Colm and winked.

The seal barked, and Colm obligingly held out his hand. The seal came closer, sniffed him once, twice—

It suddenly hurtled itself back into the water, barking like mad. Colm slapped his hands over his ears against the noisy echo, and even Megg looked taken aback. “Rory!” she scolded, but the seal didn't stop barking. “Oh, by the Four,” Megg snapped, her happy reunion spoiled. “Whatever it is, you're making a cyclone out of a wee squall! Honestly.” She turned to her grandson. “Why isn't the lantern lit yet?”

“I got distracted,” he defended himself.

“Well, get it done now! Colm, love,” she took one of Colm's limp hands. “Don't pay that old fool any heed. I don't know what's gotten into him, but it's likely nothing to do with you.”

“It doesn't seem that way,” Colm said. His mind was working overtime on what it could be about him that Rory Searunner had found so distasteful.

“It could be as simple as you being in a place he considers ‘sacred',” she said disgustedly, having to raise her voice to be heard over the barking. “Avast, ye old fool, give it a rest, for the love of the Four!” Megg shouted at him. Surprisingly, the seal quieted immediately. “That's better,” Megg muttered, and a moment later, she actually smiled when Nichol got the lamp relit. “There we are! Now we can go home.”

The ride back to Caithmor wasn't nearly as nice as the ride out had been. The boat was filled with a strained silence, and even with Colm's poor night vision, he could see the seal following beside them, keeping its glowing eyes unceasingly on him. They returned the boat, oars and all, and made their way back to the inn, where Colm begged off eating any supper—“Really, what I had this afternoon was plenty, thank you”—and retreated to his place on the floor of Nichol's room. He clutched at the folded bag that had held the ashes and stared up at the skylight and the velvety darkness of the night, and wondered what he would do now. Perhaps he didn't belong here after all. Colm had done what he'd come to do. Perhaps he should leave before his presence became burdensome for Megg, who now had reason to doubt him. He couldn't go back to Anneslea, no, but there were other options, other places.

Colm was so involved in his own thoughts that he didn't even notice Nichol come up the stairs until he sat down on the cot, the swollen wood of it protesting with a creak. “Colm?” Nichol asked hesitantly. Lit by candlelight, his face softened even further, youthful and tender. Colm didn't think he had ever looked like that himself. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” Colm said, and Nichol snorted.

“You're lying,” he replied. “Not that I blame you, that was right strange out there, but you don't have to lie to me. It's all right if you're not fine.”

“Okay,” Colm said irritably, just wishing for a moment that he could be alone, “I'm not fine.”

“I didn't think so,” Nichol said, perfectly calm. “Is it because of Grandad? Because Gran's right, sometimes he's just a crabby old bastard, even as a seal. You shouldn't let him get to you too much.”

Colm sat upright, not wanting to continue this conversation on his back. Even sitting on the floor, his head was almost as high as Nichol's on the cot. “It's not just that,” he confessed. “Although that didn't help. I suppose it's that…well, I've done what I came here to do. I have no real reason to remain in Caithmor any longer, and I can't go home, I just…I can't.” He braced himself for an interrogation, but Nichol nodded.

“Because it would feel wrong, like walking backward when all you want is to be running forward.”

“Something like that.”

“I understand. S'how I feel about the navy. I've seen those ships, those great ships, I've seen how fast they fly and heard the stories of the men who man them, and I have to have it for myself,” Nichol confided. “I love Gran, and I've always helped her run the Cove, but it's not the life I picture for myself, you know? There's no adventure in waiting tables and clearing plates.”

“I don't need adventure, I need a
home
,” Colm told Nichol, letting his desperation show through. Nichol looked surprised.

“I thought Gran already spoke to you about that. This can be your home, Colm. Gran would never throw you out, and she already likes you better than me. It will be perfect, actually. She'll have family to stay by her side once I've gone abroad. I'll feel better that way, certainly.”

Colm didn't like to think about Nichol leaving. He'd only known him for a day, and already Colm felt more alive for the other man's presence. “I don't want to intrude,” he said. “I feel it's taken me hardly any time at all to turn your life upside down.”

“Living means you get jostled about a bit,” Nichol grinned. “I don't mind it. You're good company, Colm Weathercliff, don't let anyone tell you differently. I'm honored to share what little room I have with you.”

“You're remarkable…” Colm really wanted to stop with just
remarkable
, but he forced himself to finish. “Remarkably strange.”

“And you are not the first person to tell me that,” Nichol said agreeably. “Now, no more fretting. You're as good as home, mate, just accept it. Gran and I aren't going to let you go at this point.”

It felt so wonderful to be wanted, genuinely wanted. “Thank you.”

“Yes, I'm so magnanimous, me. Got someone to help me work the inn, bring in a daily catch and who'll doubtless let me bother the hell out of him when I'm bored. I think I'm getting the better end of this deal, Colm.” He blew out the candle and lay back on the bed. “And we'll get a real bed sorted out, I promise.”

“I'm fine,” Colm said, and this time he really meant it.

“So you are,” Nichol replied sleepily, rolling over onto his side. “So you are.”

Chapter Seven

His first full week in Caithmor was one of the best of Colm's life. In the mornings, he woke up before Nichol, always before Nichol, who could keep snoring through almost anything. Colm would take advantage of his solitude to bathe alone, although the memory of that one time with Nichol struck him each morning with fresh desire that he had no interest in confronting. He would grab a bowl of porridge from the kitchen, or occasionally a slice of honey loaf drenched with butter if the cook was in the mood to be fancy, and then spent the earliest part of the day out front with Megg, quiet and content in each other's company.

That peace lasted until Nichol joined them, damp from bathing and still half-asleep. He would kiss Megg's cheek, then playfully kiss Colm's before flopping down in a chair and downing an entire pot of black tea. Megg laughed and Colm ducked his head and did his best to brush the casual affection off, but it came too readily and too often to completely ignore.

For the first few days after the burial, Colm kept to the inn, helping Megg as best he could and trying not to be in the way the rest of the time. Nichol took more shifts with the Sea Guard and always came back full of tales, most of which were undoubtedly pure fiction, but they were interesting anyway.

On the third day Nichol saw Colm laboring over a letter to Baylee during a lull in customers and offered his assistance in writing her. “I've always been good with a nib,” he said, reaching for Colm's quill and grimacing when he saw the dullness of the point. “Well, no wonder you're having trouble. This is ridiculous. Give me your knife.” He sharpened the quill, looked over the half-written letter, rife with misspellings and crossed-out words, and then looked straight back at Colm. “What's next?”

Nichol's help made composing a letter a pleasant task for the first time Colm could remember. He sent a small collection of shells along, something Kels would enjoy, and included a note from Megg for Desandre before closing it all up. They found a caravan heading toward the mountains that would get it as far as Isealea, to be handed off to Raener there, who would ensure that it got to Anneslea.

“You told your mum that you'd be working as a fisherman here,” Nichol said as they walked back from the merchant district, a little poorer after negotiating a fare for the delivery. Colm nodded and unconsciously hefted the remaining coins in his pouch, estimating how long they would last. Megg was more generous than he deserved, giving him food and lodging for a bit of labor, but even with her help, he would need to purchase warmer clothes before the summer was over, and his boots were almost worn through the sole.

“So that means you don't want to join the Sea Guard?” Nichol asked, but it was more of a statement than a question.

“I don't think it's the right fit for me,” Colm said, then elaborated when Nichol still looked a bit morose. “You're using it as a means of preparation for naval service, and I've never dreamed of such a thing for myself. I'm happy working as a fisherman, or I would be if I could find a boat that would take me out,” he added. “I can fish from the sea wall, but that won't bring in enough to save Megg having to buy more at the market.”

“I'd been hoping you might change your mind,” Nichol confessed with a little smile as they got back to the waterfront. “Go and have an adventure with me, you know. It would be more fun if you were there.”

Colm smiled back and, greatly daring, wrapped his arm around Nichol's shoulders for a moment. “I don't think I'm intended for a life of adventure,” he told his friend. “But I can't wait to hear all about yours, someday. I'm sure you'll have magnificent tales to tell.”

“I shall,” Nichol agreed, then sighed and squared his shoulders. “Well, I guess we'd better find you a job, then. Come on, I know some people we can ask to start.”

Nichol did know some of the big boat fishermen, but unfortunately none of the ones he knew were willing to do him any favors. “Oh come on!” he protested when the third boat turned them away. “Palmer, you've been moaning for weeks about needing better help aboard, and Colm's perfect for the job. Why won't you take him?”

“Don't know him, do I?” Palmer, the boat owner, replied before spitting a bit of shell into the water. He was eating a handful of sea roaches, but unlike how Nichol and Kiara had deftly peeled them apart, Palmer tossed them directly into his mouth and spit out the inedible chunks. “Not going to let some country bumpkin I've never even met before onto my boat.”

“But you know me, and I'm vouching for him!” Nichol insisted.

“Your word doesn't do me any good, lad. I only agreed to meet with you because you run with Jaime Windlove, and it pays to stay on a Windlove's good side.” He spat a final gob of chitin into the water and brushed the back of his hand across his mouth. There were still bits of shell caught in his beard, but Colm didn't feel like pointing it out. “Give your mate my best, eh?” Then he strode off down the street, leaving Nichol fuming and Colm convinced that he needed to try something new.

“Don't worry about it,” Colm told Nichol, catching his sleeve when it looked like he might go after Palmer to keep arguing. “I've the feeling I'll do better on a smaller boat, anyhow. I can't really get a feel for where the fish are unless I can touch the water, after all.”

“You can really feel them?” Colm had passed on his odd ability the day before, and Nichol had accepted it without qualm, but it seemed that even he would take some convincing.

“I can, but the day's almost gone. I'll show you tomorrow, after we find a fisherman with a smaller boat who might need a hand.”

In the end, it was Megg who ended up finding Colm a job. When she heard about their unsuccessful day, she tutted and shook her head. “Those big boats are drivin' the littler fishermen out of business. The less they catch, the less they can afford to pay for help. You've got an advantage there, Colm, since you'd be able to wait until the fish sold to get your wage if you wanted to work that way.”

“That would be fine,” Colm told her.

“You know who's been bellyachin' about needing a second body on his boat? Lew Gullfoot.” She motioned toward the wiry man sitting at the bar, looking grim and drinking with determination. “He's not had any help since his own grandson joined the army last year, and his back's been bothering him something terrible, hauling on those heavy nets. Let's go talk to 'im.”

Lew Gullfoot reeked of alcohol and fish guts, but he was sober enough to know what Megg was getting at when she sat down next to him and explained things.

“I can't be takin' the time to train him,” he snapped warningly, glaring over at Colm with his pale, rheumy eyes like Colm had suggested such a thing. “No layabouts on my boat, I warn ye.”

“I can do the work,” Colm assured him. He knew the basics of rigging, and he had always been a quick study on the water.

“Used gillnets before, have ye?”

“Yes.”

“Hmph.” Lew drained another tankard, his third since Colm had been watching, and waved his hand. “Fine, I suppose we can give you a try. Tomorrow morning, at the
Serpent's Tail
. That's my boat,” he added fiercely, like someone might try to deny it. “Before dawn. Have to start early if we're to get ahead of the schooners.”

“Where is it docked?” Colm asked.

“Where's it docked?” Lew bristled. “It's docked exactly where I left it, of course!”

Megg sighed. “You're drunk, Gullfoot. Vernon,” she said to the barkeep, “no more for Lew here, he's had enough.” Vernon knocked on the wooden counter once in acknowledgment. “I know where he's docked. I'll show you in the morning, Colm,” she told him.

Later, once the kitchen was closing down and the guests who were staying the night had all gone to bed, Megg held Colm back from his sleep for a moment. “Lew's not the easiest man to work with,” she told him, her voice serious, “and he's more often drunk than not, but he's got a decent boat and used to be respected around here. People will buy his catch, and when they do, you'll have your independence, love. I know it's been on your mind,” she added, forestalling Colm's immediate rebuttal. “Even though I'm willing to pay you to help me here if that's what you need, it's better you do something that speaks to your heart. Lew's a means of gettin' there.”

“I do appreciate everything you've done for me—”

“By the Four, love, if you were any more appreciative I wouldn't be able to move beneath the weight of all those thanks,” Megg interrupted. “This is a temporary solution for you, but I know you'll make the most of it. Once you've your own reputation established and some money saved, you can get your own boat and work for no one but yourself.” She winked at him. “Sounds good, eh?”

“It sounds lovely,” Colm said, and kissed Megg's cheek. It astonished Colm how fast the practice of sharing affection felt more natural for him. He had never been this free with it in Anneslea, not even with Baylee.

“I'm glad to hear it, love. Now, off to sleep with you. We'll get a real bed worked out soon,” she added with a frown.

“I'm really not bothered being on the floor,” he said.

“At least use Nichol's cot. He'll be gone half the night on his watch.”

“Perhaps,” Colm replied, but he already knew he wouldn't. Nichol was gone now, but he'd come stumbling upstairs in the wee hours of the morning, cold and exhausted, and Colm wasn't going to keep him from his bed after working so hard.

He did think about it, though. Sleeping on Nichol's cot. Sharing it, actually. That night, Colm took a moment—just a moment—to lie down on Nichol's blankets, to let his head rest against Nichol's pillow. It smelled of the harsh brown soap they used for bathing, and of sweat and the sea, and a little bit of something that Colm could only identify as Nichol, something warm and soothing. He inhaled deeply, letting the scent fill his lungs, and felt his cock stir between his legs.

Colm hadn't found release since the last week out on the caravan, and that had been furtive and hasty, in the darkness not far from the river where the sound of the water could cover any noise. Other people hadn't bothered to be so discreet. The man who Colm had cut had been noisy and unpracticed with his left hand, but no less determined to get off every single night. Couples had made love under blankets or in the backs of wagons, quieter but still noticeable, and every time Colm had turned away and done his best not to listen in. He'd never felt those urges as strongly as most men his age, and the more he could ignore them, the better, he felt.

Nichol, though…something about Nichol put Colm's body on alert. His formerly docile cock now flared to hardness at the most innocent of touches, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to advertise his attraction for all the world to see. When Colm saw Nichol, when he felt him, when he smelled him, he wanted to
take
him, he wanted to
be
taken. That of course was impossible, but right now…well, right now he could have this, with himself. Surely there was nothing wrong with it.

He loosened the knot holding his trousers up and pushed them and the thin, short breeches beneath down past his hips. The cool air felt like a caress against the too-hot skin of his cock, and when Colm wrapped a hand around himself, his breath caught at the solid, burning heat of it. Had it always felt like this, so urgent, so fierce? Had it ever felt like this before?

Colm stroked himself from the base up, slow and mindful of every slide of flesh against flesh. He had very little hair below, and when he looked down at himself and saw the pale wand of flesh jutting out from between his fingers, he moaned softly. What if it was someone else's hand on him? What if it was Nichol?

Colm shut his eyes and turned his face so that the side of it rested against the pillow, and he breathed in that heady scent again. How would Nichol get him off? Quickly, the way Colm was used to, stroking hard and fast until he spent in the other man's fist? Or slow, taking the time to run his fingers over every vein, every ridge and wrinkle and curve of flesh. Colm slowed down and touched himself lightly, just with his fingertips, and the sensation was enough to nearly set him keening. It felt so good, like he was something precious. Would he spill like this, Nichol helping him paint his own skin? Or would Nichol do something else?

Would he use his mouth?

If the fingertips were lips…facile, delicate lips that smiled so readily, and hid brilliant white teeth…if those lips trailed along the length of his cock, gentle but eager, a tongue darting out to taste… Colm licked his own fingertips and reapplied them to the head of his cock, smearing the dampness that had already collected there, spreading it along the swollen skin. Kissing lips, attached to a hungry mouth that finally opened wide and took him inside, surrounded his cock with wet heat and pressure and all of it
Nichol
—

“Ahh-hhh,” Colm moaned, just barely remembering to keep it quiet as he came into a scrap of sackcloth. His hips bucked up, his bare ass rubbing obscenely against Nichol's blanket, the very spot where Nichol would lie later tonight… Gods, it felt so good to let go, so good…

Reality reasserted itself too soon for Colm's fantasies, but as much as he would have loved to have fallen asleep right then and there, he couldn't. The last thing he wanted was Nichol finding out that Colm had used his sleeping space to masturbate, and that meant returning to his pallet on the floor. Colm wiped his hand off, catching the last few errant drops, then folded the cloth and put it away before pulling his clothes back on. He'd wash it in the morning, and Nichol would never know.