“I heard it too, boss,” volunteered one of the archers.
“Thank you, Thea. My hearing is not going, even if my mind apparently is.” He looked Shane over again, eyes lingering on the sword hilt. “Ah, hell,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Marguerite prepared to dive out of the way of arrows.
“Good-looking if you like that sort of thing,” the bandit said with a sigh, “sword that was probably gigantic before you broke it, no apparent understanding of irony. Are you by chance one of the Dreaming God’s people?”
“No,” said Marguerite.
“No?” said Wren.
“This guy? Ha!” Davith thumped Shane on the chest. Shane glowered.
“The one in back’s got an axe, boss,” said an archer.
“Yes. I see that. And chainmail under her cloak.” The bandit studied Wren with narrowed eyes.
Please, Rat, if you have any love for your servants and the people trying to keep your servants
alive…
“Paladin. Possibly two.” The bandit nodded slowly to himself and took a step back. “You know what?” he said, to no one in particular. “I am capable of learning.” He chopped his hand down.
Marguerite flinched. Shane jerked forward, dragging Davith with him. The hilt of Wren’s axe slapped into her hand.
The archers lowered their bows and stepped back behind the boulders. The bandit gazed at the four of them, shook his head, and reached into his belt pouch.
A coin landed at Marguerite’s feet. She looked up into resigned beer-colored eyes.
“Offer a prayer for me,” the bandit said, “the next time you’re in church.” And he too melted away into the hills, and left the four of them standing alone in the roadway.
“Pal. Of. Mine?” asked Shane, peeling Davith’s arm off his shoulders.
“I’d like to see you do better under pressure, paladin.”
“We could have taken them,” grumbled Wren.
“Yes, and that’s probably why he let us go,” Davith said. He knelt and laced up his boot.
“Sounded like he’d had a few bad experiences, didn’t it?”
Marguerite bent down and picked up the coin. “I suspect we owe a prayer to the Rat for deliverance,” she said.
Shane exhaled slowly, the tension leaving his shoulders, and turned toward her. “Are you going to pray for him?” he asked.
Marguerite rubbed the coin between her fingers, the metal cool and faintly slick. “I think I will,”
she said. “You never know who’s going to need it.”
THE ROAD CONTINUED to descend and by noon they stood overlooking a medium-sized village. It sat at a crossroads and boasted a public house, a general store, and a small stone church. Best of all, though, there was a bathhouse. Judging by the steam curling from the pools around it, it was built on a natural hot spring. A strong mineral smell filled their nostrils as they approached.
“I know we’re in a hurry,” said Marguerite, “but I am making a command decision. We’re staying here tonight and having baths.”
“I forgive you everything,” said Davith fervently.
“What, all of it?”
“Well, most of it. Maybe not the kidnapping.”
She snorted. Shane glanced at Wren and caught the edge of a glower, but she wiped it away as quickly as it had come.
His heart went out to her. She would never, ever admit that she’d been hurt, but it was obvious if you knew where to look. He wondered if his own feelings for Marguerite were as obvious to her.
By all the gods, living and dead, they better not be. His thoughts were not the sort that a man
wanted his younger sister to know existed at all. Hell, if Shane had even suspected that a man harbored that sort of thought about Wren, he’d have bounced the fellow’s skull sideways off a stone wall. Twice. With prejudice.
They reached the public house. The sign out front had no writing, only a peculiar illustration.
Shane couldn’t quite make out what it was supposed to portray. He paused to stare up at it, trying to work out what the brown thing in the mug of beer was supposed to be.
“Is that a turd?” asked Davith in an undertone.
“It does look like one,” Shane was forced to admit.
“This makes me worry about the quality of the beer.”
“The highlands are supposed to have excellent beer,” Shane said. “I’m sure it’s…fine.”
“Ah yes. Sign of the Drowned Turd, everyone’s favorite establishment.”
“Both of you shut up,” said Marguerite, pulling the door open.
“Welcome to the Happy Slug!” cried the innkeeper as they crowded in.
“Oh,” said Davith and Shane together, then tried to pretend they hadn’t.
Marguerite spoke to the innkeeper for five minutes, making expansive hand gestures, then returned to the group, her hands full of mugs and her face radiant with relief. “We have two rooms,” she said, sliding the ale mugs across the table. “He’ll bring out food. More importantly, there’s another bathhouse just behind the inn, although he suggests we use it one at a time.” She paused, looking at Davith. “Do I have to have someone stand watch over you? Are you going to run off?”
“Am I really going to say anything but no?” He raised a wry eyebrow at her. “I wouldn’t trust me.”
Which is exactly the sort of thing you’d say if you were trying to appear trustworthy, Shane thought. Marguerite evidently agreed. “Right. Shane, if you don’t mind guarding the door?”
“Oh, he can come inside if he wants. I’m not shy.”
She cut Shane’s retort off with a look. “You know what? I’m going to go have a bath now,” she said, sounding very calm. “Then I’ll come back. Then I will have food. Then, perhaps, I will be able to deal with all of this without screaming and bashing your heads together. How does that sound?”
There was a long silence, broken only by the innkeeper rattling mugs.
“Can I go second?” asked Wren meekly.
“Yes. Yes, you may.” Marguerite nodded to the group as if they were business associates, then turned and stalked back to the innkeeper. Shane watched her go, his eyes dropped to the shape of her hips through the concealing fabric. Even now, the memory of how they’d felt under his hands made his mouth go dry.
This was ridiculous. He knew how desire worked. You lusted after someone and then, assuming it was mutual, you fell into bed together and that took the edge off. Even if it was good…very, very good…your thirst was temporarily slaked.
And fantasy never quite lived up to reality.
And wanting was always more powerful than having.
Except now that he knew exactly what bedding Marguerite was like, he wanted her so badly that his back teeth ached. He took a long drink of his ale, which tasted much better than anything called The Happy Slug had any right to.
Marguerite finished her discussion with the innkeeper. He handed her a towel. She stalked out the door without so much as glancing in their direction. Wren followed hastily, either to keep potential enemies at bay or to make certain she got the second place in line.