12. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

On their return trip, they avoided Nargash, riding around the dilapidated village and camping far on the other side. It was much easier for Evrard to ride down the hill than up, and it took significantly less time than it had on the front end.

"I'm not taking that chance a second time," Gray said dryly as he dismounted from Evrard. "I don't have a death wish, unlike some people." He nudged Rory's shoulder, and Rory caught a glimpse of his grin before he turned away to get the fire going for the night.

It was only a day after all the revelations and their agreement to be more straightforward with each other, but Rory swore that with every hour that passed, Gray stood a little straighter and glowered far less. He hadn't hidden his lack of excitement about returning to Ardglass and facing his father, but Rory still believed that slowly dismantling his secrets was already improving his mood.

"I don't have a death wish," Rory shot back.

Gray turned, flashing that quicksilver grin again. "The number of times you've managed to place yourself directly between me and danger tells a different tale." He had his dagger out and was moving further into the woods. In search of more kindling or dinner for the night, Rory wasn't sure.

"I haven't . . ." Rory spluttered. Except that he had. First, with the tribe, and then with Sabrina. The first had been more of a calculated risk—Rory had had time to weigh the hazard and the likelihood of whether there might be another chance of escaping—but the second time, when Gray's dagger had glanced off Sabrina's magical creature? That had been pure instinct, with no time to think, only to react. He'd done it because the idea of living without Gray, without his quiet, steadfast loyalty at his side and watching his back, seemed unthinkable. And despite what Evrard had said, Rory had done it before he had any idea of Gray's royal background, and it hadn't mattered if Gray only had the valley and the farm. He'd loved him and wanted him regardless of what property and prestige he could bring to Rory.

Rory's hands froze on the saddlebags as he was unstrapping them from Evrard's back.

Evrard made an impatient noise and tossed his great silvery mane at Rory's hesitation. "Those do not feel particularly nice, you know," Evrard chastised as Rory still didn't move. "They can chafe most unpleasantly."

But how could Rory perform a task as mundane as unfastening the saddlebags when his brain and his heart were alight with the knowledge that he'd stepped without hesitation between Gray and danger, and it was all because he loved him?

Craning his head, Evrard finally got a look at Rory's face. "For goodness' sake," Evrard said, his words punctuated with an impatient shake of his tail. "Look at you, mooning. I suppose you just realized why you stupidly stepped between him and Sabrina. He's not going to like it that you didn't tell him before you knew who he really is. He's going to think it's because you discovered he's just like you."

Rory glared at the unicorn. "It's not because of that at all. And the only reason he might think that way is because of what you said to him yesterday. A nice chest? Really?" He flushed, thinking of the embarrassment he'd felt. He'd worked hard to be taken seriously, and then Evrard had tried to ruin it by confessing every humiliating thing Rory had ever imagined.

"It helped for him to think you were hiding things too. Even if they were an unnatural appreciation for his pectoral muscles."

Rory's fingers finally resumed their nimble work and he dragged the saddlebags off Evrard's back with an annoyed glare in the unicorn's direction. "It isn't an unnatural appreciation. They are very fine and absolutely worth appreciating."

"Perhaps that isn't the compliment you should be leading with, when you tell Gray how you feel." Evrard looked at him contemplatively. "The question is, which should you lead with?"

Rory dumped the saddlebags next to the area they'd cleared for the evening's camp. "That is something for me to decide. How I tell Gray how I feel is not subject to a discussion."

"But you've never done this before," Evrard pointed out. "You might not realize you were going about it the wrong way."

Wrenching off his cloak, Rory tossed it down and began picking up sticks and moss. "And you have?" he challenged.

When Evrard didn't immediately answer, Rory finally looked up from the pile he was constructing. Evrard's expression was solemn, and somehow horribly gut-wrenching. Gray had barely shared any information about his past, but Evrard had always been even more tight-lipped, to the point of always giving generic information instead of personal anecdotes. It was entirely possible that Evrard had a deeply hidden, secretive past, full of love, loss, and heartbreak.

"I'm sorry, I presumed . . ." Rory stammered.

Evrard tilted his head, accepting the apology. "I believe in the past I have spoken to you of assuming other forms. There were many periods of many years when I did not occupy the form of a unicorn, when I was a man. And yes, during those times, I experienced much."

"Including love," Rory stated softly, and Evrard did not necessarily say, but the stark look in his eyes made it clear that all those love affairs had not ended happily.

When Gray returned, Rory had cobbled together a pile of kindling and moss, waiting for the larger pieces of wood and the matches to light it. He shot Rory an approving look. "I see you've been watching me," he teased, and this new, lighter Gray who teased and whose smiles set Rory's nerves alight, was definitely different and definitely not unwelcome.

"I like watching you," Rory teased right back.

"We're all very aware of that," Evrard inserted, his dry tone nearly matching one that Gray had utilized on many occasions. It occurred suddenly to Rory that maybe that was where he'd initially come by it.

"I brought dinner," Gray added, holding up a nice fat hare that he'd already skinned. "And before you moan about me killing animals to keep our bellies full, this one was already wounded by a fox I scared off."

Rory rolled his eyes. "I never said I had a problem with you feeding us."

"I saw your eyes when I skinned the squirrels the other night," Gray retorted, even though his eyes were still a warm, reassuring blue. "There's nothing wrong with feeling bad about it, but I'm still going to do it. We need to eat."

"Prince Emory is a sweeter, gentler soul," Evrard proclaimed, even though Rory did not necessarily agree with that pronouncement. He just hadn't had a lot of opportunity to see animals being skinned before, because while he might not be sweeter or gentler, he knew he'd grown up far more sheltered than Gray had.

"No, he really isn't," Gray said, rolling his eyes. "And please don't start with that Prince Emory crap. You know his name is Rory. You've called him that plenty of times. I guess I should be grateful you haven't whipped out Prince Graham yet, though I'm sure that's coming any moment now."

"It's important you remember where you came from," Evrard argued. "I'm afraid we've been too informal on this journey."

"Not informal enough," Gray countered, lighting the fire and gently placing the smoking moss inside the pyramid of kindling that Rory had constructed. "We've been fighting for our lives half the time we've been on the road. I'm not worried about bowing or scraping."

"No, you wouldn't be," Evrard said flatly.

Gray didn't respond, just kept tending the fire until a few minutes later, it was blazing warmly. He sat down on a nearby log and began to use his knife to construct a large fork for cooking the hare over the fire. Evrard trotted closer, settling near the log, but Gray ignored him.

"It feels easier, now that you've told one person, especially since it's someone you care about." Gray didn't bat an eyelash at Evrard's terminology, but Rory figured he was also trying very hard to ignore a very persistent unicorn. "But it's going to feel differently when we ride into Tullamore and everyone is staring at you, and yes, everyone will be bowing and scraping. How will you feel then?"

The dagger in Gray's hand stilled. Rory watched as he breathed in and then out again. "Like a fraud," he finally admitted.

"Then you should get used to it now, Your Highness," Evrard insisted.

Gray resumed his whittling, his dagger making short, angry strokes against the soft wood he was shaping. "I don't have to like it," he finally said, his words sharp. "I just have to live with it."

Tentatively, Rory sat down next to Gray—close, but not close enough that he'd be in danger of the sharp edge of the dagger—and reached out and put a reassuring hand on Gray's suddenly tense shoulder. He wasn't thrilled that Evrard had forced the issue now, not when Gray had been so much happier and so much lighter today. Rory shot Evrard a disgruntled look. It was clear Evrard could read some thoughts though he had never explained the extent of his ability. So Rory thought very hard in his direction, Couldn't you have saved that for another day? Didn't you see how happy he was to tell someone? To tell me?

Evrard tilted his head sideways and the clear expression on his beautiful face made it clear he'd understood every word and wasn't particularly pleased at Rory's thoughts. Too bad, Rory thought again.

"You may be both men—Gray and Prince Graham—but we know which has taken precedence in the intervening years since you were last in Tullamore. Perhaps Prince Emory and I should give you a refresher course on courtly etiquette."

Gray's expression went from slightly frustrated to downright disgruntled.

"Not happening." He grunted as punctuation to the denial, proving, at least in Rory's mind, that maybe a few etiquette lessons might not go amiss.

"In Tullamore, perhaps, rude and crude behavior might not be remarked upon," Evrard retorted, "but in Beaulieu? The crown jewel of Fontaine, where the Autumn Prince studies in his castle tower with all his intelligence and grace?"

His pronged fork complete, Gray shoved his dagger into the ground blade-side down and grabbed the hare, unceremoniously mounting it and holding it over the fire. "Feel free to tell him off," Gray said, directing his comment towards Rory, but not bothering to look his way. The wall, which Rory had so painstakingly been tearing down, piece by piece, brick by brick, was back up, and it felt pricklier and sturdier than ever. Rory shot Evrard another glare.

"Beaulieu is a gracious place," Rory allowed, "he isn't wrong about that. But he's wrong about me. I've never fit in there. I wasn't intelligence and grace. I was awkward and uncomfortable and much preferred the company of my books."

Gray didn't say anything.

"We are really not that much different. I'm hardly a prince, no matter what pretty names they call me," Rory continued, all too aware of how desperate he sounded. "If I were a true prince of Fontaine, I wouldn't have hidden away from my duties and let Sabrina take my throne in the first place."

"That we can agree on," Evrard murmured.

It seemed like the kind of comment that Gray never would have let go unanswered, but now he merely sat, turning the hare to brown it evenly on all sides. His silence was more infuriating than any of his bitter retorts. See what you've done, Rory thought in Evrard's direction, now he won't talk to either of us.

"When you have finished sulking," Evrard added, "we will be ready to discuss the plan moving forward."

But Gray, who had been all eagerness to hear Evrard's plan after they'd fetched the useless Bearer of Truth, said nothing.

Rory threw up his hands and went to search for a stream to fill their water flasks. The quiet of the forest helped Rory feel less like he'd like to leave Gray and Evrard to seemingly annoy each other to death, and after a few minutes of walking, he began to smell moisture on the air. It was one of the tricks Gray had taught him to figure out if water was near. When Rory bent down to check the earth, it was damp with moisture. When after a few hundred yards, he came upon a bubbling brook, he smiled even though nobody was there to see his success. Still, Gray would enjoy his triumph later when he was thirsty, Rory thought as he filled up the skins with cool, refreshing water.

When he came back to camp, the hare was done roasting, and Gray silently divided up the portions as Evrard stood at the edge of the camp, chewing happily on some tender clover.

Gray poked at the fire as he ate, clearly grumpy and wanting to be left alone. Rory decided he had no intention of disturbing him, and instead curled up in his cloak on the other side of the fire, staring into the flames and picturing each of the texts he was going to study when he finally returned to Beaulieu.

Evrard announced he was going to find the stream, and went flouncing off, mane and tail rippling with what Rory could only identify as annoyance.

"One day and we're already at odds again," Rory said morosely, mostly to himself since he had no expectations of Gray actually answering him.

To his surprise, Gray looked up, his eyes dark in the firelight. "That's all I wanted," he muttered, "a little respite. A day or two not to think about anything, to be happy that I was actually able to tell someone—you—who I was. And instead the stupid unicorn starts in on etiquette and Your Highness." Gray shoved the dirt at his feet with his boot. "Sometimes I don't know how we survived each other."

Rory had also wondered occasionally how that had worked—but then the valley had been fairly good-sized, and he assumed that most days there hadn't been any obligation for Gray or Evrard to actually converse about anything at all. He didn't think it would help Gray's mood to point out that it was likely they'd survived their life together before by never talking about anything of actual importance.

"And then, sometimes," Gray continued, his voice growing softer and less frustrated, "I don't know how I would have survived without him."

"He saved your life," Rory pointed out dumbly, and then flushed. Of course Gray knew that. Gray knew that better than anybody else. Without Evrard's help, he would have died in Sabrina's dungeon, likely drained of his blood, and she would have become invincible. Rory's life too, probably would have been forfeit, along with his parents, because one kingdom wouldn't have sufficed if two were available for the taking.

"He knows me better than anyone else, and that's not always a comfortable thing," Gray admitted. His voice dropped. "I'm not ready to face anyone bowing to me. I'm not ready to be Prince Graham again. Maybe not ever again. I don't know. And a few days isn't going to change anything, but he's annoyingly right. I suppose I should start thinking if I can face it."

"We're going to Ardglass," Rory said, still feeling stupid, which wasn't something he normally faced, but there was something about Gray that brought out the worst—and yet, the best—in him. "How could you possibly avoid it?"

"The whole court believes Prince Graham to be lost or dead. I don't have to be him. I could just be Gray. I'm lost, remember? Nobody's looking for me." Gray chuckled darkly.

Rory tried to reel in his shock and didn't succeed very well. "What about your father? You'd come face to face with him and not acknowledge that you are his son? Surely he knows you live? And surely he would recognize you?"

Gray shrugged, seemingly unconcerned about his father, which Rory couldn't quite believe. If he'd had any opportunity at all to know his parents, he would have taken every chance, suffered any price. Gray's attitude was baffling to him.

But then Rory's parents hadn't forced him to run away as a child.

"I'm not sure he thinks of anything anymore besides his women and his drink," Gray said. "I doubt he even remembers that he once had a son."

Rory thought even if King Gideon was as far gone in his vices as Gray insisted he was, he could not possibly forgotten his son. Even though Evrard's methods could sometimes be a trifle overbearing and absolutely underhanded, Rory could understand some of his frustration with Gray. There was a well of bitterness and anger deep inside him, and Rory had a feeling that it fueled many of his beliefs.

It definitely fueled the wall that kept Rory out.

"I don't think you should return to Tullamore as anyone but yourself," Rory said, a trifle recklessly. Gray would likely not agree with him, and it might push him away even further, but one thing Rory had learned from his years hiding in the great library tower of Beaulieu was that hiding never altered a situation for the better. "Whether you want to be or not, you are a prince, and you are your father's heir. Don't make him hide that part of you away. If anyone should feel shame for what transpired, it is him—not you."

Gray was quiet for so long that Rory worried that he might have done irreparable damage. Maybe Gray would never talk to him again, he thought morosely, but at least Gray might finally decide being lost was overrated. Some good might come of this journey, even if it never resulted in the love Rory felt being returned.

"That's why I want to hide," Gray admitted very quietly, still staring into the fire. "I'm afraid he won't feel any shame."

Rory couldn't imagine what that might feel like; his parents had loved him very much and had never wanted to leave him alone. It was inconceivable that a father would cast a son away, willingly.

"I'm sorry," he said, knowing the words were not enough. His heart was breaking for Gray; even as he'd lived with his father's rejection and betrayal, he'd grown into a fine man and a fine leader. Perhaps Rory could not exactly fault him for the bitterness and anger that overflowed out of him occasionally.

"Why are you sitting over there?" Gray changed the subject and then shot Rory a diminished grin, an echo of what he'd done earlier in the evening. But he'd still tried, despite all the fears and worries weighing heavily on his mind.

Rory raised an eyebrow. "Because I was afraid I might get my head bitten off?"

Hanging his head, Gray laughed, the sound rusty. "I guess I can't fault you for that. I'm sorry for my rotten moods."

"I'm only sorry for the cause of them," Rory pointed out earnestly, picking up his cloak and moving around the fire to where Gray was sitting. "Is this seat taken?"

"No, Your Highness, it's been waiting all night for you," Gray said, and the smile on his face was deep and genuine.

Maybe Gray was not in as much need of an etiquette refresher as Evrard had believed.

Rory sat down, and Gray put a hand on his knee, squeezing it gently. "I really am sorry," he said, and sounded earnest. "And I'm sorry for not telling you, before. I can't even say I wanted to, because I didn't. I was afraid it would change things. I was afraid that it would give everything between us weight."

It was impossible not to feel the sting of his words. Rory had wanted whatever they shared to have weight, but Gray had been hoping the whole time that it wouldn't.

Gray must have seen the hurt flash across Rory's face, because he flushed, and stammered out an explanation. "No, that's not what . . . I mean it was, but not for the reason you think. I remember thinking that you could never know, because you'd think I could leave the valley, maybe even come to Fontaine with you—and at that point, I didn't even consider it a possibility. I was lost and couldn't see beyond staying lost. I'm still not sure I can, even though there's a voice inside telling me that it's time to rejoin the land of the living. It could be Evrard, but I don't think it is. I think that voice is the part of me who wants more, who wants you."

Taking a deep breath, Rory was really proud of how steady his voice stayed. "If you still want to stay lost, you can. I . . . I really care about you." He couldn't quite manage the word love, just yet, but he was trying. "I want you with me, but I won't . . . I can't ask you to abandon the life I promised to help you reclaim. That would be selfish."

Gray smiled, soft and sweet, and reached up to cup Rory's cheek. "God forbid you get selfish," he murmured.

They'd never kissed before when there wasn't violence or undeniable need pounding in their blood. Rory hadn't known that when their lips met tonight, their secrets laid bare, it would make such a difference. It didn't feel anything like that first, charged kiss they'd shared in the forest after Rory had saved them from the nomadic tribe, or in the lake, cold and wet, or even after escaping the bandits who'd hoped to rob them. It felt both new and old, and Rory knew he'd never felt closer to Gray than he did at this moment. As Gray angled his head, kissing him sweetly and then deeply, the fire of desire rising in their blood, Rory realized while Gray might be rebuilding some of his walls, he was doing it with Rory inside. As hard as it was, Gray was opening himself up to him, one confession and one hard-won truth at a time. Evrard might have been with Gray the longest, but Rory was no longer sure that he truly knew him the best, after all.

Their kiss was beginning to turn heated, Rory panting lightly into Gray's mouth as Gray's hands skated across his chest and then lower, briefly stopping at his waist before reaching in and rubbing at the front of his breeches, where Rory was hard and aching.

"I may take to wearing bells," Evrard said wryly, making Rory jump as Gray pulled his hand away from his hard cock.

"Yes," Gray said, and Rory felt inordinately pleased at the rough edge to his tone. All this annoyance was because they'd just been interrupted—not because Evrard kept pushing him. "Some bells or another sort of auditory signal might come in handy, especially if you keep sneaking up on us."

Evrard sniffed. "I had not realized that you two had progressed to the point of nightly romantic rituals," he said.

Gray rolled his eyes. "You're a meddling fool, so I'm going to let that one slide."

"Next time, I will announce my appearance more obviously," Evrard conceded.

"You do that," Gray retorted, but his tone was amused rather than annoyed. Maybe their "romantic ritual" hadn't solved all—or any—of Gray's problems with his past or his future, but it had seemed to lift his dark mood.

Rory started to move a little further away, when Gray leaned down, and caught him by the shoulder with one firm hand. "Evrard always sleeps soundly after clover and a drink. After he falls asleep, we'll head into the woods towards the stream. There's a cluster of trees, in the middle of a clearing."

That much was something Rory had also observed, but he didn't know why they needed to sneak off to indulge in more "romantic rituals." Couldn't they do it here, a respectable distance from Evrard?

"He hears everything," Gray said, and the look in his eyes made it very clear he had no intention of letting Evrard observe any more of their relationship. Since Gray had grown up with Evrard, that did make quite a lot of sense. "Come with me, please," Gray added, and Rory would have to be deaf not to hear the pleading note in his voice—desperation that Rory felt right along with him.

"Yes," Rory said. "After he starts that snoring noise he likes to claim he doesn't make."

It took Evrard an unconscionably long time to make the noise that signaled he was well and truly asleep. Rory, who had restlessly been pretending to sleep, but in actuality waiting for the sound that meant they were in the clear, stood almost immediately after it began. Gray appeared the next moment, reaching out in the darkness and clasping his hand. "Come," Gray said, and even though it was pitch black, began to lead them through the forest, to the clearing he'd described earlier.

Rory's heart was beating quickly, both in anticipation of what might occur once they made it to the clearing, and also at how eagerly Gray kept pulling him along, like he too couldn't wait until they were finally alone.

They reached the clearing and Gray tugged his arm, drawing Rory against him, as his own back settled against one of the trees. "I couldn't wait to do this," Gray said, and he sounded equally as breathless as his mouth descended upon Rory's, passion flaring between them like it had never been extinguished by Evrard's untimely interruption.

Gray's kiss was ravenous, and after only a few blissful moments, he switched their places, pressing Rory gently but inexorably against the trunk of the tree as they continued to kiss. His lips skated down Rory's neck, finding a whole chain of sensitive spots to kiss, until Rory was moaning and squirming under the onslaught. He wanted Gray to return his hand to the front of his breeches and give him the relief he'd so tantalizingly promised earlier. But instead, Gray sank to his knees, and Rory, who could barely make out his face in the dark, gaped.

He'd done this, yes, and he'd thought about it plenty of times, but somehow he had never imagined that powerful, controlled Gray would ever give himself up to it like Rory secretly wanted him to. But he showed no hesitation as he untangled the knot of Rory's breeches and then stroked his hard cock after Gray had pulled it out from the restraining fabric. "Do you want this?" Gray asked.

Rory worried his swollen bottom lip, afraid to say yes, and terrified to say no. "I want you," he said instead. Gray shook his head, his dark hair shining in the even darker night. "Tell me," he insisted. "I want you to say it."

"I want you to," he practically whispered. "Please."

The single word was all the encouragement Gray needed, because he bent down and Rory's head tipped back against the trunk as Gray's lips enveloped his cock.

He'd read about this so many times, imagining being the giver, and being the recipient, but he'd never dreamed that it would feel as good as this. His hands settled uncertainly on Gray's shoulders, and to Rory's surprise, he pushed against them, encouraging him to do more. Rory wasn't exactly certain what it was that Gray wanted, and as he sucked on the head, pleasure blurred out every logical thought process he'd ever claimed to possess. He wanted more of this, and then he would want it again, and then he would want it always.

Finally, Gray decided to help, as he plucked one of Rory's hands off his shoulder and deposited it on his head. Oh, Rory realized, that's what he wants. And he'd seen this done, in a handful of very tasteful erotic etchings, but nothing came close to the visceral joy of it, being able to sink his fingers into the silk of Gray's hair and pull, giving himself exactly what he wanted. Gray made a happy, encouraging noise in the back of his throat, and Rory felt the last of his reservations evaporate as he carefully thrust, pleasure exploding through him.

There was so much they hadn't done, so much time they hadn't been able to steal, and even taking a little now made Rory feel wild and greedy and desperate for so much more. All those etchings raced through his head, and his orgasm, barely held at bay by the tiniest shred of self-control, roared through him at the thought there might not be a finite end to this after all. They could have more, if everything fell their way. They could be, Rory thought dazedly, everlasting.

He sank against the tree, spent and worn out from the day's journey and from his spectacular orgasm. His cock slipped from between Gray's lips and Rory reached down to help him to his feet and to hopefully, return the favor. Except he found Gray's own breeches undone and his cock softening. "I couldn't help it," Gray said, and Rory could see the glimmer of a grin in the darkness. His voice was a little rough, and between that and the evidence that doing that to Rory had been as arousing to Gray as it was to Rory himself—it nearly sent another rush of desire flowing through him.

"I know," Gray added, "but we'll have more time. We'll make more time, if we have to. But for now, we should get some rest. Else Evrard will be insufferable in the morning."

"Alright," Rory said, gazing up at him. "As soon as my muscles can move again."

Gray laughed and leaned down to kiss him again. Rory tasted himself on his tongue, and thought to himself, we can be everlasting.