He took two strides toward me, fell to his knees, and turned my face up to his.
His lips moved over mine, the scar on his upper lip feeling pleasantly rough. His touch was tentative, but a shock of pure, toe-curling excitement shot into me. I returned the pressure eagerly. His lips were cooler than mine, but not painfully so. His temperature must have risen. I knew mine was up.
His arms slipped around my back, pressing me to his chest. My hands curled around his neck, my fingertips greedily tangling in his hair. I pressed myself closer. His fingers dove into my hair, pulling the strands free of the string that held it back.
He broke the kiss to press his lips to my temple. “Gods, how I have been dying to touch your hair.” His voice was low and gritty and hoarse. Just hearing it made my skin burn.
His eyes met mine and I marveled again at the myriad of colors. They were a cold winter morning and an evening on the lake, a crisp mountain stream and a blue starflower, crushed underfoot at the end of summer.
“Am I frightening you?” he asked roughly, his hands moving to my shoulders. “Only tell me to stop and I will. You must trust me, Ruby, that I would never hurt you.”
“I trust you,” I breathed, drawing him back to me. His cheek slid across mine, the slightly hair-roughened skin a tantalizing abrasion against mine. I moved my cheek to feel it again. He made a sound low in his throat and found my lips, brushing them back and forth, tasting me.
Part of my mind couldn’t believe this was happening. I’d had dreams, but this was so much better. I hadn’t known the feel of his skin against mine, the way it would make my heart leap, the joy of being wanted and being able to show him that I wanted him, too.
I longed to touch his face, to get to know those scars that he tried to hide. For whatever reason, they were fascinating, irresistible to my hands, which wanted to soothe and mend them, if only touch could do so. I risked moving my hands to his cheeks and he let me. When my fingertips drew near his ruined ear, he grabbed my wrist.
“By Fors,” he breathed, trembling a little as he held me. “The gods are testing my control.”
“And mine,” I agreed, smiling wider. “But then we both know that’s severely lacking. I’ve been waiting for you to kiss me for ages.”
He chuckled and then sighed, placing his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said softly.
“You should have done it a lot sooner,” I corrected.
He smiled. I angled my head for another kiss, but the door suddenly burst open and Brother Thistle stepped in, his walking stick trembling in his hand. Arcus pushed himself away.
“Brother Lack has left,” Brother Thistle said. “The stable boy was made to saddle one of the horses and he heard Brother Lack muttering threats. Something about going to Greywater—”
“The garrison,” Arcus said.
Terror gripped me. “He was writing a letter to someone in the library. He said he wouldn’t allow me to corrupt the abbey anymore.”
Brother Thistle turned to Arcus. “You need to find him. I didn’t think it would come to this, but he would do anything if he believes his actions protect the order.”
Arcus glanced at me. A pained look passed over his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice, and he was out the door and gone.
Brother Thistle sucked in a deep breath as frost flowed around his feet in a swirling, chaotic pattern. Though he looked in my direction, I had the sense his mind was somewhere else.
“This is not how it was supposed to happen. All our careful plans.” His eyes flickered. He finally seemed to see me. “Your face is bruised. Are you hurt?”
I took a breath. I couldn’t even feel the bruises. I wanted to run after Arcus and find out what was happening. But I knew my ankle wouldn’t let me get far.
“I always seem to be, don’t I?”
“I will send Brother Gamut with his tea,” said Brother Thistle, turning to the door. “Stay here.”
After a long while, I went out in search of news. The abbey was unnaturally quiet. Finally, I found Brother Thistle in the chapter house leaning on his walking stick, staring out the window.
“Any word?” I asked.
He shook his head. His face was wan and stiff and seemed more heavily lined than usual. We sat together, each minute crawling past.
The sun was halfway down the sky, the heat of late afternoon warming the seat under the window. A cloud moved over the sun, making me shiver.
Suddenly, Brother Thistle sat up straighter, his brows snapping together. He leaned forward.
“Is that? Yes. A horse.” He tapped his stick on the floor in excitement. “Oh, praise Tempus. Arcus has returned.”