Even Shane could recognize when it was time for the voice. “It can be very dangerous,” he said gently.
“The original Marguerite died of it. Both her and the child. I decided early on that I didn’t wish to tempt that fate.”
There was a note of finality that Shane had no desire to push. “I…err…I don’t have any children either. As far as I know.” He cleared his throat. “That is, no one ever came to the temple to say that I might have fathered their child.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Sometimes. After a battle, if you’ve helped people, some of them are grateful. Um. Very grateful.” He realized, unaccountably, that he was blushing, which was completely ridiculous, given what they’d done the night before.
Marguerite’s eyes danced and he knew she was about to say something hilariously cutting, when a
familiar voice drifted up from the path to the shelter.
“If you’re going to close your eyes, at least take hold of my hand so you don’t walk off the damned cliff.”
“I have no desire to hold anything of yours,” another, equally familiar voice snapped back.
“I promise, I’m not going to enjoy it. I just don’t want to see you splattered all over the landscape on my watch.”
Wren’s reply was too low for Shane to make out. “No, but that overmuscled brother of yours would,” Davith said, clearly in answer, “and I’d rather not give him another excuse to punch me.”
Marguerite sighed. “Well, it was fun while it lasted,” she said, bending down to kiss Shane on the forehead.
What does that mean? That was fun, let’s do it again sometime when other people aren’t around? That was fun, now let us never speak of this again?
Davith’s head crested the trail, followed a moment later by Wren. Davith looked up, saw the shelter’s occupants, and let out a heartfelt groan. “Thank all the gods. You’re here. Now this abominable child will be someone else’s responsibility.”
“Child?” Wren put her hands on her hips. “I’ll have you know I’ve been widowed for longer than I was wed!”
“My congratulations to your husband on his excellent timing.” Davith collapsed dramatically on the floor of the shelter. “I’m dying,” he said, his eyes closed. “Please burn my body so at least I’ll be warm.”
“Are you hurt?” Shane asked, ignoring the man and focusing on Wren, who looked indignant but otherwise intact.
“We’re fine,” said Wren. She exhaled gustily. “Spent the night in a shelter a bit like this one on the lower trail. Ours had thatch, though. I’m pretty sure we can be out of the mountains in a couple of hours, though.”
“Wren,” said Marguerite, “you are my new favorite person.” She brushed off her cloak. “I can’t wait.”
Shane hastily dragged on his armor. He’d have to sit down and go over it with oil and a stiff brush at the first opportunity, but getting out of the mountains sounded like a marvelous idea.
“You are well?” he asked Wren in an undertone. Despite Marguerite’s assurances, he had worried for them.
“Sure,” she said. He looked at her steadily and she finally rolled her eyes. “Fine. It was incredibly awkward and there is no good way to say, ‘I think you’re an asshole but I’m sorry I tried to kill you.’ But we lived and nobody fell off a mountain and died.”
Shane nodded. He was the last one out of the shelter, and paused on the threshold. “I wish there was some way to replace the fuel we used,” he said. “Or pay for what we took.”
“That’s why it’s there,” Wren said. “It’s for anyone who needs it, that’s all.”
“I know. Still. In case someone else needs it, I wish I could help.”
He started down the trail. Ahead of them, Davith put one hand on Marguerite’s shoulder, leaned down and murmured something in her ear. She gave a rueful laugh and swatted at him.
Jealousy struck Shane so hard that it felt like a sharpened stake piercing his chest, as if he might look down and see blood. He took a handful of deep breaths, trying to settle himself after the unexpected assault. What is this? Why? I have no right. She is not mine. I am not hers.
Like hell you’re not, whispered the little voice that usually cried failure. You are hers completely. She’s just not yours. Best get used to it.
He did not want to get used to it. He wanted to lay claim to her and snarl at any other man who came too close. It was nasty and primitive and it boiled in his chest, wonderful and horrible.
He had no right to feel that way. More than that, feeling it was dangerous. Jealousy was fear, plain and simple, fear of abandonment, fear that one would be judged in comparison and found wanting.
Can’t imagine why I’d feel any of those things, he thought dryly. It was just a damn shame that knowing you shouldn’t feel something didn’t make the feeling go away.
The Dreaming God’s people taught that jealousy was the kind of crack in a soul that a demon could exploit. The Saint of Steel, perhaps more practically, pointed out that a jealous berserker was a very dangerous thing.
I cannot afford to feel this. I cannot. Look at what happened when Davith broke Wren’s heart.
She nearly killed him, and I know they hadn’t so much as kissed.
And if I snap because I’m jealous or heartbroken, who’s going to stop me?
“You doing all right?” asked Marguerite, touching his arm. Her eyebrows rose as he jumped, startled. “Something wrong?”
“Just—ah—thinking.” He hadn’t even noticed her dropping back. Saint’s teeth, if this is what I do now when I bed a woman, it’s probably for the best that I don’t get much opportunity. We could be attacked by an army while I was staring off into space. “Sorry,” he added. “Distracted, that’s all.”
He wasn’t sure if she believed him. He couldn’t tell. That’s part of the problem, isn’t it? You can’t ever tell. She’s too good at hiding her responses. You have no idea if she would like more or if that really was just two people staying warm.
You could just ask.
What, right here, with Davith and Wren looking on?
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Marguerite asked.
“Fine.” He picked up the pace. “We should get going.”
THIRTY-FOUR
WREN WAS NOT EXACTLY wrong about getting out of the mountains in a couple of hours. It was just bad luck that those hours occurred sometime in the afternoon, and not actually when they set out.
“I knew that was the wrong direction,” muttered Davith.
“It was the correct direction,” grated Wren. “It was just that the rockslide was in the way.”
“Yes, but—”
“Children,” said Marguerite wearily, “if you do not stop bickering, I will turn this escape attempt around, so help me god.”
“Suits me,” said Davith cheerfully.
“And I will tell Shane to kill you.”
Shane did his best to look like a killer. He wasn’t sure if it worked, or if he just looked constipated. Davith rolled his eyes.