Niamh Smith. #2
Finn deeply sighed. “I just wish Avice was here to…” He trailed off, his voice heavy with grief.
I wanted to tell him about meeting Elizebeth—how she was Avice’s elder sister, and that the Lord of the Wetlands’s lineage was steeped in magic.
But I knew now wasn’t the right time.
Silently, I vowed to share everything I knew once the war ended.
As we approached the camp, the acrid scent of burnt pottage and smoky firewood stirred a bittersweet sense of familiarity.
“It feels as though I’ve never been away,” I murmured to myself.
“You have an affinity for fleeing,” Finn remarked, disappointment tinting his tone. “At least this time I knew you’d run away with Fitzroy.”
“I didn’t run away. He asked me to go with him—I couldn’t refuse my liege,” I replied with feigned indifference.
Finn arched an eyebrow. “Don’t pretend any part of you wanted to decline. I saw the way he looks at you—everyone saw.”
“What do you mean?”
My heart fluttered as I contemplated what Fitzroy’s expression might have revealed. Definitely tenderness. Possibly devotion. Hopefully admiration.
Finn let out a dry chuckle. “You left with him hastily, gone for nearly a week. And when you returned, you were touching one another with tender regard. The soldiers on the beach had plenty to say about it.”
My stomach sank—not because I cared what those men thought of me. I didn’t give time to those anxieties anymore. But the idea of Bash overhearing their speculation knotted my insides until I felt sick.
“What were they saying?” I asked.
Finn snorted. “Their comments were pretty unsavory—but essentially, they were calling you his whore—”
“His what?” a deep voice interrupted from behind.
I turned to see Fitzroy, who was eye-catching among the ordinary soldiers. I drank in his handsomeness, savoring every last drop of his chiseled features and smoldering gaze.
Beaming in his presence, I decided there were far worse men for people to assume I was a whore for.
“My liege,” Finn said, bowing his head.
“My liege,” I echoed, dipping into a curtsy.
“May I borrow your sister for a moment?” Fitzroy asked, flashing Finn a gleaming smile—his expression as charming as ever.
Finn nodded. “Of course.”
Fitzroy extended his arm, and I took it.
We walked through the camp toward his tent, attracting lingering stares. Whether they were due to my womanhood or the fact that they’d once believed I was a man, I’d never know.
“The esquire has already fled to the Walled City,” Fitzroy remarked—so casually it alarmed me more than if he’d sounded panicked. “He promised to tell my father I’ve arranged a rebellion.”
“Will you send knights after him?” I asked, my breath hitching at the idea of betraying the King.
Fitzroy smirked. “I don’t quail before a bunch of elders. It’s essential that I reserve my manpower for the forthcoming conflict with Regina.”
A knight stationed outside the royal tent held the entrance open as we ducked inside. Though these dwellings paled in comparison to our bedchambers in Regina’s castle, the brazier—filled with steaming hot coals—provided a comforting warmth.
Fitzroy moved to his desk, piled high with scrolls and letters.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said as he sorted through the parchment. “I’ll be up all night.”
“I can help,” I offered, stepping in close. “You can give me orders—I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.”
A coy smile graced his lips as he set a letter aside, freeing his hands to slip around my waist. “If anything, I’d rather you weren’t here—I find you distracting,” he murmured, drawing me closer.
He leaned in, and our lips met. Each kiss drawn out with desire, as though we were trying to hold on to every moment. I attempted to perch on the desk in a bid to pull him between my thighs, but in my clumsiness, I sent a pile of scrolls tumbling to the floor.
“Sorry,” I murmured, but Fitzroy didn’t care.
Without hesitation, he swept the remaining parchment aside to clear the desk. I hopped onto its surface as he positioned himself between my legs. A fleeting shiver skimmed the curve of my spine as his tongue met mine, coaxing us backward until he lay atop me.
“After you gave yourself to me last night,” Fitzroy purred into my ear, his hands heading beneath the layer of my gown, “I couldn’t stop wishing I’d taken a moment to taste you.”
He edged up my skirt as he sank to his knees, pulling me by the thighs to the edge of the desk until he was eye level with what he hungered for.
With passionate kisses, he traced my inner thighs—heat flushing the back of my neck as he met my gaze with his sultry look. His lips eventually reached the top as I rucked up the fabric, shifting the layers so I could behold him.
Between my trembling thighs, I was met with Fitzroy’s handsome face, and I doubted there was a more perfect sight.
At first, he kissed me tentatively, his lips circling my pulsating part, leaving me breathless.
Then he glided his tongue along my slit, groaning into me, savoring my taste.
Beneath my breath, I moaned, trying to hush my noises—aware of soldiers nearby.
But as he slipped his fingers inside me, tenderly stroking in time with the caress of his hot tongue, I couldn’t stifle my noises of passion any longer.
“Uh—hm—Fitzroy,” I moaned.
And my cries of pleasure compelled him to devour me.
Fitzroy reached upward—mouth still pressed to my mound—grabbing my hand and placing it on the back of his head.
I threaded my fingers through his hair, gripping tight and holding him close.
“Use me,” he panted, and I did—tightening my hold and grinding myself against his face.
Slowly, I edged toward the climax—adjusting my movements, learning what I liked.
Then, all of a sudden, it was coming on quick—legs shaking, breaths trembling, panting quick and heavy.
Seconds before I could come, a voice called out. “Excuse me, my liege,” it said, shattering the sensation building within and leaving me with no reward.
At the sound of the visitor, Fitzroy emerged from between my thighs, red-cheeked and chin glistening.
But the unwanted presence didn’t stop him from drawing me close and stealing a few more kisses before breaking away.
“I’m clearly busy,” Fitzroy remarked, a trace of irritation in his tone as he wiped the wet from his lips.
I glanced over my shoulder to see a knight lingering awkwardly at the tent entrance, and any remnants of arousal vanished in an instant.
“One of your soldiers requests a moment of your time,” he said, his gaze fixed on the floorboards.
Fitzroy pulled me upright, straightening his tunic and cloak as if preparing to impress his future subject.
His eagerness to please made me smile.
As I crouched to gather the scattered letters, a shadow fell across the planks—the visitor had stepped inside.
“Excuse me, my liege,” spoke a voice I knew well. “May I have a moment with Smith, alone?”
My heart sank as I looked up to see a head of white hair.
Bash avoided my gaze, his attention fixed on Fitzroy.
I rose abruptly, lingering in the silence as we both awaited our liege’s decision.
“Of course,” Fitzroy said.
Before departing, he took my hand and planted a kiss against it, as if staking his claim.
Fitzroy smirked, briefly meeting Bash’s eye, before leaving us alone.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Bash’s blank expression roved over me while I struggled to decipher the stone-cold look on his face. I wondered how seeing me in a gown made him feel, while he fiddled with the unlaced string on the front of his tunic, revealing a glimpse of his muscular chest.
“I thought you might never return,” he finally said—it was nice to hear his voice.
“Is that not what you wanted?” I asked, puzzled by his desire to speak—especially after our last conversation when he declared we were no longer friends.
He deeply sighed and shook his head. “I was upset.”
Guilt bubbled within my chest at the thought of having caused him pain.
“I’m deeply sorry for hurting you,” I murmured.
He took a moment to ponder my words before a gentle smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You look pretty.”
“Thank you,” I replied, my cheeks flushing at his compliment.
Stepping closer, he continued, “I spoke to your brother. He told me the only difference between Smith and Niamh is the name—that you’re just as hardworking, hotheaded, and devoted as before you ran away.”
I nodded, knowing Finn was right—despite my efforts, I’d always been Niamh.
“At first, I was angry because I felt deceived. When I believed you were a man, and we were both confused about our feelings, I felt safe knowing we were in the same position. But when I learned that you were a woman, I felt alone.”
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, edging toward him.
“I’ve learned that I care solely about who a person is on the inside—who you are,” Bash continued, pointing at me. “The skilled blacksmith, the talented witch, and the faithful friend.”
“You still care about me?” I asked, tears welling in my eyes as my bottom lip trembled.
Bash nodded, his brow furrowing slightly as if in pain. “Very much so.”
“I still care for you, too,” I admitted, a yearning ache filling my chest. “I wanted to tell you I’m Niamh, but after you kissed me, I was afraid if you knew you wouldn’t do it again.”
He shook his head. “I would’ve still wanted to kiss you.”
For a moment, I longed to take his face in my hands and press my mouth to his. Yet too much had happened during our time apart for me to leap into his arms as I desperately wished.
“Do you forgive me?” I asked.
Bash reached forward and gently wiped away a tear clinging to my chin. Even the soft brush of his fingertips sent a pleasant tingle across my skin.
“I do.”
“Friends once more?” I offered, extending my hand.
Bash took it tenderly. “Friends,” he replied—and that word stung. “Good night, Smith. I’ll see you on the morrow.”
Bash turned to leave the tent. Though I longed for him to run to me, enfold me in his arms, and promise to never let me go, he slipped out into the low light without looking back—leaving a visceral stabbing in my chest.