Chapter 17 #2
The contact echoed back to their earlier closeness, and Meilyr’s heart tripped over a beat. ‘Forgive my earlier condition, Majesty.’ He pressed on before the prince could stop him. ‘I am fine, let us return inside.’
The prince obviously did not believe him, but it did not matter. ‘Very well,’ Osian said. ‘But let us only make a brief reappearance. I have had all I can bear.’ He swept back into his tunic and began to fasten each of its tiny buttons, a match to Meilyr’s own.
‘Wait,’ Meilyr said.
The prince stilled.
Meilyr unfastened the top two buttons of his own tunic.
Osian remained frozen, so he stepped back into the prince’s orbit and brushed aside his hands to undo his top buttons as well.
‘We disappeared into the dark together,’ he explained, a different sort of heat returning to his cheeks.
‘It might help if we look…’ As though they had done more than talk.
The understanding that dawned across Osian’s face did something to Meilyr. He could not help staring at the prince’s hands as they finally moved and Osian undid the buttons of his own under-tunic, spreading his collar to expose the strong curve of his neck.
An idea that could only have been born of the wine blossomed.
Guilty thorns stung in reprimand, but as he caught the prince staring at his buttons, Meilyr had the sudden, shattering realisation that Osian had had the same thought.
It was ridiculous, but certainly one way to convince an Ectheid.
He laid a hand on the prince’s chest, that action also easier than it should have been. ‘We could…’
Any doubt remaining that Osian had missed his intent evaporated as Meilyr tapped twice with his finger, and the prince’s arm came up around him to press three times just above the small of his back: may I, and yes.
The pressure held on Osian’s third press, as though to ensure it was not mistaken for a fourth.
‘Are you certain?’ Meilyr asked, barely audible. He leaned up, having to steady himself against the prince. ‘It might hurt,’ he warned.
Osian’s only response was to angle his neck closer and firm his hold on Meilyr’s back. The three presses came again, just as resolute as before.
The warmth of his skin was heady even before contact, then heart-wrenchingly soft under Meilyr’s mouth.
The sensation and Osian’s scent enveloped him and coursed fire straight to his lowest insides.
His heart was in his mouth, thrumming in his teeth and his tongue as he used them exactingly: a series of drawn-out drags on Osian’s delicate flesh, to hopefully bring out a convincing bruise.
The salt of him, the tensed pressure of his hand low on Meilyr’s back, nearly took the last of Meilyr’s sense. Then unmistakeable desire piqued through the bond, and Osian’s throat bobbed as his lungs caught and he forgot to breathe.
Meilyr wanted so much to taste more of him, to feel his breath falter again under his teeth, that he pulled back in shock and pressed his fingers over his own mouth as though that alone could dispel the hunger.
He did not meet the prince’s gaze, focused only on the mark that was appearing, small but defined. That should count for something. He wanted to touch it but did not dare.
Shame reared. He should have asked properly, probably should never have done it in the first place. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said, accidentally catching the prince’s eye.
Osian swallowed, and Meilyr watched that too. He was still pressed against him, and as though the contact had heightened the bond – damn, perhaps it had – he could not miss the way the prince’s attention dropped back to his collar.
That would help the guilt. Meilyr leaned back enough to undo another button and spread his own tunics further, leaning up for the prince.
‘I cannot…’ Osian’s refusal was quiet, ground free from somewhere deep in his throat. But he leaned down as though he too was drunk, trailing Meilyr’s hair away behind his shoulder, steadying him, as his mouth hovered just above his collarbone.
Tap, tap.
Meilyr slid his hand around the prince’s shoulders and responded: tap, tap, tap.
Slowly, Osian brought his lips to Meilyr’s skin, the soft brush of his tongue leaving Meilyr no choice but to dig his fingers into him, trying to focus on somewhere very far away.
On anything that was not how good that felt.
He had to bite down on his own lip, the hot tracing of the prince’s mouth making his body respond in ways it absolutely should not.
‘A little harder,’ he managed. ‘To leave a mark—’
He gasped as Osian’s teeth found proper purchase, digging in with a sharp suck and pull of his tongue. Meilyr’s knees almost went out from under him, the prince’s hands like vices around his back and bracing his head.
It was a blistering burst of absolute pleasure, ricocheting.
Then Osian withdrew with a hissed intake of air. He steadied Meilyr on his feet and let him go, gaze hooded and fixed on his throat.
Meilyr touched the soreness, furiously dampening desire.
‘I am sorry,’ the prince began.
‘No,’ Meilyr said at once. ‘That will help.’ He turned away to fasten just one of the buttons of his collar, damning the still-pulsing physical reaction that had not wanted that to end.
They had to convince an Ectheid, the court, everyone. That was all this was.
When he turned back, the prince had compounded himself into a mirrored sort of detached practicality, and reservedly held out his arm.
Meilyr took it and let him set a leisurely pace from the folly and across the lawns to the balconies, as though it were merely a stroll in the moonlight.
Those they passed nodded and bowed, showing no sign they had witnessed the prince and his consort stumble from the festivities into the dark.
No doubt they would gossip about the evident fumble in the gardens, Meilyr so drunk as to have needed escorting.
Good. Let them talk.
There was no immediate sight of Lord Gelens, but they made it inside all of three paces before Aldreda descended upon them, flanked by Demelza and Faina. ‘Osian!’ She clapped him across the shoulder. ‘Could you not have waited another bell? I demand a dance with my brother-in-law.’
‘Highness Cadogan,’ Demelza said, more softly. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, thank you, Highness.’ He swallowed to remind his mouth how to work and laid his hand on Osian’s chest, tilting into him. ‘I fear I had a little too much wine, needed to step outside for a moment.’
He caught Faina’s eye, where she was flushed and glowing, heavily propped up by Aldreda. She smiled nervously and went to speak.
‘If you will excuse us,’ Osian said, ‘we will be retiring for the night.’
‘After one dance?’ Aldreda prodded his arm. ‘I won’t consider your union consummated if that’s it, regardless of evidence to the contrary.’
Meilyr’s throat burned.
‘Another night, Aldreda.’
‘Osian,’ she began.
Across the hall, Lord Gelens watched, in an aside with Prince Wystan. With Kenelm Radnor.
‘It is my fault, Your Majesty.’ Meilyr turned in the circle of the prince’s arms and rested his head against his shoulder. It was effortless to lean into his own weariness, into the wine and the steadiness of Osian’s body. ‘And it was my request to retire to bed.’
The hand at his waist tensed.
Aldreda’s mouth curved sharply. ‘Then I will be merciful, just this once. It is rather amusing to see that colour on both of your faces, but you owe me a dance, Highness Meilyr Cadogan.’
The prince took Meilyr’s hand as they stepped away and kissed his knuckles. Beside his ear, he asked, ‘Might we retire to my rooms?’
Did he have to make everything so convincing? No one else would have heard that.
Meilyr toyed with a loosed button on the front of the prince’s tunics, took a firm hold of whatever dared stir at the low pitch of his voice and the memory of the folly, and threw it staunchly off a cliff. ‘As you wish, My Prince.’
In the solitude of Osian’s parlour, the prince poured them black tea:
a small relief to Meilyr’s wine-addled senses as he sat in the armchair.
Osian perched on the divan.
Rain patterned against the windows and on the roof of the tower above their heads.
The prince was hesitant before he said, ‘There is something I must tell you. I have had the apothecary watched for some time.’
A chill crept over Meilyr, steeling inside. Far less awful than it could have been.
‘I am sorry,’ the prince said. ‘I was concerned Captain Radnor might send his crownsworn to investigate. That does not seem to have happened, but I should have told you.’
‘No,’ Meilyr said after a moment, ‘you had no duty to tell me. It was the right thing to do.’
It was. Osian’s crownsworn could make sure Celyn was safe, could make sure Heulwen was safe. But gods, if Celyn found out, there would be all hells to pay.
Could Osian’s men truly be trusted…?
The prince felt apologetic, deeply. He seemed to believe in them, and it was much better to know if something happened, especially with the arrival of Lord Gelens. ‘Might I…?’ Meilyr began.
‘I will tell you if there is any news.’
‘Thank you.’
The prince’s tea remained ignored, trailing vapour past his fingers. ‘I have one further request of you tonight.’
‘Of course, Majesty.’
‘Please sleep in my bedchamber.’
Meilyr’s heart stuttered.
‘I will take the divan,’ Osian said hurriedly. ‘The bedchamber locks from the inside. I merely…’
He let it hang. Meilyr rubbed his eyes to clear the confusion of care his mind still tried to convince him was there. This was for appearances, just like the folly; if Lord Gelens found a way to monitor the tower, they would at least assume the prince and his consort had shared a bed.
‘Of course, but I will take the divan.’ He rose, unsteadily. Osian moved to help.
They hesitated in the aftermath, standing close, arms touching.
There was something undeniably soft in the prince’s gaze. ‘I often sleep here, or at my desk. Take the bed, please.’
He left to prepare it, leaving no room for argument.
A subtle, pleasant scent unfurled in that vast, comfortable bed.
Meilyr burrowed into the blankets, not thinking about it.
The bedchamber was more beautiful than he had noticed in passing: a true tower room, with sets of long windows to catch the sun, embraced by thick cobalt curtains matching those surrounding the posts of the bed.
The fire was freshly tended, blissful on his still-chilled flesh.
This was not exactly how he had imagined his first night in the prince’s bed. Needless to say, he was glad Osian made a habit of not meeting expectations.
His neck was still tender. How many lovers had the prince taken in these sheets—
Not thinking about that. That was the wine – the intimacy of their dance, and the folly, and the strangeness of pretending, and…
The way Osian had pulled him against him. That flicker that had seemed protective, before Meilyr had the chance to dissect it. Osian’s breath against his ear, his tongue just above his collarbones—
Absolutely not thinking about that. Definitely not that.
It had just been a long time since he had lain with anyone. Seeing Haydn had reminded him how long, and—
Meilyr stopped thinking about it. The rain drummed on.
Twice, the prince had steadied him through the wreckage of his own nerves. Had witnessed him crumble in the Throne Room and had acted without hesitation, in ways Meilyr had not even known could help.
How had he known what to do? And why had he done it so… tenderly?
Meilyr rolled over and cast that thought out with the rest. Pressed the near-healed cut in the base of his thumb until it stung, ignoring how easy it would be to feel the prince even in the next room if he tried.
He needed to keep a clear head. All of this was an act, nothing more. An act they had to maintain, especially now.
Fear and doubt raked through his already overstimulated mind. Eventually, he fell asleep grasping his sleep-clothes, where the symbol of Y Ddraig Goch should have been.