9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

They dressed after a quick wash, shivering despite the warmer air and the sun shining overhead. Remembered pleasure made Gray's thoughts sticky-slow, but one stuck out further than the rest. This was the worst time to be allowing personal indulgences to matter, but fighting against Rory's indefinable charm felt more distracting than giving in. It was easier, Gray reasoned, to give in a little bit—and there was the added bonus that it brought a smile to Rory's face that warmed his eyes for the first time since Gray had met him. Gold, Gray thought dazedly, his eyes are gold. Other men wanted strongboxes full of riches and treasure, but all Gray desired was his valley, and those eyes, gazing at him like he was the only man Rory could ever want.

But, Gray shook himself as Evrard emerged over the crest of the trees, reality made that dream impossible. Rory was meant for the throne of Fontaine, and Gray was meant for something else. A smaller, humbler life. Until Rory had started batting his eyelashes in Gray's direction, that was all Gray had really wanted. But now things were complicated and complicating them even further was the secret of Gray's birth.

He can never know, Gray thought as they silently climbed onto Evrard's back again.

"Your odor is much improved," Evrard pointed out as he briskly trotted back to the road, "and your moods as well."

Gray could feel Rory's blush even though he couldn't see it. Evrard had known the events he was setting into motion when he had retreated as a lookout. Part of Gray wanted to be annoyed that Evrard was matchmaking, because he undeniably was, but his time alone with Rory had been so pleasurable it was hopeless to regret it.

"We are reaching the end of my knowledge of the area," Gray admitted a few hours later as he and Rory gnawed at the last of their dried meat stores. "But there is a village at the base of the mountains. Nargash. We should reach it by nightfall."

"A village?" Gray tried to ignore the hopeful note in Rory's voice, but it was difficult.

Ignoring anything about Rory was difficult.

And there was also that matter of the small pouch of gold coins tucked in the pocket of his breeches. They could afford a night in a proper inn, with a hot meal, before the long, arduous climb the next day. It would be good for Evrard to be sheltered in a stable, especially with the exertion of the next few days.

"If there's an inn," Gray said grudgingly, "we will inquire and see if they have any rooms available."

"Hopefully a private room," Rory said softly, leaning closer and plastering himself along Gray's back, until his voice was a whisper of a promise in Gray's ear.

His blood heating was unavoidable and his reaction undeniable. Gray must want Rory as much as Rory wanted him, and it seemed foolish not to take this chance to indulge, if they indeed had a chance.

"We'll see," Gray said, trying to make his voice gruff, but instead it came out soft and tender and anticipatory. Like he could not wait to get Rory alone and kiss him and touch him again, this time on a decent bed, behind a door that locked.

"You sound eager," Rory said slyly, and for his professed inexperience with men, he was far better at teasingly flirtatious comments than Gray would have anticipated.

Gray's fingers tightened on Evrard's mane.

"I know you are very eager," Evrard pointed out, tone annoyed, "but please do not pull out my mane in your eagerness to reach the village."

It was Gray's turn to blush. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"Before we reach the village, we have much to discuss. Our further path, and the object you must obtain," Evrard said.

It was not lost on Gray that Evrard had waited until the last moment to have this conversation. Gray did not like it because he didn't like leaving such an important quest up to chance. What if they'd gotten separated from Evrard somehow? It had nearly happened only a week prior, and only Rory's quick thinking and years of study had prevented disaster.

But if Gray had made this point, Evrard would only have replied in that infuriatingly calm tone, "What will be is what is."

"What are we looking for?" Rory asked, sounding nearly as excited to find the object that would take back his kingdom as he was to spend the evening alone with Gray. And that's the way it should be, Gray told himself, even as pain pricked him. Rory would be moving on and evolving into a leader and a man. It was right he should be excited at the prospect.

Gray resolutely ignored any feelings of envy. All you want is your valley.

"It is a ring, a ring of great mystical value and importance, and upon wearing it, gives the owner complete truth."

It sounded like complete idiocy to Gray. Who wanted complete truth? A nice gray version was always so much easier to deal with. But then Gray could see how such an object might be useful in dealing with a perennial liar and manipulator like Sabrina. For one, it would be far easier to expose her lies. And if they could get her to don the ring? The web of lies she'd woven over so many years would completely disintegrate.

"You will find this ring," Evrard continued, "called the Bearer of Truth, in a hidden cave tucked between two of the largest mountains."

"Hidden?" Gray inserted. "How do we find something that's hidden?"

"By searching for it, naturally," Evrard said.

"Not helpful," Gray grumbled.

"It can't be a huge area, between the two largest mountains," Rory reasoned. "How hidden could a hidden cave be?"

"The Bearer of Truth has remained hidden for several centuries," Evrard said, immediately ruining Rory's optimism. "It will not be easy to find it, but it is necessary to defeat the Regent Queen."

"No pressure," Gray interrupted. "Why don't you tell us something more helpful, like how to actually find the stupid cave?"

"Between two mountains of great stature lie veracity, fidelity, and certainty. Tread the peak and scale the valley. Solve the puzzle and gain the ring," Evrard intoned in a serious, ponderous voice.

"Great, a prophecy," Gray complained.

"Do you hate prophecies the same way you hate royalty?" Rory wondered.

"Prophecies, like royalty, can certainly be a waste of time," Gray said carefully, because he didn't want to give Rory the impression he hated him. He hated his title, he hated what his title represented and he sure as hell didn't want Rory's princely status to come between them—but he could never hate Rory.

"It is not a prophecy, only an ancient saying, from a time when the ring was hidden away. I thought it might add clarity to your search," Evrard corrected.

Gray rolled his eyes. Only Evrard would believe that an "ancient saying" would actually be helpful.

"Thank you," Rory said, and actually sounded like he meant it.

A few hours later, the road began to widen, and there were more men to be seen, riding carts pulled by mules or old, shabby-looking horses. The men themselves looked worse than the horses; they either ignored Rory and Gray completely, like they were too worn out from the hand life had dealt them to care, or they shot sly, avaricious looks in their direction. Their clothing was hardly rich, but more than once Gray caught a man eyeing them up and down, seemingly mentally pricing out every visible item of clothing and the saddlebags. Evrard was exempt from these thorough examinations every time, their eyes sliding right over his figure. Just as Gray expected.

Still, this part of the road was much rougher than Gray remembered, and he began to worry what Nargash would be like when they finally reached it. Would they feel comfortable stopping there and renting a room? And if they did not, would they be any safer camping out a distance from the town? Even off the road? Gray did not particularly think so, not if the road continued to be full of such unsavory characters. He transferred his dagger from his calf to his belt, and when they stopped to rest for a minute at a stream, Gray approached Rory.

"We have almost no weapons," Gray began, uncomfortably aware of how inappropriate his request was. Maybe if he'd truly been Gray the Farmhand, and never raised to be a prince, the question would have felt different, but Prince Graham of Ardglass knew what he was about to ask was completely wrong and in many areas would have been considered both a betrayal of trust and a fighting offense.

"I know," Rory said, and his gaze was anxious as it met Gray's. "You have your dagger, and I have the dagger and the sword."

Gray cleared his throat. "About the sword."

Sometimes Gray still forgot how very different their upbringings were, and so was shocked when Rory unceremoniously unbuckled his sword belt and thrust Lion's Breath, still in its protective sheath, at Gray. "You carry it," he said. "It doesn't make sense for me to have it, I can't even use it."

It was what he'd wanted, specifically what he'd approached Rory for, and still Gray hesitated to take it. "You can use it," Rory added impatiently, pushing it closer. "You used it before."

But that had not been premeditated. They'd been surrounded, and Gray hadn't thought through the action before he'd done it. He'd simply taken the sword because, if he hadn't, he'd believed they would either be captured or killed.

"It's . . ." Gray looked down at Lion's Breath. Another reason why Rory could never learn about his past or his true parentage. A nameless farm boy taking a royal sword because they needed it was one thing; a prince of a neighboring kingdom appropriating a royal sword was entirely another. In some circles they might even consider this an act of aggression or Gray declaring his intention to usurp Rory's throne.

The problem was that Rory's throne wasn't currently Rory's, and it might never be Rory's again if Gray didn't wield this sword.

"I know it's not usually done," Rory said. Of course he knew. He knew all the ancient traditions, and what carrying a sword of Fontaine would mean. "But if you don't take it, I'm not sure we're going to survive the night."

Gray reached out and clasped a hand around the decorative scabbard, encrusted with rubies and topaz. "Thank you," he said, "you're likely not wrong. Nargash will be much rougher than I anticipated when we began this journey."

Rory's eyes glowed as they gazed up at him, and the honesty in them was humbling and terrifying. "I trust you," he murmured. "Maybe I shouldn't, but I do. I know you won't betray me, and I know you'll do everything in your power to help me regain my throne. You won't take Lion's Breath and use it for your own gain."

Gray was speechless. Rory's words meant even more because he wasn't quite the silly, naive princeling that Gray had assumed the first time they'd met. He had strength—albeit a different kind than Gray had always recognized—and intelligence. He'd been manipulated by Sabrina, but then Sabrina was a master manipulator. And now? Gray thought it would be extremely difficult, maybe even impossible, for anyone to manipulate the man in front of him.

"You know a lot of things," Gray said softly.

"I know you," Rory said with earnestness, "even though I don't know as much about you as I'd like."

It was the wrong time and the wrong place to kiss him, even though that was nearly all Gray could think about. Tonight, he thought, if we can survive the journey to an inn and after we bar the door . . .

Still, Gray raised his fingers and brushed them, even as dirty as they likely were, against Rory's cheek. The reddish-blond stubble there was patchy and he'd caught Rory grumbling about it more than once, but Gray loved it for the sole purpose that it helped keep Rory invisible and protected.

Rory smiled as Gray's hand fell to his side. "Maybe someday you'll tell me," Rory said, and while there was nothing more that Gray wanted than to be honest, the truth about who he was had to remain hidden.

"Are you going to stand there and stare raptly into each other's eyes all afternoon?" Evrard interrupted.

Gray turned towards the grumbling unicorn. "You did this, you know," he murmured to Evrard as he mounted him.

"All you needed was the slightest of prompts," Evrard countered back primly. "Barely even a push at all."

As Evrard continued to canter down the road to Nargash, their surroundings edged closer and closer to disreputable. The outskirts of the village were particularly unpleasant, consisting only of broken-down buildings, some with collapsed roofs, some with their windows and doors hanging crookedly open, like teeth knocked out of an ugly man's face. And even worse, as they passed some, there were clear signs that people were still living in what Gray could barely term shacks: small fires in the front yards, clotheslines hanging between two straggly trees, and in one particularly unsightly home, children running around the ramshackle walls of the structure.

"Why is it like this?" Rory wondered aloud after they passed that particular dwelling. "Why does each village we pass look worse?"

Gray did not answer, because he didn't trust himself. They were on the edge of Ardglass now, and the village of Nargash was considered one of the very western borders of the furthest western clan. This responsibility was his father's, and eventually would have fallen to him. As it was, it seemed to be that Gideon had let his kingdom continue to slide into ruin even after Graham's departure. As insidious and evil as Sabrina was, at least Fontaine was not overtly falling to pieces, shabby and ill-used, its inhabitants forced to live in squalor.

Evrard answered instead. "Taxes," he said. "This technically falls under the purview of the kingdom of Ardglass, and its king has let unscrupulous advisors pick his treasury clean. As a result, has raised taxes throughout his kingdom to compensate."

Gray felt the burn of shame rush through him, but what could he do? Raising his head out of obscurity would only likely end in it being chopped off.

"Something must be done," Rory said quietly but with purpose.

Turning his head from the children in their threadbare clothes and dirty faces, Gray said nothing. Maybe, with his own throne recovered, Rory would eventually turn his attention to Ardglass. The thought might have been a comforting one, but the injustice for himself and for every other creature living in Ardglass raged too strongly inside him for Gray to listen to reason.

"Something will be done," Evrard promised. "You will see, Your Highness."

Gray gripped Evrard's mane tighter and nearly lashed out in anger and frustration. How did he know? What did he know? Why did he never share with Gray? Why were they going to all this effort to restore Rory to his throne when it was Ardglass that needed help? Gray had long since learned that Evrard only answered questions he chose, and they were almost never of any importance. Still, it was only by biting his lip until blood welled that he managed to stay silent.

Finally, they came upon the village proper. The marketplace was a sad sight, with wilted vegetables and rotten grain. Gray turned away and wondered how long he could bear to look, only to look away again. "There is an inn," Gray said, pointing to a faded sign. "The Chimera," he read, the irony definitely not lost on him. "I will inquire for lodging and a stable berth."

Rory stayed with Evrard and Gray approached the inn, opened the door and went inside. The inside was somehow worse than the outside—the smell of years of burned meat embedded in the exposed wood of the great room. The beams were dark with smoke and grease, and even though a little dirt never bothered Gray, he flinched when he walked across the floorboards. The innkeeper was wearing a dirty white shirt with an open neck, and a stained leather apron torn in one corner, wiping his hands on a filthy cloth as Gray approached.

"I would like a room for the night," Gray said, "and a meal, as well as lodging and feed for my horse."

The innkeeper looked Gray up and down, and though Gray knew his clothes were poor, they did nothing to conceal his tall, strong frame or his straight back. Greed flashed in the man's eyes and if they'd had any other choice, Gray would have turned back and taken them all far away from this place. But there was a particularly masochistic part of him that stayed put and let the innkeeper look his fill. None of this was Gray's fault, but it had been irrevocably set into motion when he'd left Ardglass all those years ago.

"Two gold pieces, and another if you want hot water," the man said.

It was high above the going rate for shelter, but Gray handed over the gold without arguing. He took a deep breath of semi-clean air when he walked outside, but one glance in Rory and Evrard's direction told him that, even though he'd hurried, he might have tarried too long. Several rough-looking men were eyeing Rory with interest, despite his patchy beard. The problem with Rory was, that even in ugly ill-fitting clothes with that awful facial hair, he was still beautiful, and in the middle of this muddy yard, he shone like the brightest diamond.

As Gray hurried over to them, his face must have reflected his worries, because Rory glanced at him and flinched. He's seen the men looking, Gray thought, and didn't know what to say. Rory had promised him trust, and Gray couldn't fail him, even in this depressingly bleak place. He pushed back his cloak, hoping the sight of his sword would warn away anyone who was considering an attack. He did wish the scabbard of Lion's Breath was slightly less ornate and contained far fewer gemstones. Some idiot might decide the threat wasn't nearly as great as the prize, and would come for it anyway, and the last thing Gray wanted was to fight off robbers.

"You'll be fine in the stables," Gray said to Evrard under his breath. "The hay will no doubt be moldy, but you will have to suffer through it."

"And us?" Rory asked, clearly concerned.

"The door will have a latch," Gray promised. "And if not, I will fashion something that will keep them out." He looked straight into Rory's eyes and, as best he could, told him without words, you put your trust in me, let me prove it to you that it wasn't unfounded.

"It's barely early evening," Rory pointed out. "And we must eat, too."

"It's a crowded public room, and I will not leave your side," Gray promised.

"We will all be careful," Evrard said, "for the coming days will be a test of our strength."

This night will be a test of my strength, Gray thought as he delivered Evrard to the stables.

When they walked into the common room, Rory could not quite contain the disgust in his expression as he took in the stained walls and floors, and the plates of corn mush and burned, fatty meat.

"This is not . . . not quite what I was hoping for," Rory whispered under his breath as they passed down the row of occupied tables to an empty space by the great hearth. Putting the fire at their backs was not ideal, but at least it would be difficult for anyone to approach from that direction.

"We must make the best of it," Gray said, though he was equally disappointed. He'd wanted a respite from the stress of their journey, but instead, what they'd gotten in Nargash was a rude awakening and an increasingly dangerous situation.

They sat and the innkeeper motioned to a sullen serving boy, who brought them warm mugs of ale and two plates of the unappetizing-looking food.

"I cannot believe I am complaining about a hot meal," Rory said, but he shuddered as he pushed the corn slop around his plate with a spoon that was likely none too clean, "but I would rather have some of the dried meat from the saddlebags."

"It's not so bad," Gray said, shoveling a spoonful into his mouth. "It's hot, at least."

"I guess," Rory said, clearly not convinced.

His voice must have carried, because a moment later, a man with a wicked facial scar bisecting his bushy gray eyebrow and then meandering down from cheek to chin, sat down opposite Rory. "This one seems a lot of work," he said to Gray, motioning towards Rory. "Seems haughty. Rich, even. A pain in the ass."

Gray might have felt that way at first, and still occasionally, but he was hardly going to agree with the newcomer, at least not in front of Rory. In Rory's defense, the food was bad and the atmosphere even worse.

"I am not," Rory answered hotly, obviously offended.

Jabbing Rory's side with his elbow under the shadow of the rough-hewn tabletop, Gray gave the scarred man a ferocious smile, baring his teeth. "He's not for sale," he said.

Rory made an affronted noise as Gray's words revealed the man's real purpose in visiting their table.

"I meant it," he said, "he looks damn expensive."

"Too expensive for you," Gray said steadily. He pushed back from the table, and risking it again, exposed the scabbard of Lion's Breath to the man's gaze.

"As are you, my friend, though you take pains to hide it," the scarred man pointed out.

"We are just traveling through and have no interest in deals or discussions," Gray said in a flat voice.

"As you wish," the man said and stood. "But you may find your mind changed."

After he left, Rory turned to Gray and the expression in his eyes was definitely anxious. "Was he really trying to buy me? And what did he mean, you might find your mind changed?"

"He assumed you were my property," Gray said, not wanting to address Rory's second question. He was edgy enough and might lose whatever nerve he had left if Rory knew they'd just been threatened.

"But slavery isn't allowed in Ardglass. Or Fontaine, for that matter," Rory argued.

Gray gave a short, unamused laugh. "Do you really believe that stops anyone with enough money?"

Glancing down at his plate, Rory shook his head. "He threatened you," he stated.

"Us," Gray sighed. "He threatened us. Finish your meal, because I intend to go to our room and bar the door and not leave it until morning."

Rory ate slowly, but he did eat. Gray had long since finished his meal and was savoring the last few drops of the warm ale when Rory finally finished cleaning his plate. Glancing around, Gray realized that the hour had grown late, and the main room had emptied out somewhat. They weren't alone, but as Gray observed each of the groups left, each one looked more villainous than the last. And even worse, they were watching Rory—and to a lesser extent, Gray—intently.

"Do you have your dagger?" Gray asked, leaning closer to Rory so they wouldn't be overheard.

Rory nodded.

"Keep it close," Gray said. "I hope you won't have to use it, but I don't want you undefended while I have to fight off the rest of this crowd."

Rory's eyes grew wide. "Is that really going to be necessary?"

Gray watched as Rory's gaze followed his own, taking stock of each man that was left in the room.

"They think we're rich," Gray said softly. "Rich and easy pickings. Especially you."

Swallowing hard, Rory looked over at Gray. "We can't be. Not tonight."

"Not tonight," Gray agreed, and slowly stood. Rory followed him as he skirted around the tables against the hearth, always keeping it at his back.

Every step they took was observed, and Gray swallowed hard against the nerves that had settled low in his stomach. He'd promised to protect Rory, but he could not hope to take on a dozen men with only a small, sharp dagger and Rory's ancestral sword, no matter how fancy the title. Anyone who approached would need to be dispatched quickly, before the rest decided to join in.

Gray's destination was the staircase at the other end of the room. The key the innkeeper had given them dug into his palm and he slid it further, exposing the rough iron edge. It too could be a weapon if they were pressed. None of the men in the room moved, but there were shadows at the base of the stairs.

A perfect place for several men to lie in wait for their prey.

Gray edged closer, Rory not far behind him, and finally they made it to the corner of the room, right where the concentric circles of candle and firelight ended.

A man stepped out of the gloom. The scarred man, which did not surprise Gray at all, though worry billowed in his chest. He'd warned them, after all. No doubt anyone else who came here with any coin to speak of did so with a whole troop of armed guards.

Gray put his other hand on the hilt of Lion's Breath. "Let us pass," he said in the sternest voice he could muster. He felt Rory tense behind him and pull his own dagger.

He might not have much knowledge of how to defend himself, but he was brave—Gray would give him that much. And unfortunately, unlike with the nomadic tribe, there was no way to talk their way out of this one. It would have to be done with fists and blades.

"I don't think so," the scarred man said, a devilish smile lighting up his face. "Boys, why don't we relieve our good man here of his valuables, including that sweet, pretty boy?"

There was no time to think. Gray lashed out, punching the scarred man in the face, taking a blow back, blinding his vision for a split second. Another two men materialized out of the shadows, and he saw Rory lash out with his dagger out of the corner of his eye as one of the men attempted to grab his arm. Blood spurted, and Gray was too busy fighting off the man with the scar to check if it was Rory's.

He hadn't pulled Lion's Breath yet because he didn't want to give the men any more financial motivation to win, and it was a very small, closed-in space. Perfect, Gray thought grudgingly, for a good fist fight. But not exactly ideal for a swordfight.

Gray's training hadn't been very formal after leaving Tullamore, but he'd picked up what he could, where he could, and he'd never forgotten those first eleven years of lessons and advice. He gripped the key and slashed out at the man's eyes. He defended the blow, landing another in the vicinity of Gray's ribs, the pain and breathlessness winning for a split second, before he countered with his other free hand, a satisfying crack of bone echoing through the room.

Blood started to pour and the man gazed at him incredulously for a second. "You're a tough one, you are," he said with disgust as he snorted blood and then, with a quick, sickening motion, wrenched his nose back into place.

Shit.

These men were tougher than Gray had anticipated, living for years on the rough, lawless edges of Ardglass. You're their rightful prince, a voice inside Gray reminded him, you were born to subdue them, to remind them who sets the rules.

He was bigger, Gray realized, and started putting more of the brute force of his larger body into his blows, landing a few on the ribs and stomach, and then finally cracking one on the man's shin. He took some back, sweat dripping into his eyes, and he just prayed that Rory hadn't been dragged away in the length of time it had taken to subdue the scarred man.

Gray landed one last forceful blow and the man's head lolled back and eventually he fell back against one of the rough-hewn walls, and he finally had a moment to glance behind. There was blood on the floor, and one of the men who'd gone after Rory was holding his arm, from which red flowed freely, and Rory held a dagger at the throat of the other.

"You good?" Rory asked breathlessly. He had a dark bruise forming on his cheek. There were drops of blood on his hands. But he seemed otherwise uninjured.

"I'm good," Gray said. "Let's go before anyone decides to steal you."

They retreated up the stairs, and thankfully, the men didn't follow. Too much effort, Gray thought, we made it too tough for them to follow through. No doubt they'd look and likely find easier men to prey upon, and perhaps Gray should have felt guilty about that, but he was all too aware that they'd barely escaped with their lives. For now, that had to be enough.

Their room was three doors down from the top of the staircase, and Gray shoved the key in the lock, turned it, and they stumbled into the doorway. A single candle flickered in the corner, lighting the corners of the room well enough that Gray was reassured nobody was waiting to ambush them. He slammed the door shut and threw the heavy metal bar across it.

"There," he said, relief pouring through him, "that should hold them until morning, and by then, attacking won't be prudent."

"Do you truly believe that?" Rory asked as he crossed the room and examined the rest of the contents. A simple trunk bed with a mattress of certainly dubious cleanliness and a few blankets folded at the base. A basin of water sitting on a simple wooden stand. Dipping a finger in, Rory turned to Gray. "It's actually warm," he said with surprise.

Gray's knuckles felt sticky with blood. "We should wash," he said, gesturing to the droplets that had fallen on Rory's cheek.

He lifted a rag from next to the basin, but Rory reached over and stopped his hand. "Let me," he said quietly.

Gray watched as Rory took his hand and examined it—the split knuckles, the smears of blood, the bruising already beginning to appear. They didn't look good, but then Gray looked up at the red splotches on Rory's flawlessly pale skin and wished he could scrub them away until they'd never existed.

"You saved me," Rory said, dipping the cloth into the water and wringing it out. Gently he began to clean Gray's hands, carefully dabbing off the blood and cleaning out every wound.

Gray closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. "You helped," he pointed out.

"It was more accidental than purposeful," Rory admitted. "I swung with the dagger and it was only happenstance it hit somewhere important."

"And the other man?" Gray asked.

"I grabbed the dagger, and I think he was so surprised by all the blood, he didn't move. I held the dagger to his throat before he could take me."

"I think he was so surprised you came out swinging," Gray said dryly. "You don't look like the type."

"They weren't very quick, and I don't think they were very smart either," Rory confided as he continued to clean Gray's hands with soft, careful strokes.

"They're robbing men at the local inn," Gray pointed out.

"Still, things could have turned out far worse." Rory took a deep breath. "This wasn't quite what I'd hoped for when you said we might get a room. Alone."

"Nor me either." Gray's voice was wry.

One hand finished, Rory rinsed the cloth and picked up Gray's other hand. Glancing down, Gray saw how huge and rough his single hand looked in two of Rory's. While he might have once been royalty too, it felt like all that polish had long since been scrubbed away. Still, he remembered how much Gideon had boasted that the men of Ardglass had always been brave and determined fighters. "Ardglass never loses," he had always been fond of saying. And Ardglass, Gray realized, hadn't lost today.

Now that he had a clean hand, Gray reached up and his fingertips gently probed Rory's bruised cheekbone. "I didn't realize someone got a blow in," he said, anger mounting despite his attempts to dismiss it. How could men see someone who looked like Rory and put their rough hands on him? It was a crime to take something so beautiful and attempt to ruin it. Even if they hadn't succeeded, Gray still wanted to go seek them out and break all their noses.

"I ducked at the last minute, I thought it had mostly glanced off me," Rory said, bending over Gray's hand. "But I suppose it didn't. It doesn't hurt so much now."

"It will in the morning," Gray pointed out. "I wish I could find some ice, take some of the swelling down."

"I'm fine. You've done plenty. I'm alive, and not in the clutches of those men, about to be sold, aren't I?" Rory observed.

"If I'd been quicker . . ." Gray said softly.

Those glorious golden eyes glanced up at him, skewering him with a single, pointed look. "If I thanked you more eloquently for saving my life would you stop lamenting at how poorly you did it?" Rory asked sharply.

The heat of the violence had just about finished leaking out of Gray, but Rory's words brought it roaring back, with teeth and claws and a very specific hunger that Gray didn't quite understand. He'd been with men before—and women too—and none of them had ever made him feel the way that Rory did, a helpless, desperate mess of terror and desire.

Gray didn't answer, but Rory must have seen the look that passed across his face—all that starving desperation—and he let go of Gray's hand. "Take your clothes off," he said, casually, like it was of no great importance. Meanwhile, Gray's insides were trembling and his fingers wouldn't cooperate, pawing helplessly at the strings of his tunic.

Finally, Rory took pity on him, and after prepping another cleaner cloth, reached out and began to untie the laces. His nimble fingers moved efficiently and soon Gray was pulling his tunic off, followed by his boots, and then his breeches. He stood in front of a kneeling Rory in only his smallclothes, his cock pulsing awkwardly between them.

He knew what he wanted, but Rory had so little experience. Almost none, by his own admission. What if he didn't even understand Gray's desires?

You may not be a scholar, worthy of delivering a lecture on sexual satisfaction, Gray told himself, but you can always show him. You're better with actions than with words.

"Let me," Rory said, and Gray was hardly going to stop him as Rory reached up and pulled down the cloth hiding his cock. It bobbed free, hard and red and wet at the tip. Gray took a deep breath.

But Rory didn't take him in his hand or even, as Gray had so wished, into his mouth. Instead, he took the clean, damp cloth and ran it down his chest, to the dark hairs that began at his pubic bone. He cleaned him thoroughly and efficiently, but gently, with careful touches that shouldn't have set Gray on fire but did anyway.

He was beginning to realize that anything Rory did had that effect. Him contradicting Evrard? Definitely arousing. Him shoving a knife into a brigand's shoulder? Unexpectedly arousing. Him giving Gray a bath? The most arousing thing in the whole universe.

Finally, just as Gray thought he was not quite above begging, Rory put down the cloth and looked up at him, his gaze steady as he leaned closer. "Let me," Rory said again, and this time it was his tongue on Gray's cock, Gray's head tipping back against the wall as he gasped in pleasure.

"Do you like that?" Rory asked and Gray's only answer was a moan, much louder than he'd intended. "I guess you do," Rory said, and Gray realized as he glanced down, that yes, that was absolutely a smirk on his face.

While Rory might not have had much practical experience, Gray could guess that he'd likely read about this particular act before because he seemed determined to wring every ounce of bone-melting pleasure out of Gray, and did it shockingly well. After only a few moments, Gray already felt alarmingly close to the edge of orgasm, the pressure building inside of him, even as he wanted to make it last. The problem was that Rory was a vixen, teasing and coaxing and impossibly beautiful as his eyes fluttered closed and he slid Gray's cock inside his mouth. I will remember how this feels forever, Gray thought, and his control splintered as Rory twisted his hand and sucked on the head.

It took a long moment for Gray to recover his bearings. The violence followed by the intense bliss he'd just experienced had left him feeling hollow and suddenly exhausted. Finally he glanced down and his heartbeat accelerated again.

Rory was sitting there, his breeches untied, his cock in his hand, his head thrown back and his teeth biting down on that perfectly plump lower lip as he stroked himself.

"Let me," Gray begged this time and when Rory nodded soundlessly, he reached down, his own much larger, much rougher hand joining Rory's, and that was all it took to push him right over the edge into ecstasy.

They cleaned up, and this time Gray refused to let Rory take the cloth. He cleaned Rory, and their hands, and then after fetching a new cloth, carefully wiped the blood spatters off his cheek and neck.

"I guess we should get some sleep," Rory finally said quietly, rising up and walking over to the bed.

It was not a large bed, and for a second, Gray nearly offered to sleep on the floor. But after what they had just done, sleeping close together felt right. So he followed Rory's lead and climbed in next to him, pulling the blankets over them.

"Sweet dreams," Gray said, the tenderness in his voice surprising him as he brushed away a strand of bright auburn hair from Rory's bruised cheek. "May they be better than this place."