22 Nights (9 page)

The first evening had not been so bad thus far, Merin mused. He was comfortable enough, clean and dressed in dry clothes. It wasn’t his fault that Bela refused to take off her wet clothing. It wasn’t his fault that she preferred to let them dry on her body, it wasn’t his fault that she preferred to be miserable than to be naked in his presence.

He could be patient. He could be
very
patient. She wasn’t going to spend the next twenty-one and a half days in those same clothes.

For the short amount of time they were to remain married, they wouldn’t have much, as luxuries went. The rough cottage they’d been assigned was situated not far from Bela’s family home, with two smaller and one larger home between them. It consisted of one main room which was furnished with a table and two chairs, a small hearth for warmth and cooking, flint and steel for starting a fire, and a sagging bed that looked much too small for the two of them to share without things getting interesting in the night. There were two plates, a couple of mugs, a pot, and the basic utensils. He had a change of clothes and his weapons, and Bela had brought the same with her—one set of clothes much like the wet ones she currently wore and a fine-looking sword which she stored on a weapons rack on the wall. She handled the sword with reverence, she looked at the weapon as if it were made of solid gold. The grip of that sword gave Merin a bit of a chill at first glance. The stone there looked oddly like the crystal dagger which had dispatched Ciro and ended the war. He dismissed that thought as fancy and concentrated on helping Bela cook their stew for supper.

Merin knew how to cook and was not afraid or ashamed of the chore, even though some found it unmanly. Not knowing how to prepare a decent meal would’ve made him helpless, dependent on others, and he refused to fall into that trap. The small kitchen area of their marital cottage was well stocked with common herbs, and he flavored the stew with them. Bela watched with some sign of interest. Heaven above, he knew more about cooking than she did. Why was he surprised? She seemed to shun all womanly attributes.

While the stew simmered, they sat side by side in two small chairs and watched the flame lick at the pot that hung over the fire. Now and then Merin glanced at Bela. Yes, he was still angry with her, as angry as he had ever been with any living being who wasn’t an enemy, and yet he could not deny that she was tempting, in an odd way. Not that he would give in to such temptation, but still—it was perplexing.

And entirely physical. She might swear that his attraction was one-sided, but he had felt her response when he touched her as they’d argued in the creek. If he wanted to seduce her—properly this time—he could do it. But he would not. Getting more involved with her than he already was would be a disaster. Bela was likely to be more trouble than she was worth.

If he ever did marry, he’d be better off with one of Lady Cipriana’s simpering daughters than with this difficult woman. Bela was everything he did not want in a woman: she was difficult and demanding, and it was impossible to predict how she would react to any given situation. So why did he look at her and get hard? Why had he responded to her so fully this afternoon by the creek, when she was filthy and stubborn and insulting?

He didn’t have to worry about anything happening. If he was so foolish as to try anything, she’d probably use her precious sword on him and make herself the widow she desired to be.

“What are you smiling at?” she snapped.

“Am I smiling?” he asked.

“Yes. You look like an addle-headed fool, sitting there with that senseless grin on your face. Do you find me amusing? ”

He did, but didn’t think it would be wise to tell her so. “No, of course not. I’m simply spending this quiet time remembering better days, that’s all.”

She snorted. “Remembering other women, I suppose.”

“Naturally.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Makes the time pass more quickly as I wait for the stew to be done. Should I share my intimate thoughts with you?” he asked, knowing she would refuse.

Bela wrinkled her nose at the pot and ignored the question. “I’m starving. Isn’t the stew done enough?”

“No. The meat will be tough if we don’t wait a bit.”

“Fine.” She slumped back in her chair, eyes on the pot.

The silence was heavy and uncomfortable. Bela’s clothes were slowly drying, but remained damp here and there. It was easy enough for Merin’s eyes to rake over her body. Her breasts were nicely shaped, even as she wilted in her chair. Her hips were nicely rounded, a woman’s finely shaped hips not at all disguised by the manly trousers. Her hair was matted and the braid was less than flattering, but the poor hairstyle only accentuated the fact that her face was strongly feminine and flawless, the cheekbones high, the eyes nicely shaped—not wide and childlike like so many girls—the mouth . . . that wide mouth was near perfect.

Merin found he could not stand the silence—or his own perusal—for very long. “So, tell me about your sword,” he said. “It’s unique.”

“You have no idea,” Bela said softly.

“The grip is unusual.”

She looked at him and narrowed her eyes. “You’d best know now that you’re to keep your hands off Kitty.”

Surprised, Merin blinked twice, and then he laughed. “Kitty? You named your sword? And if that’s not bad enough, you named it
Kitty
?” He laughed again. “I’m so glad to hear that, Bela, really I am. It proves to me that, like it or not, you really are a girl.”

She was incensed, as he’d imagined she would be. “If you must know,” she snapped, “Kitty named herself.”

Merin’s smile faded. He didn’t think Bela was teasing him, not with that intense expression on her face. The way she handled the sword, the familiar glimmer of the grip . . . His wife was in possession of a magical sword, and if he wasn’t mistaken, the grip was made of a crystal he well recognized. A living crystal, a crystal capable of sucking the very soul out of a man, or a demon.

“Where and how did you come by this sword?” he asked.

“I don’t intend to tell you . . . ,” she began hotly.

“No more games,” he interrupted. “This is serious business. Tell me about Kitty.”

 

WHEN
Merin declared the stew had simmered long enough, they filled their bowls and took them to the table. Hungry as Bela was, she was well aware that the food was still too hot to eat. They would have to wait a few moments longer. They sat. The rope that connected them was long enough to allow some freedom of movement, but was not long enough to allow one to sit while the other stood by the fireplace, not even in this small cottage.

“So,” Merin said as he stirred the cooling stew in his bowl, “Kitty chose you.”

“Yes. Clyn found her in the mountains, nearly three years ago, and he was not pleased when he learned that he couldn’t keep her. But it was not his choice to make. It was hers.”

He was intrigued by Kitty, as was everyone who learned of her existence. “You call the sword ‘she,’ and the name is certainly female. Why?”

“She speaks to me in a female voice.”

Merin shook his head and took a small bite to test the stew. Apparently it was fine, as his next bite was much larger. It had been a long day, so he must be as hungry as she. “This is fascinating,” he said between bites. “What is her purpose? Has she told you?”

“Purpose? ”

Merin wagged his spoon in her direction. “Kitty is obviously a magical sword, and in my experience such weapons do not present themselves without reason. Such weapons exist for a purpose. It could not have been chance that Clyn found the sword, and it certainly wasn’t chance that she chose you. Why? Have you never wondered?”

“No,” Bela admitted. “I accept that I have her keeping, for now. If there is a purpose to her presence here, she hasn’t revealed it to me.”

Merin grunted softly, then lost himself in the meal for a time. His mind was busy, she could tell by the expression in his dark eyes. And his hair—she had always loved his soft, dark curls, and wished they might’ve been her own. He’d worked all day and wet his head in the creek, and it had dried as pretty as if he had spent hours arranging it just so. She wanted to touch the curls to see if they were soft . . .

No, it was best to concentrate on other features. Those she did not long to touch. Merin did have smart eyes, and she liked that in a man. Some of her brother’s friends were less than intelligent. They might be fine miners or farmers or swordsmen, but they did not question everything the way the general did. They did not ponder the questions of life, they simply existed from day to day. She liked his eyes, not only for their intelligence but also for their depth and darkness. The lashes were long, too, almost like a woman’s. Not that anything about Merin was womanly.

Bela quickly convinced herself that it was possible to admire him as a fine specimen of a man and not want him—or anyone else—as a husband.

When they had finished eating, Merin sat back in his chair and pinned those eyes on her. “Show me,” he commanded. “Show me what Kitty can do.”

Kitty did not always respond to commands, but immediately the grip of the sword glowed bright, indicating that she was awake and prepared.

“All right,” Bela said, standing slowly and turning toward the sword. She moved away from the table, choosing the largest clear space available. Merin came with her, and stood beside and just behind her. Bela lifted her right hand. “Here, Kitty,” she said softly.

The sword, grip glowing, rose slowly and spun in place. Bela did not take her eyes from the weapon, not even when Merin uttered a vile and interesting combination of curse words. She’d have to remember that one. Such a curse would shock even Clyn!

Kitty flew across the room, quick and precise, planting her crystal grip in the palm of Bela’s hand. It was warm to the touch, as was normal when Kitty was awake. Awake, alive, stimulated . . . Bela was never sure what to call it, but there was a significant difference when the sword glowed and spoke.

And she did speak, in a voice only Bela could hear.
We need him.

“We do not,” Bela responded aloud.

“We do not what?” Merin asked. Bela ignored him.

Bela hated the very idea of needing anyone or anything, most of all a man! “Why?”

Merin spoke again. “You’re talking to Kitty, aren’t you? ”

“Yes!” Bela said impatiently. “Now shush!” He was taken aback. Apparently no one told a general to shush, not in his world.

We need him
, Kitty said again, and then she pulled away from Bela’s grip and spun about so fast that the shining blade was a blur. The grip glowed brighter than she had ever seen, and the speed increased until there was nothing but a circle of bright light in view. Kitty rose slowly toward the ceiling, spinning all the while. Bela looked up. So did Merin. Kitty turned so that she was spinning against the ceiling, and then she moved to a position directly over their heads. Bela held her breath. Kitty was dangerously close and she was moving dangerously fast.

“What does this mean?” Merin asked softly.

“I don’t know. She’s never done this before.”

“Great,” he mumbled, laying his hand at his side, where his own sword should be. Even a general didn’t wear a sword for weeding and cooking stew. The light from Kitty’s grip grew so bright they could no longer look directly at it. The entire room glowed, as if the sun shone in this one-room cottage.

“That’s enough,” Bela said, but Kitty didn’t respond.

We need him
. The voice was louder than usual, more insistent.

Before Bela could respond, Merin looked at her. “We need who?”

Bela’s heart skipped a beat. “You heard her?” No one else heard Kitty. No one!

“That was Kitty?”

The light faded, the sword’s movements slowed, and then it flew down, tip first, to embed its blade in the wooden floor near Bela’s feet. Her feet and Merin’s, actually, as if Kitty had purposely placed herself midway between them. Another few inches, and the rope that bound them would have been severed and they’d be married for at least another three years. Bela held her breath.

Merin reached out to touch the crystal of the grip, which was dim, sleeping once more.

“Kitty doesn’t allow . . .” Bela began, but she stopped speaking when Merin touched the grip and Kitty didn’t awake to move away from his touch or, worse, slap his hand or take a finger for daring to try. Instead, she allowed Merin’s long, sun-touched fingers to wrap around the crystal.

“Remarkable,” he said in a low voice.

Bela looked at Merin, her mouth thinned and the fingers of both hands clenched into fists. “Do you know what this means?”

He managed a wry half-smile. “It means you are in possession of a magical sword like no other I have ever heard of.”

“Yes,” she said sharply, “but that’s not what I mean. You heard her speak!”

“Once, yes.” He took his hand from Kitty and turned to Bela.

“We
both
heard her.”

“And that bothers you?”

“Hell, yes!” Kitty was hers! Bela poked out her lower lip, just a little. No, she had always known that no one owned Kitty. What they had was a partnership, an agreement.

And now they were three, apparently. “She has chosen you,” Bela said sullenly. “At the moment, Kitty is as much yours as she is mine.”

A decent man would not have smiled so widely.

 

IN
the following days, Merin and Bela found methods of managing the delicacies of life without severing the braided rope that bound them. The cottage was only one room, but there was a front door, and the rope was just long enough for them to separate themselves for bathing, changing clothes, and taking care of other personal matters which were best not shared. They did develop a kind of trust, which was all but unavoidable. In this situation, they were forced to trust one another—to a point.