12. Twelve #3
“How quaint,” her uncle remarked, replacing a gold statuette of a stag and lowering himself onto the sofa upholstered in forest-green velvet, the plush cushions threatening to swallow his lanky form whole.
Lucan tugged off his breastplate and laid it on the low table in the sitting area, then flopped onto the sofa beside Nox, swatting away an overstuffed throw pillow when it toppled into his lap.
“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” Nova scanned the great room crowded with ornate furniture and decor accented with gold filigree.
Her eyes fell on Lucan, who was occupied with batting at a goose feather floating in the air in front of him.
“You look different,” she said to the commander. “Wonderful, but different.”
“It was suggested that for such an important occasion, I should look like less of a scoundrel.”
Nova gasped, feigning shock. “But you’re such a lovable scoundrel.”
“That’s what I said,” Lucan replied, jerking a thumb in Nox’s direction.
Nox rolled his eyes.
“Don’t encourage him,” her uncle muttered, but she sensed his exasperation was mostly for show. “Lucan knows as well as I do that we have appearances to keep up outside the borders of our own Court.”
Lucan laughed. “Did you fail to notice how jumpy the stable hands and servants were on the way in?”
Nova frowned, recalling the trembling fingers of the burly stable lad as he took the reins from Nox’s hand.
“Fear does not interest me,” Nox asserted. “But respect . . . that I do desire. I want folk to respect Silvergard as a valuable ally to the rest of the Realm.”
Nova caught Nox’s eye and nodded her understanding. He smiled at her, then turned his attention to Lucan, making amends by playfully nudging the commander’s leg with the toe of his boot.
“I know, I know.” Lucan held his hands out in front of him in a placating gesture. “I promise to be on my best behavior.” Though his tone was glib, Nova knew Lucan always sought Nox’s approval above all else.
“I’ve brought something for you.” Nox rose from the sofa and slipped through the door into his bedchamber.
When he returned, her silk gown lay draped over his forearms, the rich oxblood fabric cascading to the floor in a crimson waterfall.
“I thought you might like something special to wear to the Council meeting tomorrow.”
Nova ran her fingertips over the fine silk.
She’d last worn the gown when she sat for her portrait that now hung in the Silvergard Estate; it certainly lent her a commanding presence.
Though Nova was grateful her mask of indifference was no longer a permanent fixture upon her face, she still saw it for the weapon it was.
Knew when to wield it and when to lay it at her feet.
Like her mask, the dress was a costume. A disguise.
“Yes, I’m pleased you brought it,” she said softly, taking the dress from her uncle and carefully laying it over the high back of an armchair.
“Stop scratching,” Nox chided behind her.
She turned to find Lucan pawing at his chest, one hand shoved under the collar of his tunic.
“But it itches like a bastard,” the commander growled.
“What happened to you?” Nova asked, lowering herself into the chair and hooking her legs over the arm. “Don’t tell me you’ve got fleas.”
Lucan shot her a withering look. “I do not have fleas.”
Nox pulled Lucan’s hand from inside his tunic and held it firmly to prevent Lucan from scratching further. “The commander refused to sleep on a cot inside the tent while we traveled here—”
“Don’t call that monstrosity a tent,” Lucan interrupted, rubbing his opposite fist across his chest. “It’s a miniature palace with canvas walls. I was living in a forest and sleeping on the ground when you first met me.”
“That may be so,” her uncle chuckled. “But I’m not the one who woke to find I’d made my bed atop a nest of stinging ants.”
Nox laid a soothing hand over Lucan’s chest, and the commander tilted his head to the side. Nova could feel the adoration passing between them.
She sat with them a while longer, laughing as they shared more tales from their journey. When their dinner arrived, Nova gathered up her gown and took her leave of them, returning to her own suite of rooms.
Hoping to avoid Thorn, Nova crept through the candlelit parlor.
She noted Bryn was absent and entered her and Callan’s bedchamber, gently closing the door behind her.
The room was empty and quiet apart from the muffled sound of sloshing water from the other side of the door leading to the bathing chamber.
After hanging her gown in the wardrobe, she shucked off her travel dress, stripping down to her shift.
Knocking softly, she entered the bathing chamber lit by several candles arranged on a branched wooden candlestick.
Steam fogged the mirror mounted on the wall.
Callan lounged in the large copper soaking tub, his head tilted back and his knees peeking out above the water’s surface.
His beard was short and shaped, tamed in preparation for the Council meeting.
Nova perched on the edge of the tub and dipped her hand in, trailing her fingers back and forth.
“Here you are,” she murmured, bringing her hand to rest atop one of his exposed knees.
Callan cracked an eye at her, a lazy smile spreading across his face. With a groan, he repositioned himself to sit up straighter with his back leaned against the end of the tub. His knee dipped beneath the water, taking Nova’s hand with it.
“I offered to help with a cart stuck in the mud and wound up covered in it. At least, I hope it was mud.”
Nova yanked her hand back, wrinkling her nose at the water dripping from the ends of her fingers.
“This is fresh water.” He smiled once more. “Purely for relaxation.” Sighing contentedly, he tilted his head back once again.
“Is there room for me?”
“Always.” Callan’s grin deepened, the hint of a dimple showing on his left cheek without a full beard to hide it.
Slipping the thin straps off her shoulders, Nova let her shift fall to the floor.
Callan held out a hand to steady her as she stepped over the tub’s edge.
She laughed softly as some of the water spilled over the side and splashed onto the floor.
Once she’d lowered herself to sit in front of him, she relaxed, leaning back to rest against his chest.
“This water feels incredible,” she hummed.
Callan let out a low grunt of agreement.
“Here, let me wash your hair for you.” Callan positioned her so she sat forward, hugging her knees as he nimbly untied the leather cord from her braid. Gently combing with his fingers, he sent the black strands tumbling over her shoulders and into her face.
“Gods, it’s a mess,” she groaned, smoothing her wet hands over the loose waves.
“It’s beautiful,” Callan said, cupping his fingers beneath her chin and tipping her head back so she looked at the ceiling, the ends of her hair floating in the water.
He dunked a porcelain pitcher and poured it over her head, the warm water running in rivulets and cascading down her back.
She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of Callan gathering her hair in his hands and wringing out the excess water.
The crisp scent of citrus filled her nose as Callan massaged soap into her scalp.
Every muscle in her body softened as the water cradled her and Callan worked the suds through the ends.
Another pitcher rinsed her hair clean, and Nova leaned back against Callan’s chest once again, lazily jabbing a finger at the tiny bubbles skating on top of the water.
Callan’s skillful fingers, slick with soap, kneaded the tension from her neck and shoulders, then slowly advanced to her chest. She tipped her head back and pulled him into a kiss by the nape of his neck, welcoming his tongue into her mouth as his hands found her breasts, massaging them too.
All fear and uncertainty faded temporarily from her mind as his hands traveled lower, the flickering candlelight dancing on the surface of the water.