Gayle Eden by Illara's Champion Page B

like a well with a ledge save there was tile around it.
    The food she laid on that ledge, his back was close enough to touch but Pagan had a cloth pressed to his face. The last of it brought in, she used the opportunity to notice that although broad and muscled, there were lighter patches of skin, ridges and dents amid the muscles. It was mellowed by the candle he had burning, but his back and shoulders were in truth a mass of scars.
    She did as she had with his hands and ignored them, and when she did that, all that remained was a magnificent knight with all the power and brawn they were famous for.
    Standing back further, she enquired, “Shall I come here in the morning for our talk, or will you visit me?”
    Pagan grunted. “I will come to you.”
    A warm shiver worked over her and she murmured before turning, “I like that phrase, Pagan. I do.” She left him to his bath and meal.

     

Chapter Five
    She would destroy him. Pagan thought this, draining the gritty water from his hard scrubbing and filling the cistern again. He had scoured his hair and body so hard in his anger that the thinner skin over the scars burned. Now Pagan stood there, plate and cup balanced on the ledge to eat—tired, sore, and irritated, even before he had discovered her in his tower.
    Pagan chewed the food with no taste, and drank to fuel his body, his lower half being soaked when he stopped the taps. The tanks were empty of heated water. Because of her, because of his softening, and his hungers, he had lost sleep, and lost focus whilst drilling with Randulf. His brother was not amused and not tolerant. They had argued until Pagan dropped his hands and walked off.
    Randulf followed him to where he had sat on the ground against the rear wall. Sitting beside him, his brother had waited for him to explain himself.
    “I will be ready when the time comes.”
    Randulf grunted. “You were never not ready, until now.”
    Looking at the rear of the castle Pagan had said, “I never set out to feel for her. I thought too much of me dead and buried, to hunger for anything—things I know will make me vulnerable.”
    After a silence, Randulf murmured, “You’ve consummated the union, I gather.”
    “Aye.”
    “So bed her often and let us be about what needs completed.”
    Pagan shook his head. “The more you taste honey, the more tempting it is to risk the stings to have it.”
    “Very well. I will finish the deed myself.”
    When his brother stood, Pagan arose and caught his shoulder before he could walk off. “Nothing has changed. I leave in a week. We leave.”
    Randulf shook his head and pulled his shoulder free. “Your marriage changes things, brother. It changes you.”
    “Nay.”
    His brother laughed softly and advised, “Either accept it, and do what you must to find your focus again—or leave the thing to me. Perhaps it’s time.”
    Even now, Pagan remembered returning to the grounds and putting all his fury and proving that he was not changed into the practice. He had made himself remember everything he had lost, and by staying away from her, he could find the focus again.
    “Bloody Christ.” Pagan pushed the plate so that it toppled off the edge. He sat down in the water again, submerged to the neck. He reclined and tried to forget how she appeared, how she smelled, how she tasted. Unfortunately, when she had stepped near him in the tower room, he’d stank of sweat, and she had smelled of jasmine. Her eyes were so full of emotions that his hard tone was more from the stirring of his body—despite his fatigue, than from anger.
    He gave up. Pagan arose and drained the water, grabbed up the toweling and stepped out. Wrapping it around his hips, he tossed the plates onto the tray and carried it to the hewn bench by the door. He drained the jug of mead, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and went to fetch his filthy clothing and mask.
    Half afraid she would be in his chambers, Pagan stood in the doorway to check, ready to