Chapter Twenty-Eight
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
There was no sign of Ataulf, not in the high valleys, not in the pine forests, not along the pathways coming or going. As the day wore on, Alaric forced himself to contend with the idea that Ataulf may not have made it out of Italy alive.
No. If it had been so, Calthrax would have thrown that in his teeth.
At last Alaric halted on a high ridge covered with alpine furze, an unlovely, spiky yellow. He scanned the far horizons for any plume of dust rising from horses’ hooves, trying to ignore the tight feeling in his chest.
“I think I see something.” Hengist pointed.
Alaric glanced down at the meadow. “Shepherds bringing their flocks home.”
“How can you be sure?”
“A flock of sheep doesn’t move the way a war band does, Hengist.” Hengist looked at him skeptically. “Take a closer look if you don’t believe me. Just to the ridge below.”
Hengist hesitated, glancing between them. “Alaric, about that gate—”
“Go.” He said it in a voice that brooked no objection, and the boy went with a laconic shrug, slipping down the rocky slope. His brother moved to follow him and Alaric held out an arm to stop him. “Not you, Horsa.”
The boy’s shoulders stiffened. They’d both known this was coming. He turned, defensiveness set in every line of his body.
“The main gate was failing. I did it to save your life.”
“I told you to watch that stretch of wall for a reason. If you gave a damn about my life, you’d have watched my back.”
“I thought you were losing . Was I to hide myself at the western gate and let you die?”
“ Yes , if I damn well tell you to.”
“And what worth is my life if you are dead?” Horsa demanded. “You are my chieftain . If I leave you dead on the battlefield, I would never survive the shame.” There were tears glinting in Horsa’s eyes now, and Alaric’s own heart rose up in his throat. Suddenly all he could see was Gaufrid, on his deathbed in the wreckage that followed the battle of Pollentia, demanding he take care of his sons.
He could not let this pass. Horsa was already too reckless.
Alaric picked up his spear. “Draw your weapon, if you care to defend yourself.”
Horsa paled. “You cannot be serious.”
“You almost got Julia killed.” He wouldn’t hurt the boy, but he’d put enough fear in him to make him think twice before disobeying again. “If you want to do this bare-handed, fine.”
He raised his weapon.
“Wait.” Horsa raised his hands, palms out in self-defense. “Kill me if you must. But I have something to tell you before I die.”
Alaric lowered his spear. The boy wouldn’t get so wild around the eyes at a garden-variety sparring. “Out with it.”
“I don’t think Julia knows you’re married.”
* * *
It was past believing. She had said the words. So had he.
Alaric ran across the ridgeline, the boys barely keeping up, his dispute with Horsa forgotten. He had meant to have a rational, reasoned conversation, with all their clothes on, the day he’d taken her to the cliffs. Instead he’d lost his mind. His heart, in the grass beside her, beating its lifeblood onto the earth.
It hadn’t gone as planned. But he’d been elated when she had said yes.
It was not unusual among his people for couples to disappear for a few days into the wilderness and come back hand in hand, promised. It was an old-fashioned way of doing things, but it was legitimate enough. He had descended that mountain as if floating on air; he’d wanted to shout their marriage to the stars. Of course, that would not be prudent. He didn’t want rumors to reach Noricum before he did, and Brisca still needed the illusion of his favor to cement her position in these hills.
But he made it as clear as could be without words. The night they had come down from the mountains, he’d held Julia’s hand as a signal to all. He’d seated her at his right hand, fed her from his own plate. He’d made sure everyone saw them go to his longhouse together. And in the days to follow on the road, he had shared his cloak with her and everything else he had. As a husband does.
The men had been ribbing him about it all the way from
Brisca’s village. Not in Latin, of course; it would be rude to subject Julia to that kind of teasing. Alaric had expressly forbidden it. But surely she knew . It would be impossible for her not to—wouldn’t it? She had said the words.
A terrible, sick feeling settled in his gut.
* * *
Alaric strode out of the woods as the sun faded beyond the trees. The red light glinting from Riga’s ritual tent made him grit his teeth in annoyance.
He thrust aside the felt tent flap. A hot, stinking wind billowed out. Thorismund sat with his head nodding onto his chest. Julia was cross-legged beside Riga, who was teaching her the harmony of a ribald Hunnic song. Alaric’s hands clenched on the fabric of Riga’s tent. It should have been him teaching her about the Hunnic leaf, him singing the goddamn song with her. He envied Riga so much he thought he might kill him.
Both Riga and Julia looked up when he entered. Two pairs of bloodshot eyes in two sweat-flushed faces. “Oh,” Julia murmured huskily. “It’s you .”
“Yes, woman. It’s me. Your husband .” He said it pointedly. “The ritual’s over.”
She was looking at him like he’d grown three heads. Her eyes were very dilated.
“Gods. Have a seat, man.” Riga slapped the ground beside him. “You’ll give yourself a headache, glowering like that.”
Thorismund’s head jerked up. “Ah. Fuck. Seventeen heads at the foot of the Walls of Constantinople.” He blinked blearily. “I’m awake.”
His head fell immediately back to his chest and he emitted a loud snore.
Julia was blinking up at him, her gaze wide and unfocused, her lush little mouth parted as if begging to be devoured. “Would you like to see what we did while you were gone?”
She held up her hand to show a livid design in her palm, bleeding onto the ground. Hunnic writing of some kind. Alaric cursed that he could not read it.
“Riga. What the hell is this?” He came into the smoke and sat down. “ Fuck , Julia. Come here.” To his surprise, she slid over to him without objection, practically falling into his lap.
“It is a protective sigil,” Riga said. “No Hunnic tribe will harm her now. She could walk into the middle of a battle and nobody would stir a hair on her head.”
The thought of Julia in the midst of a Hunnic battle froze his blood. “Except the tribes you have disputes with. Which is most of them, I assume.” Riga shrugged. Thorismund’s loud snore broke the silence. “Can you get him to bed?”
“I can do anything after a smoke that I can stone sober.” Riga sounded affronted. “Here. I’ll show you. Let me see your axe.”
“Not a chance.” He gathered Julia closer. “Drop him and I’ll skin you.”
“No. I do the skinning.” Riga laughed. “You always cock it up.”
* * *
Alaric carried Julia to her rest while she murmured sleepy protestations against his chest.
They were out of enemy territory, but not entirely out of danger. He would keep watch through the night, since Riga and Thorismund were insensible and the twins dead on their feet. Alaric carried Julia up the stairs, laid her down on the vast wooden bed. He managed a whispered good-night.
But when she began to pull him down, he could not refuse her.
She was eager for him. Her mouth found his and her hands skimmed his shoulders, his chest. Each touch sent a jolt of white-hot lust through his body until he was out of his mind with it. “Ah, Julia.” He gritted his teeth as her lips grazed his neck. “I cannot—”
“You smell nice.” Her breath was hot on his skin, like fever. “Don’t you still want me?”
Did he still want her? “Woman, I think of nothing else.” And his hands were sinking into her hair now, his mouth opening over hers, and he could not stop as his brain screamed about bandits and assassins. But then her mouth opened under his and her fingers wound in his hair, and he tasted intoxication on her tongue.
“Did you really tell people to kill you three different ways in the great hall?” Her eyes shone up at him from out of the dark, her red hair spilling over the pillow. “Did you promise to die with me?”
“Yes.”
“Then I suppose I shall be your wife after all.” It was ridiculous, the sheer relief he felt. Her nails raked his back, beneath his shirt, and now all he felt was lust. “But first I have terms.”
Terms? One of her legs had wrapped itself around his waist. “What terms?”
“First, you never throw axes at me again.”
He laughed, his arms tightening around her, his lips finding the soft skin of her throat. “And second?”
“Second?” Her voice sounded dazed. He laid his mouth against the place beneath her jaw that always made her tremble. “I want gold and jewels. Piles of it. A dowry.”
“Done.” He was kissing and licking his way to her collarbone. Her skin tasted like earth and ash and his own ruin; gods , he could eat her alive.
“And third—” Her voice trailed off. It took him a moment to realize she’d gone still beneath him, her breathing even and deep. She was fast asleep.
Alaric cursed quietly. Her body lay soft and warm beneath his and he was so hard for her it hurt . He rolled over onto his back, taking her with him. Julia pillowed her cheek against his pectoral, her body molding to his, her red hair spilling over his chest.
He could rise from this bed. Go and keep watch in the night; keep them all safe until morning. It was what he should do.
She snuggled closer, her legs tangling with his, her arm flung across his torso. He’d stay here for a moment longer, he decided. Ten breaths.
He could stay awake that long. He wasn’t tired—