Somewhere in between, p.13
Of Mischief and Magic, page 13
A muscle in his jaw ticked as he continued to stare at her, enraged that a Royal dared to clean a table.
And for humans.
“Jaren.” She sighed dramatically and turned to him, crooking her finger. He came toward her with the slow, sensual prowl of a predator barely contained.
He stopped an arm’s length away and she closed the remaining distance, standing close enough that their boots touched at the toes. His eyes widened slightly at the intimacy the gesture implied—while elves were a people known to be sensual, it was never assumed that a previous…escapade meant the door would open for future repeats.
Tyriel had just made it very clear she wouldn’t mind a repeat.
In fact, she was all but dying to have his hands on her. She needed to feel…desired.
Jaren brushed her hair back, the taut lines of his face relaxing minutely, but his anger still burned hot.
Tyriel didn’t mind. Perhaps a bout of rough, angry sex was just what she needed to clear her head.
“Don’t be such an arrogant bore,” she murmured, pitching her voice so low only he could hear. “I’m not doing anything I find bothersome, so you best not take any offense. It will annoy me.”
“Yes, pet.” The words came out a rough, sensual purr. “I’d hate to annoy you, darling Tyriel.”
“You beast. And stop acting so dangerous. You aren’t supposed to attract too much attention.”
The rigidity slowly left his shoulders. After a couple of deep breaths, he banked his anger.
Banked it, though. It wasn’t gone; she could still feel the rage pumping off of him in waves.
“Let’s find you a table, min brun,” she said. Turning away, she tossed the cleaning rag into a bucket and glanced around the mostly empty tavern.
She hadn’t expected him until later in the day, or perhaps the following dawn. She’d cast the call for aid, uncertain if any of her kin would be close enough to help and had been both surprised and curious when she learned Jaren had been the one to feel the spell’s ripple.
“Can you tell me why you sent for me?” he asked as he settled on the wide, hard bench at the table.
“Aye. But I need to let the publican know I’m going to sit.” Before he could respond, she lifted a hand. “I’m playing a part, Jaren. Don’t ruin it. You’ll understand soon enough.”
* * * * *
Tired and with a headache from drinking too much ale the night before, Aryn left his bed far later than normal.
He thought perhaps some hot cava and a meal, then a few minutes with Tyriel to explain all he’d seen might ease the sourness in his gut.
Instead, he walked into the public room of the tavern and found her in deep conversation with a man so utterly beautiful, it made Aryn want to rearrange his face.
It did not help that Tyriel sat across from him, smiling bright as she spoke with him, her features animated and open in a way he’d never seen.
Another fae, Aryn noted, then reevaluated not even a moment later as he took in more about the man’s appearance.
An elvish warrior, and one with whom Tyriel clearly knew rather well.
The intimate smile on her lips as she leaned in closer, and the warmth reflected on the man’s face said it all too well.
“Master Aryn! A good morning to you.”
Gordie, the publican, came striding toward him, his voice too loud, eyes too wide, and Aryn saw the greeting for what it was easily enough. The pub owner, concerned Aryn might take jealous offense at the flirtation between ‘his’ woman and the stranger at the table so he was giving Tyriel time to set things straight.
Although gods knew, had this been a real relationship between them, he’d have given her plenty of reason to not only stray, but to boot him out on his ass. But if she had been his…
“She could be.”
“Bloody fuck,” Aryn snapped, forgetting to keep the words silent as he cut Irian off.
Gordie froze, as did every other soul in the pub, save for Tyriel and her…friend. Her bright laughter rang through the room and Aryn felt all eyes turn toward him.
Except for Tyriel.
And her friend.
The fucking elf.
“Master Aryn,” Gordie tried again. “Your lady tells me that a friend of yours is here, Lord Jaren of Averne, a noble from the High Kingdoms.”
Not just an elf. A fucking noble.
Aryn wanted to run him through and he hadn’t even met the man.
But he looked at Gordie—the poor tavern keeper looked like he might expire from a heart storm.
Aryn had never wanted so much to commit utter, bloody violence and mayhem. And he couldn’t do a damn thing.
“Yes.” Forcing a smile, he relaxed the tense muscles in his body one by one. “It’s been an age but we made plans to meet up in these parts. Thank you for welcoming him.”
Aware people were perplexed, he lowered his voice. “He saved her once, the poor girl. She’s always been dazzled by the Kin. I put up with it. We all have our weaknesses and if that’s her only flaw…well. We don’t see him that often and it’s not like he’ll run over with her and steal her from me, is it?”
He had no idea if that trite bit of idiocy would work, but he could barely think through the red swath of rage coating his mind. Cutting around Gordie, he made for the table where Tyriel sat with her friend—his table.
That was where he sat, and where she sat with him on rare occasion. Now she sat with one of her own.
I’m a bloody fool.
He took the seat next to Tyriel and saw cool, bright green eyes cut into him even as Tyriel said in a voice too low to carry, “Say nothing, Jaren. We’re playing a part and you will not interfere.”
The air was so cold, ice could have formed as the two men stared at each other.
Finally, the elvish warrior looked at Tyriel. “As you will, my lady.”
“Really, Aryn. My only flaw?”
Aryn looked over at his partner as she touched his arm.
He gazed into her wicked, laughing eyes and forced a smile. “Well, I could have mentioned that you snore, too. But what would be the point of that?”
“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “As if anybody would hear my snoring over yours.”
* * * * *
Gordie, once no longer terrified his pub might suffer wrack and ruin at the hands of a jealous mate, became enamored with having a fae lord in his pub. He’d gone out of his way to welcome Jaren, calling for a servant to run to the market in search of better fare and what had been a rather tame meal turned into one fit for a king—or as close as the small-townsfolk could remember experiencing.
Jaren, arrogant bastard he was, had set aside his normally aloof ways and enjoyed the revelries, spinning tales of battles he’d fought, side by side fae lords who were all but lost to legend outside the fae lands.
When benches were pushed aside and one barmaid entreated Tyriel to play, Jaren surprised even her by pulling out an instrument of his own, a piece made of wood and string he used to bring forth melodies so beautiful, it seemed a sin to play such music for anybody but divine beings.
When someone asked how to thank him for such music, he’d winked and nodded at Tyriel. “Ask her to dance for the next one.”
“Are we here to parade about like popinjays or is there some task before us?” Aryn muttered.
Tyriel heard him, but opted to ignore him as she watched the barmaids approaching her, heir faces flushed from Jaren’s attention, eyes wide and hopefully. They were out of luck, although she wouldn’t tell them.
She’d already spent too many nights alone and while she could do nothing about how a certain blond swordsman had no interest in her, she wasn’t sacrificing a bit of fun with a man she’d taken to her bed more than once, just because a couple of dewy-eyed girls were spinning daydreams about his lovely eyes and wide shoulders.
“Mistress Tyriel…” The brunette was the first to speak.
Aryn made a rude sound under his breath.
She kicked him, hard, under the table. Tyriel had no idea what grievance he’d brought with him to the table, but he had no business being so surly. He gave her a dark look, but she ignored him, smiling at the girl. “Hello, Izette.”
Izette glanced from her to Aryn, then back, clearly more adept at reading the atmosphere than some of those in the room. But the lovely young barmaid was more interested in pleasing the fae lord than appeasing a grouchy blond swordsman.
“M’lord Jaren says you dance, Mistress Tyriel.”
“Does he now?” Tyriel shot her former weapons and tactics teacher a sidelong look. He’d likely had a different idea in mind but this…well, it rather suited her purposes.
Aryn had to get out of the pub before he lost his fucking mind.
Tyriel had pulled off the leather corselet and outer blouse she’d worn, now clad only in her skirts and a chemise that laced up tightly over her lithe form, the sunkissed gold of her skin glowing in the firelight as she spun around, skirts flying high to reveal elegant ankles and bare calves, her body swaying to the music Jaren pulled from his lute with careless ease.
Her arms lifted, palms up as if seeking. Hips swaying enticingly before snapping in a move so sharply, it should have hurt but she made it all look so easy, graceful and fluid like water.
Several men reached out to touch her as she spun by. She easily evaded them, the teasing smile on her lips both a promise and reproof.
The music swelled, rising in volume and intensity.
She passed by him and he caught a hint of her scent, curled his fingers into a fist to keep from grabbing her.
For a moment, her eyes locked with his.
Her lips parted.
But then the music changed and with it, her rhythm.
And she spun away, this time toward the fae lord.
She spun faster and faster. Jaren had risen to his feet, fingers skipping adroitly over the strings as he stood before her.
Abruptly he stopped.
Tyriel stopped dancing.
Applause broke out as Jaren caught her hand and bent forward, his hair falling in a curtain to shield them as he pressed a courtly kiss to her skin.
Aryn turned on his heel, storming away.
“I don’t have much time,” Tyriel said as she led Jaren up the staircase to the room she shared with Aryn. “You fine fae lords can sit on your laurels while human servants fetch you food and drink, but some of us work for a living.”
“Yes,” Jaren said, voice a velvet stroke in the dim hall. “I spend so much time sitting on my…laurels. Are you going to wait on me, Mistress Tyriel?”
The rest of the words were spoken almost directly against her ear as she came to a stop outside the room she shared with Aryn, fingers suddenly clumsy as she dealt with the simple lock. The solid iron was uncomfortable against her skin, but nothing she couldn’t tolerate, thanks to the Wildling blood in her veins and once she had it open, she pocketed the key, ready to push inside, pull Jaren in with her and jump him.
Her breaths came raggedly, heart still pounding hard from the Wildling dance she’d performed, and from needs too long suppressed.
Jaren recognized the dance for what it was, an invitation and now, alone in the narrow hall with her, he crowded her against the door and bit her earlobe. “Open the door, my lady.”
Door. Yes. They should really go inside.
The latch sounded impossibly loud as she opened the door, only to replaced by the roaring in her ears as Jaren came in behind her and kicked the door shut and fell back against it, hauling her in close with his hands on her hips.
“Say yes,” Jaren murmured against her neck as he brought their bodies into alignment.
“Yes.” Tyriel shuddered as his hands moved up from her waist, cupping her breasts, plumping them together, plucking her nipples until they throbbed as he lowered his mouth to her neck and raked it with his teeth.
She moaned as he cupped her between her thighs, rubbing her through her skirts as he whispered, “You’re already wet. Needy. Good. I’m in no mood to be gentle tonight.”
He half-carried, half-hauled her to the nearest bed and bent her over, shoving her skirts to her waist. Weak in the knees already, Tyriel had to bite her lip as he pushed his hand inside the loose, short garment she wore under her skirts over her most intimate places. Body already tight with anticipation, she bucked against him as he plunged two fingers inside her.
“Jaren—” her cry broke as he screwed his wrist, pushing deeper before slowly pulling out.
“Beautiful, princess…come for me…”
She shivered in reaction, her muscles going limp. She might have slipped down his body in a puddle to the floor if strong hands hadn’t held her steady.
“My turn.” Jaren bit her earlobe.
Her heart stuttered at the harsh need in his voice and she gasped at the speed in which he bared himself, then filled her, hard, with no hesitation. Tyriel bounced up onto her toes in reaction to the thick, hard invasion of Jaren’s cock, a sob tearing free.
Magic pricked over her skin, stirring her awareness but her instincts settled as she recognized Jaren’s magic, wrapping around the room in a muffling veil.
He drove into her again, the head of his cock passing over one of the sensitive, nerve-filled bundles in her core and she instinctively tightened around him. His cock jerked and it only had the effect of her inner muscles squeezing him again, and again.
Jaren snarled and he shoved a fist into her hair, pulling. Her spine arched, her scalp tingling from the sensation.
“So hot,” he muttered. “You burn me. Let me burn you, my lady.”
Tyriel moaned as Jaren breathed a whisper of magic down her body, sending hot little flicks of illusory flames to lick at her skin, teasing her nipples before arrowing down the wet heat between her thighs to pleasure them both.
“Beast,” she whispered.
Then there was no time left for words as he drove them to the edge and over, his natural shields containing the small magics that erupted from them as they lost control.
Tyriel lay against him, judging the time by the angle of the sun.
She felt loose and languid, her mind sharp despite her body’s relaxed state.
“I so needed that,” she murmured as he stroked a hand over her hip.
“Why didn’t you turn your lovely eyes to your human companion?”
Tyriel didn’t control the flinch in time. Embarrassed, she sat up, dragging the bed linens up to cover her body in a rare display of self-conscious modesty.
“You noticed that.”
Jaren arched one brow. “Hard not to, the way you made it a point to not stare at him. You could bring any man to your bed if you chose, Tyriel.”
“I’m not resorting to fae tricks for bed mates,” she snapped.
He sat up, the muscles in his finely carved torso tightening with the movement as he leaned in until they were nose to nose. “I speak not of fae wiles, old friend, but of female ones.” To punctuate his meaning, he cupped one breast. “He’s a man. You’re a woman. And while I might be reading him wrong, I don’t believe he’s attracted to other men.”
“No.” Tyriel flopped onto her back and flung an arm over her eyes. “Leave it alone, Jaren. I beg you.”
Instead, her former instructor, sometimes lover and always friend continued. “As I thought. So that’s not why you’re hesitant.”
“He’s a bloody hound,” she said when he lifted her arm and bent over to peer into her eyes. “He’ll fuck anything in skirts—or I should say anything with tits. But he doesn’t so much as look my way.”
Trying to hide the hurt would be much harder if Jaren could see her eyes so she sat up and gave him her back.
“Is it your pride that’s wounded or something else?”
She sniffed. “Please.”
“You’ve a damnable lot of pride, even for us, my lady. But methinks there is more to this tale, something you don’t want me knowing.”
Eyes closing, she sank back against him. Why hide it? He already knew. “I—”
She stopped, feeling a vibration in the floorboards. Unless Gordie had rented out a room in the hour they’d been away from the public room, Aryn was back. And the sun had slid down to kiss the horizon, so they had plans to make.
“He’s back,” she said quietly, rising from the bed and moving to the washbasin. She needed a real bath after tussling on the sheets with Jaren, but there wasn’t time for that just yet. She barely had time to freshen up and pull on a fresh chemise and tunic before the door swung open.
Jaren was still lounging on her tumbled bad, black hair a silken tangle over one shoulder and unrepentantly naked.
Aryn barely glanced at him, but he paused in the doorway. “I thought you might want to start making plans.” He waited a beat. “Should I come back later?”
“No.” She tossed him a look over her shoulder. “If you’re not modest, you might as well come in. Jaren has no shame, so you won’t bother him. Jaren, clothing.”
“Of course, my lady.”
She stiffened and shot him a narrow look at the silken, suggestive tone but he had a look of pure innocence on his face when their eyes locked.
After pulling breeches on, she crossed to him while Aryn went to his bed.
“Behave,” she warned, using her father’s tongue.
“Of course, my lady.” Wicked humor lit Jaren’s eyes.
Tyriel bit back a sigh. Whatever mischief had taken hold of him, she didn’t know. But if she tried to rein him in now, it would only make it worse.
Chapter 11
Jealousy, red and ugly, raced through Aryn at the easy interplay between them.
Although he didn’t speak a word of elvish, he had come to know Tyriel’s moods and he saw the amusement and irritation as they both dashed across her pretty face. The other fae? Well, smug male arrogance sounded and looked the same regardless of the language being spoken.
That they had a history was obvious.
Now, the room smelling of woman and sex, he had an even more obvious picture in his mind and the enchanter’s heightened senses only added to the picture forming in Aryn’s mind.
