Claim deridia book 5, p.29
Claim (Deridia Book 5), page 29
A hard lump settled in her throat and she felt suddenly perilously close to tears once again. Would they never cease? Would it always be that the barest mention of... of before would be enough to send a fresh wave of mourning over her?
She swallowed as best she could. Pushed it down. Refused to indulge herself in another bout of self-pity.
Dhorn had shared with her. And he deserved her full attention. Her commiseration. Her understanding.
“Time to go, dear one,” Dhorn murmured, his voice growing slightly hoarse. Anxious. It was enough for her to pull her head away, to see if she could catch a glimpse of what had troubled him.
Only to find him staring down at his brother once more.
Whose head had turned. Peered upward. And caught sight of them.
“Are you certain we should not...” she began, but Dhorn shook his head, and merely raised one hand in greeting before ushering her back toward the trees.
“Not today,” he repeated. “Let us give him more time.”
She nodded, for Dhorn felt what she could not, and she had no desire to cause any pain to anyone who dwelt here.
But her thoughts drifted back toward L’ora, and she found herself posing a query that had far more to do with her than of the brother she had yet to fully meet. “Is he grateful?” Naida asked. “That you volunteered in his stead? Or do you think he regrets it?”
Her throat burned, but her eyes for once did not water, and perhaps that was progress?
Dhorn paused, just long enough to peer down at her for a moment, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Not when he would be able to see that she thought of her family more than his own. Was that a betrayal? She did not know. But she suspected that it was.
“If he is not,” Dhorn hedged. “Then I am. For he would have been too concerned with his own wounded heart to care enough for yours.”
Naida released a breath she had not realised she’d been holding. “Could... not the same be said for me?” she found herself asking, the regret immediately following.
Dhorn halted in his steps, his brows raised in surprise, but she continued before he could say anything in response. “We have talked of this before, but I am not certain we ever reached enough of an understanding.” A breath, the clenching of her hand, the racing of her heart even as she tried to remain calm. “You take such care of me. But do you think I am so broken that I do not wish you cared for as well?”
Dhorn looked away. “You are not broken,” he argued, although there was little vehemence to the words. Just the sadness that clung to him when he thought too much of her past. “Just bruised a little. And you mend a little more each day.”
She prayed that was true, even if the changes in herself proved frightening on more than one occasion. He was so patient, so careful, and she was grateful for it. She would be a fool not to be. But there was the clutch in her chest, the one that was a little too near her heart, but that seemed corded to something low in her belly, that only he had been able to touch.
That urged her to make their marriage a true one. In body as well as in name.
For him to know his welcome, to pour out her gratitude in kisses.
Just as she had done in his chair earlier that day.
Not because she had to do so. Not because he expected it of her.
Because he didn’t.
He had made that clear from the first hour of their acquaintance.
He had promised her time, time for her to learn to trust him and...
It wasn’t love. Not exactly. Not like she had known for her mother. Her sisters.
But trust had settled in her heart all the same, bought with his quiet patience. His coaxing conversation.
The sharing of his home. His family.
And she’d given him so little in return. Just the ties to a people he did not admire, with trade that would prove far more beneficial to the Yarrow than to the Marzon. And a wife that cried too much and likely could give him no heirs, and...
She stopped herself.
He’d known that. And chosen to marry her anyway. And perhaps that was to save his brother from binding himself too soon to another when the wounds of his last were still so fresh, but it hardly mattered.
The source of their willingness had been for other people, but it was mutual all the same.
And the rest...
A tremulous breath, a clutch in her heart for the male who mourned, no matter how incredibly, for a wife taken too soon. If he belonged to another kind, his sorrow might spoil to frustration that she had succumbed to illness before providing him an heir.
But not here.
He mourned her.
And wanted no other.
At least, not yet.
And Naida looked at Dhorn, and thought of their time together. Of learning and growing and yielding and braving, and...
What if he was taken from her?
Her breath caught in her throat just to think it.
He’d already endured such thoughts when she’d lay prone and shaking in their bed, too cold and numb to even keep hold of her own senses. He had confessed as much to her, that he’d been so certain she would leave him when her fever came.
There was too much room for regret between them. For difficult starts and desires unspoken, and that had not been his intention, bringing her here. He wanted her to see, to understand, that they were more alike than she had allowed.
And she was grateful, even as she held compassion in her heart for the brother she would have to wait for meet. For the sister she likely would never see again.
But the urgency was there for her own sake. For Dhorn’s.
That made her bold, made her brave, even as her insides tensed and fluttered.
“Would it...” she began, then stopped herself. This was not the place to ask, not when they were out in the open, when they were just barely out of view from his brother, plagued with his own troubles and hurts that likely trickled through the familial bond with her husband.
But his fingers skimmed her cheek, and did he know how her skin tingled so when he did that? How her breath caught and her insides tightened, and she would have denied him nothing—nothing at all—when he looked at her that way.
“Yes?” he urged, giving no indication that he felt as she did, but perhaps he was better at tucking such reactions away.
“You had... you had told me that we might take our time before you... before we...” she swallowed. Why could she not just speak plainly? Why did her cheeks have to flame, her heart begin to race, the embarrassment flooding through her at something so rudimentary to...
To those really married.
She did not doubt him. Not really. He was her husband in her mind and in her heart, but there was still a niggling desire that he be hers in this final way as well.
And that... that couldn’t be wrong.
He withdrew his hand, and she could see his withdrawal, the way he misunderstood and thought she was reminding him of his promise not to impose upon her.
She shook her head adamantly and reached for his had before he could tuck it away in a pocket and rescind it completely, and she held it tightly between both of hers, wishing she had the words, the confidence of a female long-married, with all the knowledge of husbands and wives that would make such an entreaty a simple one.
But she didn’t.
It was just... her. Too ill-prepared, with too many stories of new wives to husbands that were not as kind as the one that she was so fortunate as to call hers.
“I should like to be yours,” she told him, as sincerely as she could. That despite the unknowns, the flutter of her heart that she should be careful, and nervous, and perhaps even frightened of the prospect...
She wanted him.
Wanted to see what it would be like with a male who cared for her. Who might even, someday, come to love her.
“You are,” Dhorn reminded her with a furrowed brow. “We have talked of this.”
She swallowed, pulling on her last of her reserves, wondering if she could truly be so blunt as feared might be required.
“I do not think I require any more time,” she admitted, squeezing his hands and giving him her eyes, hoping that he might see... might feel... just a little of the pull that had taken root in her.
She felt the edges of their bond, and nudged at it, feeling foolish and inexperienced, but not knowing what else she might do to convince him.
And felt his fingers tighten around her in turn.
Saw him swallow.
His eyes darken.
“I see,” he murmured.
And she believed him.
14. Join
She could not tell if the anxiety she felt was his or hers.
Or the anticipation that coiled and swelled.
That bade them cast shy looks at one another as they walked back toward their apartment.
It was... exhilarating. And frightening. And skirted the line of feeling as if she was about to do something terribly wrong.
Yet very right, all at the same time.
She had no way of knowing if he meant to indulge them as soon as they returned. She had made her desires known and the rest...
She swallowed, suddenly nervous that he had misunderstood, that he would think that she intended to lead, to see to their joining when she had scant enough knowledge to perhaps know to spread her legs and simply wait for him to do the rest.
Would he wait until nightfall? When darkness came and was held at bay by lamplight, when they would naturally retire to their bed, when his hand so frequently found hers as they awaited sleep.
Or maybe... maybe he had simply been awaiting some sign from her, no matter how small. That she had softened toward him, that the fear was not so great now, that she acted not from compunction, but because everything was so new with him. And strange. And... so far...
Wonderful.
And despite the whispered horrors that had pervaded the market when a new bride was spotted in their midst, the coil of tension that warned it could be just as she’d worried all along...
She thought of kissing him.
Of the flare of something tantalisingly close to power she had felt when she had held his face between hers, when he’d held his breath in anticipation of where her lips might choose next to explore.
And maybe that made her wicked.
Like those who sold themselves to any with coin to pay.
Or maybe...
Maybe that made her a wife.
She swallowed.
They crossed into their apartment.
A curtain shut.
Then a door.
And his fingers were tight about hers, and she gave them an answering squeeze in return.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, his voice a lower rasp than was usual.
Was she? She glanced down at her stomach, trying to decide. They were perhaps a little past a mealtime, but she had eaten plenty and well under Dhorn’s careful care, and it felt too full of nerves to allow food to hold any great appeal.
“No,” she answered truthfully. For all the boldness she had managed to conjure seated on his lap before a warm fire, things were awkward between them now. The suggestion of more hung thick and almost tangible, but neither seemed to know how one was to begin—perhaps each waiting on the other to yield and suggest that it might not be so indulgent as to retire to their bed so early.
Naida grew flustered as they stood there, unmoving, until Dhorn turned, taking her other hand in his, his eyes capturing hers. “You meant it?” he entreated, and she had never imagined eyes so lovely to look upon, so green and open and warm.
And it loosened her tongue, made her nerves turn to liquid, and she...
She thought she might be able to do anything. Be anything.
If he kept looking at her just so.
But that thought disturbed her, if only a little. There was so much new, so much she was trying to learn and adopt as her own, but was there anything left of her? The female underneath, who loved the accomplishment that came from a task well executed, who loved to imagine far off lands and how she might survive there.
Who had a penchant for cream, did not care for food or drink to be too sweet, who loved best the feeling of waking just a bit too early and, no matter how rarely, knowing that work could wait a little while before slipping back into another hour of slumber just a tad more delicious than it had been before.
The thought gave her pause, and her breath caught in her throat. Had she been too hasty? Promised too much too quickly?
His fingers skimmed her cheek, and she bit her lip, her eyes threatening to flutter closed. How could a simple touch affect her so? How was she to keep thoughts in her head when it took so little to captivate her so completely?
“Talk to me,” he murmured. “I can see that you are thinking very hard about something.”
She swallowed. And her eyes opened of their own accord. And honesty, plain and perhaps even harsh, tumbled out. “Will I still be me?” she asked, her voice more a plea than she had intended. “After?”
She knew with certainty, that any Yarrow husband would have cuffed her for asking something so absurd. She did not matter. Who she had been was gone, pinned along with her veil to the hall of her ancestral home.
But Dhorn did no such thing. He merely breathed deeply and hunched over so that his forehead could rest against hers. He said nothing. Not at first, and she wondered if he wrestled with thoughts as she did. Swirling and twisting, jumbling up inside until she was left tight and anxious, a physical knot that refused to pull free, no matter how she breathed, how she tried to soothe the ache. To relax.
“I should hope so,” Dhorn murmured. “For I am very fond of the you that you are now.”
A lump settled in her throat. And she wasn’t going to cry. Not when it would merely dissolve into him comforting her yet again. To holding her. To tucking her in bed like the invalid she had been when he had first brought her to this home.
When he thought her delicate. And fragile.
Not the strong, dependable wife that a Marzon might admire.
No, she would not cry.
But she would very much like to kiss him again.
And it was easy, more than easy, when he had brought himself so near. When she had only to rise up on tiptoe, to fit her mouth to his, to press gently, to allow the warmth, the flutters, the push and pull to sweep her away until thought itself was driven from her mind.
And she liked it.
More than she could say.
Until all that remained was him. And the urge to be nearer still.
Her hands moved of their own accord, grasping and releasing, first from his grip as he brought his arms about her, to clutch her to him, his fingers buried in the wool of her cloak while hers found the edges of his coat. She did not tug, did not find the laces that held it closed, only held there, still clinging with chill from the world outside.
That did not belong in here. Not in their quarters, where all should be warm, and welcoming, and theirs.
Anything else would bring her closer to thinking. To doubts and worries about sisters and brothers. Of futures that did not include her joining with this male before her, the one that had claimed to be her husband for weeks now, yet still did not know what it was to couple with her.
He broke away first, although he did not pull away, merely turned his head and rested his cheek against the top of her head, wrestling for breath, perhaps even for composure.
She did not fare much better. “Please,” she whispered, although she did not even know the source of her plea. For him to come back, perhaps. For him not to deny her. To tell her to return to their still nights lying side by side, not when she knew now what it was to kiss him, to feel him.
She gripped his coat so hard that her knuckles paled, and she waited for him to speak. To tell her that was enough for one day, that they must move slowly and she learn to be patient.
She very nearly whimpered at the thought.
“Please what?” he countered, his breath warm as it tickled against her ear. It was enough to make her shiver, to push her body closer, and she wondered what he must think of her—a trickle of self-conscientiousness stilling her hands, her breath.
“Must we stop?” she asked, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice, even trying to shield it from the bond itself.
She might have overlooked something. Some custom, some hesitation that must be quelled, must be soothed, either by word or by action.
Patience, she reminded herself firmly. For today, this moment...
He was hers.
And whether she only got to savour the feel of his lips upon hers, the way he held her tightly against him as they explored this new facet of their marriage. It could be enough. If it had to be.
He chuckled, or perhaps it was a groan, all tangled up in his chest as he pushed a hand through his hair. But there was a light to his eyes as he looked down at her, and a longing there as well that echoed into her, and was she meant to be frightened? Her mind filled with recitations? Rather than the warm sort of numbness, like slipping chilled flesh into hot water.
All consuming.
And lovely.
And...
“I am heartened by your enthusiasm,” Dhorn confessed, touching her temple, her cheek, then settling on the clasp of her cloak. “But I should think it rather difficult to undress when our lips are joined.”
Heat flooded her cheeks to hear it said so bluntly. It lacked the beauty in it, the thrill, he must have seen something in her expression, or perhaps felt it directly, for he softened. “I did not mean to embarrass you,” he continued. “That is one of the last things I want.”
She swallowed, and told herself she was being foolish. But she had not expected how exposed she might feel. Vulnerable.
Raw.
As if all her most sensitive places, some physical, others perilously close to her heart, were suddenly on display.
Or would be. Soon.
Of her own volition.
