Shane cleared his throat. Marguerite winked at him. “You’re right, I’ll sell your body instead.”
“No one is selling anyone’s body until we talk to the Bishop,” said Shane firmly, then recognized the voice that was coming out of his mouth. It wasn’t even the paladin’s voice. It was…
“Oh, Dreaming God, you’ve got me sounding like Beartongue now.”
Marguerite looked as smug as a cat who had been dipped in cream. Lord Nallan rose to his feet, still looking skeptical, but increasingly resigned. “Very well. If this is what you choose, Magnus, I’ll not be standing in your way.”
FOR OBVIOUS REASONS, Lord Nallan did not throw a feast to celebrate Ashes’ leave taking, but he gave them full Nallan hospitality, which included fine food and, praise all the gods, beds. Good beds.
In separate rooms, no less. （After a discreet word, a guard was posted outside of Davith’s door, but given the sounds he made upon seeing the mattress, it seemed unlikely to be necessary.） Marguerite lay in her extremely comfortable bed and pretended that she wasn’t waiting for the door to open.
This lasted for about an hour, and then she pretended that she wasn’t disappointed that the door hadn’t opened.
It’s fine. He gets to choose. It’s fine.
It did not feel fine.
Goddammit.
The Nallan keep was built into the hillside and there were no windows, only a ventilation shaft with a decorative metal grille. Any assassin trying to get in would have needed to have their bones removed first. If someone made an attempt on her life, they’d have to come in by the door.
Not that she was worried.
Much.
She certainly wasn’t going to use being worried as an excuse to go find Shane. That would be absurd. Wren was just as capable a bodyguard. If she was feeling paranoid, she’d go find Wren, since Shane obviously wasn’t going to come here on his own.
Marguerite closed her eyes and told herself that she was being stupid and should go to sleep at once. The insides of her eyelids laughed at her.
There was no reason for anyone in Nallanford to attack her. Ashes Magnus had been here for over a month now, and if the Red Sail had an operative here, they’d have gone for the artificer already.
She should definitely go to sleep. In fact, she was going to sleep. Right now.
Sleep is occurring. For real this time.
Five minutes later, Marguerite got up, lit a candle, wrapped a dressing gown around herself, and went to the door. She pulled it open.
The interesting thing was that even though there was a looming figure in the doorway, she wasn’t startled. Her nerves recognized Shane before her brain caught up.
He was fully clothed, one hand raised to knock. “Um?” he said.
“Oh, good,” said Marguerite, and pulled him inside.
LESS THAN THIRTY seconds after she’d gotten Shane undressed, Marguerite knew there was a problem. Not with his ability to perform…based on what was nudging against her leg, that was not going to be a problem…but in…well…
Actually, maybe ‘performance’ is the exact problem.
The man was as nervous as a new bridegroom, not that Marguerite had ever actually had one of those. He barely seemed to notice her touch. Instead, he was touching her and frankly trying to do too many things at once. The slightest hitch in her breathing made him freeze. “Is that good? Do you want me to stop?”
“Shane,” she said gently, “this isn’t an exam.” She ran a hand down the muscles of his stomach and felt him quivering with what might be passion but was probably nerves. “Relax.”
She tilted her head back and found those ice-blue eyes less passionate than frantic. “But I need to do this right. I want to make you feel…” He glanced away, probably not knowing himself how that sentence was supposed to end.
Just like a paladin. Needs? Paladins don’t have needs! “Here to serve, ma’am. Just point me to the part of your anatomy that needs servicing.” Hell, I’m probably lucky he doesn’t salute.
Davith had been right, ages ago. She did like being in charge. But this didn’t feel like being in charge, it felt like being an object of duty.
She curled her fingers around his cock and he hardly even seemed to notice.
Marguerite weighed her options. Well, let’s see. I can let him work himself into a lather trying to work me into a lather. I can kill him and dump the body in an open mineshaft. Or…
She pressed her forehead against his. “Shane. Do you trust me?”
“Should I?”
“Probably not, but that wasn’t the question.”
“Yes.”
“Then lie down on the bed.” And let’s hope this works and he doesn’t run away screaming or burst into tears, because that will be really awkward at breakfast.
She turned away before she could see if he complied. The room did not come supplied with ropes or long scarves or anything of that sort, and anyway, they wouldn’t have done any good. Marguerite was pretty sure that a berserker could snap anything short of iron chains, and she wasn’t completely sure on that last one. But being tied up had nothing to do with the material and everything to do with what was inside a person’s head.
She opened a side pocket on her pack, found the tiny sewing kit that had kept her clothes from turning into rags over the last week, and measured out two lengths of red thread.
When she turned back, Shane was lying on his back on the bed and no matter how awkward this second time was turning out to be, there was nothing awkward about the picture he made. It was all long bones and hard muscle and those extraordinary blue eyes, which were watching her, puzzled.
“Now, then,” she said. “Grab hold of the headboard. However’s comfortable.”
It was, of course, more wrought iron. Shane clasped it obediently. “All right,” he said, “but what are you—mmf!"
Marguerite straddled his chest and leaned forward. In that position, her breasts would have muffled better men than Shane. She carefully looped the thread around each wrist, leaving plenty of slack, tied them neatly, and then sat back.
Shane, breathing heavily, looked bright-eyed and slightly worse for wear after the time spent in her cleavage. “Um,” he said. “Thread?”
“Thread,” she agreed, looking down at him.
He pursed his lips. “This is a trifle more sophisticated than I’m used to.”
“No, it’s really very simple. If the thread breaks, we stop.”
“Err…” He tested the slack. “Don’t people usually use whips and chains and so forth?”
“Whips are a different thing. I haven’t got any chains.”
“Lord Nallan probably does.” His lips twitched. “I suppose I could go ask.”
“Not without breaking the thread you can’t.” She leaned back on her hands and watched his face carefully.
He swallowed and tested the slack again, then gripped the metal bars harder. “Are you sure? I wanted to please you.”
Marguerite grinned, feeling like the cat who had caught the canary and was about to fuck its brains out. “Oh, you’re going to. Believe me.”
“I…ah…expected I’d be using my hands.”