23. Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Three

Telling Gray about Marthe and Diana's discovery hadn't been the first thing he'd wanted to lead with—there were definitely other subjects he was dying to discuss with Gray—but after Rory's confession, that was all Gray wanted to hear.

"Tell me everything," he said, pulling Rory towards the farmhouse, as Anya directed the guard towards the stables. "What do you mean, she isn't dead? I fried her."

"You did," Rory agreed. "We all saw it. But, Marthe found a room, deep in the catacombs, near where we snuck in using the old sewer tunnels, where Sabrina performed her magic spells. And it seems that someone else is using it."

Gray stared at him, as Rory sank into one of the chairs near the fireplace. Gray's old home might be very simple, but it was comfortable. "Someone else? Who?"

"Unfortunately, they seemed to have run off just before they were discovered. But," Rory sighed, "I do have my guesses."

"Aplin or Rinard," Gray said in a hard voice. "Of course it would be them. It surely has to be Rinard."

"Perhaps not. I have my concerns about both of them."

Gray sighed, and began to pace back and forth. "I won't disagree with you. But why were Marthe and Diana searching in the catacombs in the first place?"

This was less easy for Rory to admit, because so much of the explanation why touched on the other reason he'd been desperate to talk to Gray.

He held out his hands towards Gray, who came nearer and took them in his own, clasping tightly. Rory's heart beat a little faster, and even though he knew this was the right thing to do, he still felt a frisson of nerves. "It was actually Marthe's suggestion. She said many of the nobles didn't fully understand what Sabrina was capable of, and perhaps I should show them what she was truly like. It was good timing, since I was looking to curry favor with the court, because I'm planning to announce a new proposal that might not be popular."

Gray frowned. "Is that really the best idea right now? Even if you can convince them Sabrina was evil, the risk might not be worth the reward."

He couldn't have known it, but his words gave Rory the strength—the certainty—he so desperately needed. "The risk," he told Gray seriously, "would be worth every bit of the reward. At least I hope so."

"What could possibly be worth it?"

Rory stood, and tugged their still connected hands in the direction of Gray's room, where he knew the bath was set up. "Let's take a bath and talk about it, more privately," he said. "I've been thinking about your bathtub since we left Beaulieu."

Gray laughed, his expression was baffled. "You have marble tubs the size of whole rooms in Beaulieu; why on earth would my tub be worth dreaming about?"

"Because you're in it," Rory said, closing the door behind them and wrapping his arms tightly around Gray's neck. He rose on his tiptoes and kissed Gray square on the mouth. From the moment their lips touched, Rory realized that they hadn't been kissing nearly enough. Touching, either. Or really talking, when it came down to it, but tonight, at the very least, other than one important question, he didn't intend to do much talking. Touching and kissing? That was another matter entirely.

Rory's fingers made quick work of the buttons on Gray's stained shirt, and he quickly shoved it aside, resting his palms against Gray's heart, beating hard in his chest. He pulled away, momentarily entranced by Gray's damp red-tinged lips. He didn't believe it, but he was so handsome. Gray was always telling him that he was the beautiful one; the most stunning man he had ever seen. But Rory had been looking at Gray that way from the very first moment they met, and he had no intention of ever stopping.

"Bath," Gray said breathlessly. "I thought you wanted a bath. I know I need a bath. Harvesting corn is no minor job." He hesitated. "I wanted to finish this afternoon so we could leave tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Rory said firmly. "Bath now. Talk now."

Gray started working the pulley system, bringing water from the cistern to the bathtub. "What is this new plan of yours? You should've talked to Evrard about it."

"I don't think I need to. I think . . . I know now, at least I think I know, what you were trying to do the other night, when you . . ." Rory hesitated.

"When I proposed," Gray said flatly.

"Yes, when you proposed," Rory responded softly. "I didn't know then. I was too overwhelmed and drowning in my own problems to see it, but now I see what you were trying to do. And it would be a good start, but I think we can improve upon it."

Gray shot him a quick, pointed look. "Improve upon it?"

This is it, Rory's subconscious unhelpfully supplied. Now you find out if you waited too long. If you refusing to answer the other night was the nail in the coffin of your relationship. Carefully, he dropped to one knee. His riding breeches were stained and dirty, his tunic had not fared much better, and his hair was mussed from the ride and from Gray's own fingers. But hopefully what his attire lacked, he could make up for with his words. After all, words were his thing.

"I love you," Rory said. "I do want to marry you. It would give me the greatest happiness in the world if you would do me the honor of becoming my husband. But something that would make me even happier—and you too, I hope—would be if you would take the throne of Fontaine with me. Share it. Rule with me, Gray. I don't just want you to be my consort, I want you to be my partner. My equal. My king."

There was no other word for Gray's reaction than complete shock.

"You . . . this is what you want?" he asked, and Rory could only nod in agreement.

"But, every time I asked you, you . . . you put me off!" Gray answered. He sounded frustrated and Rory couldn't say he blamed him. Rory had been blind, and had a lot to apologize for.

"I've not been treating you right, not for awhile now. I wasn't thinking of you, and all the adjustments you've had to make since you came with me to Beaulieu. And when I did, it became so obvious to me that the solution to so many of our problems was to stop trying to handle them alone and share them."

Gray crossed his arms over his bare chest, but didn't say anything. The water continued to fill in the tub, and Rory, feeling awkward that he was still kneeling with no answer in sight, finally stood and walked over to the vessel, dipping his fingers in to test the temperature of the water. Rory supposed he couldn't really blame Gray for being angry, for wanting to make sure Rory wasn't merely trying to placate him with empty promises. And perhaps Rory did deserve a little payback for his own non-answer to Gray's proposal.

Finally, he spoke up. "This will not be a popular choice for you, as King," he said softly. "You are taking an enormous risk here. We could do this more slowly. First, an engagement. Then marriage. Then gradually involving me more in sharing your duties until you finally appoint me as your equal. We don't have to do this . . . I'm not going to leave you just because I'm frustrated."

Rory couldn't deny he'd considered a plan very similar to Gray's suggestion. It was slightly terrifying, trusting to chance and his very newly won ability to govern his people, that they wouldn't become frustrated and find a new ruler to take his place. "Gray," he said, reaching out to him again, and pulling him close, pressing their bodies together. "You were born to be a king, and more importantly, you were trained to be a king. What kind of husband would I be if I chose to diminish that part of you? Not a very good one. I would not have the first choices of our committed life together be half-hearted compromises."

"You do mean to do this, then, fully. No turning back."

It might have felt more difficult than it was, except that Rory knew how much they could accomplish if only they worked together, if only they married Rory's knowledge with Gray's strength. "I am as fully committed to this as I am committed to you," Rory vowed.

Gray stared at him for a long, measured moment. "I love you," he finally said, and leaning down, kissed him soundly, passionately. Lifted his mouth briefly and smiled. "And yes, of course I will marry you."

Relief and happiness cascaded through Rory. He reached up and cupped Gray's bristled cheeks, kissing him again, and then again. "You won't regret this," he vowed. "I swear that you won't."

Gray was smiling now, as widely and as brightly as Rory had ever seen. "I haven't yet," he confessed. "Even all those times we ended up fighting because men lose their heads around you."

"They do not," Rory scoffed. But Gray's gentle teasing, after a week apart, and what felt like months where they barely saw each other, was a balm.

"They absolutely do," Gray said, and he was definitely grinning now. "But then so did I, so I can hardly blame them."

"You did?" Gray had always seemed so sure, so confident, so purposeful, that it felt strange for Rory to consider that it was him, and not circumstances out of Gray's control, that had been enough to change his path.

Gray bent down, his dark blue eyes growing serious, as he swept a hand through Rory's hair, pushing it back gently. "I thought you were everything I hated, condensed into one person, but then I discovered who you really were, the man underneath the Autumn Prince, and it wouldn't have mattered if you were an emperor or a beggar, I was yours. Heart, soul, and body."

Rory couldn't help the glimmer of a smile that escaped him. "Body?" he inquired hopefully.

Laughing, Gray scooped him up and, depositing him on the edge of the tub, made quick work of his clothes and boots. Rory slid into the tub and watched expectantly, with his blood racing and heat building in his stomach, as Gray shed his own pants and boots.

He was every inch the warrior that Rory always fantasized about: all that smooth golden skin covering muscle that bunched and flexed as he leaned over to untie a stubborn lace. When Gray raised his head again, his gaze had darkened. "I like you watching me," he said softly, but with clear erotic purpose. His cock was growing harder, and Rory watched with rapt attention as Gray's hand gripped it, stroking from root to tip and back again. "But I think I like you touching me even more," he admitted.

"Then come here," Rory pleaded, and Gray did as requested, stepping into the tub and positioning himself opposite Rory.

Reaching out, Rory was surprised when the other man batted his hands away. "But . . ." Rory pouted. Hadn't Gray just said he liked Rory touching him?

"Wash first," Gray insisted, and he was already scooping out the soap, suds trailing across his broad chest. Rory shut his mouth and followed suit, washing up quickly and efficiently. The moment the soap returned to the dish, Rory was pushing off from one side of the tub, floating over to where Gray sat, waiting, his eyes gleaming with so many possibilities that Rory felt breathless.

When Rory finally settled on his lap, knees on either side of Gray's thighs, they both let out a sigh. "Better," Gray said, and that was the last word he said for awhile, as Rory leaned down and kissed him thoroughly, tongue slipping inside his mouth and exploring every inch that he'd missed over the last few weeks. His fingers, trying to grip Gray's damp shoulders, slipped, and their heads nearly knocked together. Gray gasped and then suddenly, without warning, picked Rory up, his powerful muscles straining as Rory wrapped his legs, water streaming off them, around Gray's waist.

"Bed," Rory agreed, answering Gray's unspoken question.

It had always been hot and perfect between them, even when they'd been in a half-frozen lake, and it was just as perfect now, but now, as Gray lay down on the bed and Rory crawled up his chest to continue kissing him, it wasn't just unrestrained lust. There was tenderness and care between them. Every time Gray touched him, fingers sure on his skin, Rory experienced an echo of every bit of love Gray felt. And hovering behind every kiss, every touch, every gasp and every moan was the knowledge that they would be doing this for a long time, and every moment of that forever, they would be together.

"Please," Rory begged as Gray's touch fleetingly brushed against his own hard, leaking cock. "Please touch me."

"As my king commands," Gray teased, but this time his fingertips didn't just graze his skin, but settled with purpose against the cradle of his hips. "How did you want me to touch you?"

Rory, panting and half-crazed with want, opened his legs, spreading them wide in an open invitation.

Invitation received, Gray slicked his fingers up from the bottle by the bed, and when he slid the first finger inside Rory, he threw his head back and moaned. No matter how much they did this, it always felt so good, somehow even better than it had the first heart-stopping time they'd indulged.

"You feel so goddamned perfect," Gray ground out, his voice growing low and intense, gritty around the edges. Another finger joined the first one, and as they delved deep, touching that electric part inside him, Rory gasped.

Typically this was the extent of the preparation Rory needed, usually both of them were so incredibly eager to have Gray inside him, but this time, Gray kept fingering him, alternating his deep thrusts with shallower teasing brushes, until Rory was panting, sweat beading on his brow, his cock painfully hard as it tapped his stomach wetly.

"Please, please, please," Rory pleaded, feeling at the very edge of his self-control, driven there by Gray's own. He was clearly as ready as Rory was, but still he held off, apparently content to drive Rory mad with pleasure.

He only relented after Rory felt like he might explode from the tension wracking his body, and at the very least, orgasm before Gray could even slide his cock inside him. Gray carefully withdrew his fingers and slicking his cock up, positioned himself between Rory's legs.

"I love you," he said, his intense gaze boring straight into Rory's own as he finally slid home.

Rory trembled with the effort it took not to give himself over to the overwhelming bliss. When Gray's cock slipped in those last few inches, Rory's head fell back against the pillow, and he groaned, "So good, so full."

"I'm gonna make you feel even better," Gray promised, and began to thrust, his rhythm overwhelming Rory almost immediately. "See, I promised you," he grunted, as Rory found himself hurtling right over the edge without even a single touch on his own cock, spurting all over his own stomach and Gray's too.

Gray followed him only a moment later, letting out a loud, incredibly sexy groan that might have made Rory hard again if he hadn't just finished coming as hard as he ever had in his life.

"That was," Gray said, pulling out and then collapsing next to a completely worn-out Rory. "That was something else."

"You're a closet sadist, as well as the sexiest man in the world," Rory said, pulling together the energy to roll over and gaze at the man he loved. The man he was going to marry.

"It's part of my charm," Gray said with a rough chuckle.

"You're perfect," Rory said as his eyes began to droop. "You're perfect, and I love you."

It was clear; Rory did not think Gray was perfect the next morning. "Come on," he said, half-dragging Rory out of the warm cocoon of the blankets. During the last six months, it was always Rory pushing to get up earlier and earlier, and somehow get more done in a day than was physically, humanly possible, but maybe that was finally catching up with him, because he was resisting Gray's efforts to coax him out of bed so they could finish the harvest.

"Your guard is already out, they're in the fields right now," Gray grumbled, pulling Rory's leg out, only to have him retract it rather forcibly.

"Then they should keep it up," Rory mumbled into the pillow. "I'm tired. So tired."

"You've been pushing yourself too hard," Gray said, sitting down with a hard thump on the side of the bed. "I told you that you were, and you wouldn't listen."

"No need to say ‘I told you so,'" Rory complained. "I already figured out how to fix it, didn't I?"

"But we can't really fix it if we don't harvest this corn and travel back to Beaulieu."

Rory's head tilted to the side, as if he was considering this. "And we can't plan our wedding either," he pointed thoughtfully.

"Exactly," Gray said. Six months ago, he might have asked why a wedding would take a lot of planning—but then he'd entered the rank-fixated and event-obsessed court at Beaulieu, and he'd discovered that everything he knew about events was wrong. At Tullamore, they'd prided themselves on keeping state occasions simple. As long as there were plenty of roaring fires, enormous roasts over them and plenty of ale and whiskey to go around, the clansmen had not been particularly hard to please.

At Beaulieu, a court event was an event. And a royal wedding was likely a whole other level of obsessive planning that Gray wasn't sure he was prepared for. Yes, he desperately wanted to marry Rory, but he also didn't want to worry about who was going to sit sixteen seats down from the royal table.

"Why don't we just . . . get married," Gray said.

Rory stared at him blankly. "I thought that was what we were going to do."

"I mean, without all the pomp and circumstance." Gray sighed. "The banquet to honor the Mecant tribe took a whole month of planning! I don't want to wait that long."

Reaching out and stroking his arm, Rory smiled up at him sweetly. "I want to get married now too, but unfortunately, part of what will help distract the court from stewing about your future kingship is plenty of pomp and circumstance."

Gray sighed. "So we can't avoid it?"

"I'm afraid avoiding it will likely be impossible."

"Then," Gray said, suddenly rising to his feet and wrapping his arms around a squirming bundle of blanket-swaddled Rory, and lifting him up, "we'd better get started." Rory grumbled, but finally he discarded his blankets and began to get dressed.

It took the rest of the day to get the corn harvested and packed into the cart. When Gray went to visit Evrard and prepare him for the next day's journey, the unicorn merely stared at him.

"Go with you? Why would I go with you?" Evrard asked, clearly uncomprehending what Gray was asking.

"We're going back to Beaulieu," Gray said slowly, enunciating every word, knowing it would likely annoy Evrard, but doing it anyway. "Rory and I are getting married. He came here with nearly the same plan you had."

"Imagine that," Evrard said smugly.

"Don't you want to be at the wedding?" Gray asked, trying to prepare himself if Evrard claimed that he didn't. Or if he maintained this charade that he wouldn't be coming back to Beaulieu at all.

"The wedding is merely a formality, and mark my words, it will indeed be a formality. I will miss seeing you stuffed and glittered and wrapped in enough gold-embroidered thread to decorate a regiment."

Gray couldn't understand. "Why will you not be there?"

Evrard's gaze finally turned towards him, and to Gray's shock, it was soft and empathetic. "I know you wish me to be there for you, but the last thing the royal court will need at your wedding is a reminder of Rory taking the throne. I am associated most strongly with that event. You need to present a front of unassailable strength."

"Wouldn't us standing with a royal unicorn help present that strength?" Gray asked slyly.

But Evrard's expression never wavered. "I wish I could return with you, I do. But it cannot be helped. Your life is situated. Rory's life is situated."

Gray had told himself that he would not let his feelings be hurt if Evrard refused to come. But it was inevitable. Evrard, while hardly the most appropriate father figure for a child, had been the only one he had known. And now that his own, real father was dead, Evrard was all that he had remaining.

"You have your family," Evrard said, reading his mind yet again, even though he knew it annoyed Gray, "and they will be there, and on that day, I will be thinking of you and Rory and sending you all my good wishes and happiness for the future. But as you well know, I have served my purpose here. I saved you. I saved Prince Emory, and saw him to his kingship, and now I have seen you to yours, and also to marriage with your soulmate. There is little to keep me here. I am like the Valley; I come as needed, and now that we have both outlived our usefulness, we will fade into the ether."

"I'm sorry to hear that but I understand," Gray said, but truthfully, he couldn't feel anything but hurt and bewildered. Part of him desperately wanted to say that Evrard should stay for him, and for all the good, measured advice that he would surely need in the future. But he also had his pride, and his pride stopped his tongue. "Then this is goodbye." He placed a hand on Evrard's neck, and Evrard bowed, his mane flowing to the straw below their feet.

When Gray came out of Evrard's stable, Rory immediately knew something was wrong, and came up to him, a concerned expression on his face. "What has happened?" he asked.

"Evrard will not be returning with us. Not for the wedding. Not ever again, possibly." Gray took a deep breath. "If you wish to say goodbye to him, now would be the best time."

"I shall say something, certainly," Rory said, and marched off to the stable. No doubt to inform Evrard that he was being an idiot and that he would be coming back to Beaulieu with them in the morning.

But Rory returned from the stables with a defeated look in his eyes and they did not speak of it again.

In the early morning light of their departure, Evrard did come out of the stables one last time, white coat shining and glimmering in the dawn, and if Gray had to turn his head away to prevent anyone from seeing a tear fall, then it was between him and his horse.

When they departed the Valley of Lost Things, Gray took everything of value to him, as he knew, instinctively, that it would not remain any longer. This was the last of its magic, and with Evrard gone, it too would dissipate after their departure.