Born in Ice
Page 36
“Soldiers are drilling out there, and you can hear the ring of sword to sword. A man hurries by, limping from an old wound, his breath steaming out in cold clouds. Come on, let’s go up.”
He pulled her toward narrow, tight winding stairs. Every so often there would be an opening in the stone, a kind of cave. She wondered if people had slept there, or stored goods. Or tried to hide, perhaps, from the enemy who would always find them.
“There’d be an old woman carrying an oil lamp up here, and she has a puckered scar on the back of her hand and fear in her eyes. Another’s bringing fresh rushes for the floors, but she’s young and thinking of her lover.”
Gray kept her hand in his, stopping when they came to a level midway. “It must have been the Cromwellians, don’t you think, who sacked it. There’d have been screams, the stench of smoke and blood, that nasty thud of metal hacking into bone, and that high-pitched shriek a man makes when the pain slices him. Spears driving straight through bellies, pinning a body to the ground where the limbs would twitch before nerves died. Crows circling overhead, waiting for the feast.”
He turned, saw her eyes were wide and glazed—and chuckled. “Sorry, I get caught up.”
“It’s not just a blessing to have an imagination like that.” She shivered again and fought to swallow. “I don’t think I want you to make me see it so clear.”
“Death’s fascinating, especially the violent type. Men are always hunting men. And this is a hell of a spot for murder—of the contemporary sort.”
“Your sort,” she murmured.
“Mmm. He’ll toy with the victim first,” Gray began as he started to climb again. He was caught up in his own mind, true, but he could see Brianna was no longer worrying over whatever had happened at her mother’s. “Let the atmosphere and those smoky ghosts stir into the fear like a slow poison. He won’t hurry—he likes the hunt, craves it. He can scent the fear, like any wolf, he can scent it. It’s the scent that gets in his blood and makes it pump, that arouses him like sex. And the prey runs, chasing that thin thread of hope. But she’s breathing fast. The sound of it echoes, carries on the wind. She falls—the stairs are treacherous in the dark, in the rain. Wet and slick, they’re weapons themselves. But she claws her way up them, air sobbing in and out of her lungs, her eyes wild.”
“Gray—”
“She’s nearly as much of an animal as he, now. Terror’s stripped off layers of humanity, the same as good sex will, or true hunger. Most people think they’ve experienced all three, but it’s rare even to know one sensation fully. But she knows the first now, knows that terror as if it was solid and alive, as if it could wrap its hands around her throat. She wants a bolt hole, but there’s nowhere to hide. And she can hear him climbing, slowly, tirelessly behind her. Then she reaches the top.”
He drew Brianna out of the shadows onto the wide, walled ledge where sunlight streamed.
“And she’s trapped.”
She jolted when Gray swung her around, nearly screamed. Roaring with laughter, he lifted her off her feet. “Christ, what an audience you are.”
“ ’Tisn’t funny.” She tried to wiggle free.
“It’s wonderful. I’m planning on having him mutilate her with an antique dagger, but . . .” He hooked his arm under Brianna’s knees and carried her to the wall. “Maybe he should just dump her over the side.”
“Stop!” Out of self-preservation she threw her arms around him and clung.
“Why didn’t I think of this before? Your heart’s pounding, you’ve got your arms around me.”
“Bully.”
“Got your mind off your troubles, didn’t it?”
“I’ll keep my troubles, thank you, and keep out of that twisted imagination of yours.”
“No, no one does.” He snuggled her a little closer. “That’s what fiction’s all about, books, movies, whatever. It gives you a break from reality and lets you worry about someone else’s problems.”
“What does it do for you who tells the tale?”
“Same thing. Exactly the same thing.” He set her on her feet and turned her to the view. “It’s like a painting, isn’t it?” Gently, he drew her closer until her back was nestled against him. “As soon as I saw this place, it grabbed me. It was raining the first time I came here, and it almost seemed as if the colors should run.”
She sighed. Here was the peace she’d wanted after all. In his odd roundabout way he’d given it to her. “It’s nearly spring,” she murmured.
“You always smell of spring.” He bent his head to rub his lips over the nape of her neck. “And taste of it.”
“You’re making my legs weak again.”
“Then you’d better hold on to me.” He turned her, cupped a hand at her jaw. “I haven’t kissed you in days.”
“I know.” She built up her courage, kept her eyes level. “I’ve wanted you to.”
“That was the idea.” He touched his lips to hers, stirred when her hands slipped up his chest to frame his face.
She opened for him willingly, her little murmur of pleasure as arousing as a caress. With the wind swirling around them, he drew her closer, careful to keep his hands easy, his mouth gentle.
All the strain, the fatigue, the frustration had vanished. She was home, was all that Brianna could think. Home was always where she wanted to be.
On a sigh she rested her head on his shoulder, curved her arms up his back. “I’ve never felt like this.”
Nor had he. But that was a dangerous thought, and one he would have to consider. “It’s good with us,” he murmured. “There’s something good about it.”
“There is.” She lifted her cheek to his. “Be patient with me, Gray.”
“I intend to. I want you, Brianna, and when you’re ready . . .” He stepped back, ran his hands down her arms until their fingers linked. “When you’re ready.”
CHAPTER NINE
Gray wondered if his appetite was enhanced due to the fact that he had another hunger that was far from satisfied. He thought it best to take it philosophically—and help himself to a late-night feast of Brianna’s bread-and-butter pudding. Making tea was becoming a habit as well, and he’d already set the kettle on the stove and warmed the pot before he scooped out pudding into a bowl.
He pulled her toward narrow, tight winding stairs. Every so often there would be an opening in the stone, a kind of cave. She wondered if people had slept there, or stored goods. Or tried to hide, perhaps, from the enemy who would always find them.
“There’d be an old woman carrying an oil lamp up here, and she has a puckered scar on the back of her hand and fear in her eyes. Another’s bringing fresh rushes for the floors, but she’s young and thinking of her lover.”
Gray kept her hand in his, stopping when they came to a level midway. “It must have been the Cromwellians, don’t you think, who sacked it. There’d have been screams, the stench of smoke and blood, that nasty thud of metal hacking into bone, and that high-pitched shriek a man makes when the pain slices him. Spears driving straight through bellies, pinning a body to the ground where the limbs would twitch before nerves died. Crows circling overhead, waiting for the feast.”
He turned, saw her eyes were wide and glazed—and chuckled. “Sorry, I get caught up.”
“It’s not just a blessing to have an imagination like that.” She shivered again and fought to swallow. “I don’t think I want you to make me see it so clear.”
“Death’s fascinating, especially the violent type. Men are always hunting men. And this is a hell of a spot for murder—of the contemporary sort.”
“Your sort,” she murmured.
“Mmm. He’ll toy with the victim first,” Gray began as he started to climb again. He was caught up in his own mind, true, but he could see Brianna was no longer worrying over whatever had happened at her mother’s. “Let the atmosphere and those smoky ghosts stir into the fear like a slow poison. He won’t hurry—he likes the hunt, craves it. He can scent the fear, like any wolf, he can scent it. It’s the scent that gets in his blood and makes it pump, that arouses him like sex. And the prey runs, chasing that thin thread of hope. But she’s breathing fast. The sound of it echoes, carries on the wind. She falls—the stairs are treacherous in the dark, in the rain. Wet and slick, they’re weapons themselves. But she claws her way up them, air sobbing in and out of her lungs, her eyes wild.”
“Gray—”
“She’s nearly as much of an animal as he, now. Terror’s stripped off layers of humanity, the same as good sex will, or true hunger. Most people think they’ve experienced all three, but it’s rare even to know one sensation fully. But she knows the first now, knows that terror as if it was solid and alive, as if it could wrap its hands around her throat. She wants a bolt hole, but there’s nowhere to hide. And she can hear him climbing, slowly, tirelessly behind her. Then she reaches the top.”
He drew Brianna out of the shadows onto the wide, walled ledge where sunlight streamed.
“And she’s trapped.”
She jolted when Gray swung her around, nearly screamed. Roaring with laughter, he lifted her off her feet. “Christ, what an audience you are.”
“ ’Tisn’t funny.” She tried to wiggle free.
“It’s wonderful. I’m planning on having him mutilate her with an antique dagger, but . . .” He hooked his arm under Brianna’s knees and carried her to the wall. “Maybe he should just dump her over the side.”
“Stop!” Out of self-preservation she threw her arms around him and clung.
“Why didn’t I think of this before? Your heart’s pounding, you’ve got your arms around me.”
“Bully.”
“Got your mind off your troubles, didn’t it?”
“I’ll keep my troubles, thank you, and keep out of that twisted imagination of yours.”
“No, no one does.” He snuggled her a little closer. “That’s what fiction’s all about, books, movies, whatever. It gives you a break from reality and lets you worry about someone else’s problems.”
“What does it do for you who tells the tale?”
“Same thing. Exactly the same thing.” He set her on her feet and turned her to the view. “It’s like a painting, isn’t it?” Gently, he drew her closer until her back was nestled against him. “As soon as I saw this place, it grabbed me. It was raining the first time I came here, and it almost seemed as if the colors should run.”
She sighed. Here was the peace she’d wanted after all. In his odd roundabout way he’d given it to her. “It’s nearly spring,” she murmured.
“You always smell of spring.” He bent his head to rub his lips over the nape of her neck. “And taste of it.”
“You’re making my legs weak again.”
“Then you’d better hold on to me.” He turned her, cupped a hand at her jaw. “I haven’t kissed you in days.”
“I know.” She built up her courage, kept her eyes level. “I’ve wanted you to.”
“That was the idea.” He touched his lips to hers, stirred when her hands slipped up his chest to frame his face.
She opened for him willingly, her little murmur of pleasure as arousing as a caress. With the wind swirling around them, he drew her closer, careful to keep his hands easy, his mouth gentle.
All the strain, the fatigue, the frustration had vanished. She was home, was all that Brianna could think. Home was always where she wanted to be.
On a sigh she rested her head on his shoulder, curved her arms up his back. “I’ve never felt like this.”
Nor had he. But that was a dangerous thought, and one he would have to consider. “It’s good with us,” he murmured. “There’s something good about it.”
“There is.” She lifted her cheek to his. “Be patient with me, Gray.”
“I intend to. I want you, Brianna, and when you’re ready . . .” He stepped back, ran his hands down her arms until their fingers linked. “When you’re ready.”
CHAPTER NINE
Gray wondered if his appetite was enhanced due to the fact that he had another hunger that was far from satisfied. He thought it best to take it philosophically—and help himself to a late-night feast of Brianna’s bread-and-butter pudding. Making tea was becoming a habit as well, and he’d already set the kettle on the stove and warmed the pot before he scooped out pudding into a bowl.
