I know, I know, this was supposed to be the last chapter. It was supposed to be just sex and tying up loose ends. And more sex. But then Sinbad cockblocked himself, Riona demanded screentime (she IS the queen after all), and everything got way out of hand. So here we are. Sorry, guys!
The Mountain
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)
Setting: Alternate
All standard disclaimers apply
Time flows hazily.
He sleeps deeply, his exhausted body finally giving in. He fought for so long in the dark under the mountain, battling sickness, battling wounds and the demons that inflicted them. Now, safe and warm in Odhran's palace, the woman he loves pressed close to his heart, he surrenders. He rests, body and mind. Everything switches off as he collapses into somnolence, tangled with a very familiar female body that radiates heat like the sun.
He thinks he hears Doubar's impatient growl at one point, and Dim-Dim's softer, calmer tones, but the sounds could so easily be a dream. He dreamed about his crew, his family, so often, down in the darkness below the mountain. Are they real now? Is anything?
The voices, he doesn't know. But one thing definitely is real. Even asleep he can smell the soft honey-smoke scent of Maeve, can feel her warmth bleeding through him like southern sunshine. He's certain of nothing else as he sleeps the sleep of the exhausted, but he knows she's with him. Nothing else matters. As long as she's near, he's at peace.
The gnawing of his empty, ravenous stomach finally rouses him.
Sinbad blinks, mind groggy and slow. The fumbling fuzziness of his foggy brain and bumbling body tell him he's been asleep for a very long time. His first instinctual action, as his clumsy limbs come back under his conscious control, is to tighten his arms around the warmth curled sweetly against his side. His muscles contract as his nerve endings fire, sending him a torrent of sensation. Hot skin. The soft pressure of someone else's body, a very female body, half on top of his own. A sleek, muscled arm wraps over his chest, the delicate hand beautifully possessive, palm pressed over his heart as if memorizing its rhythm in his sleep. Maeve's face is hidden under a welter of messy curls; his mouth curves in a hopelessly tender smile. He adores this girl. Everything about her. Even her bedhead.
His stomach protests again, trying to eat itself in the absence of any food. How long was he asleep?
Too long, his belly says. He moves one hand experimentally, drawing his palm down the sleek line of Maeve's back under the heavy pile of blankets. The curve of that gorgeous ass is gloriously warm as he palms it, squeezing gently. She stirs, mumbling thick, unintelligible syllables into the meat of his chest for a moment, then stills again.
How she has the softest skin he's ever touched despite the rough life she leads, Sinbad doesn't know. He stops squeezing but can't bring himself to move his hand, stroking her skin with his thumb. Her head shifts on his shoulder, red curls tumbling to the side, revealing her sleeping face. Pale winter light filters through the window, icing her fair skin with a snowy sheen. She's tucked under a pile of linen and thick, fine wool, but her bare shoulder and throat, the delicate line of her jaw, shine as if painted in silver. Her soft curls throb with vibrant color, a bright contrast to that icy, creamy-sweet skin. He wonders what she'll look like in another moon or two, as they board his ship and head downriver, back to the open sea and the south. She won't turn as dark as he is, but he's curious what she'll look like sun-kissed and golden. Beautiful, of course. He doesn't think she could ever be otherwise.
His belly cramps and twists again, angry with him for lingering. It wants food, not skin, no matter how beautiful. He ignores it. More important right now is the gleam of white snow-light on her perfect shoulder, the press of her breasts against him as she breathes. He kisses the shine of wan winter light just at the curve of her shoulder. The light is cold, her skin hot against his lips. He lingers, breathing her in, gathering her sweet body gently in his arms. His mouth travels along that line of skin, silk-hot and perfect. His tongue tastes her, smoky-sweet, clean skin and sleepy heat. If he's this hungry she needs food, too, but he can't bring himself to wake her. He'll get up and bring her something from the dining hall. She deserves her sleep.
Slowly, his body protesting every movement, he forces himself away from her perfect warmth. He untangles from her one reluctant limb at a time, hating the process of pulling away. The need to stay with her, to not be parted again, flares strong. But his stomach is nearly sick with hunger, and he has other responsibilities to think of, too. His crew is here. He's their captain even when not at sea, and he needs to at least check on them. They're in an unfamiliar place, and while he trusts that Odhran will treat them well, as captain he needs to see for himself. Maeve will be fine, he tells himself firmly as he stands, vertigo seizing him for a long moment. He shakes it off. She can sleep just as well without him. Maybe even better, he concedes, without his roaming hands to disturb her.
Step by step, his aching body makes it across the small room to the little bathing chamber. He shaved haphazardly before he fell into bed, but his cheeks feel scruffy again when he rubs them. That alone tells him he slept for a long time. He needed it, he allows, but he's not generally a layabout and he doesn't like feeling like one. He scrubs his hands and face with frigid water and soap, then borrows Maeve's knife to shave again. Clean water to drink and wash with feels like a luxury, one he won't ever take for granted again.
Looking in the little mirror, he sees the faint, lingering traces of the bite mark Maeve left on him what seems like ages ago, still visible on the side of his throat. He touches the light bruise with a fingertip and smiles. Bruises don't last forever, but he'd gladly wear this one until the end of his days.
"You want another one?" The soft voice is heavy with sleep.
Sinbad turns to see her leaning against the doorway, blinking as her eyes adjust to the daylight. She's deliciously bare. He can't stop himself, his arms reaching for that enticing skin. "I just might." She's hot against his damp fingers. He presses his mouth to hers gently. "I didn't expect you to wake so soon." She seemed deeply asleep when he left the bed, driven from her warmth by his stomach.
Sleepy, honey-dark eyes travel his face, the trace of a smile hovering over her soft mouth. "My pillow disappeared."
"I'm sorry." He lifts his mouth to press a kiss to her forehead. "I got too hungry to ignore. I was going to bring you a tray."
"It's just as well." She pushes him gently back to the mirror, touching her mouth to his bare shoulder, ending the soft kiss with a little nip of her teeth. "I think we slept through a day."
He suspects she's right. When Sorcha woke them to eat night reigned. Pale morning light shines through the window now, but his groggy body and scratchy chin tell him he slept for more than a few hours. "It's fine. We both needed it—especially you." He scrapes his soapy throat carefully with her blade.
She hides a yawn in the crook of her elbow. "I've never done anything like that before. I can't even say exactly what I did. I was just so angry, and I knew I had to stop those creatures."
He pauses, shifting the sharp blade away from his face to really look at her. "Are you okay?" She looks okay. Her milky skin isn't ice-white like Lachlan's. Right now a pale apricot warmth touches her, lingering heat from the nest of blankets she just vacated. She isn't trembling, and her bare feet stand firmly planted on the green slate floor. The dark shadow of exhaustion has disappeared from her eyes, and though she's still slowly waking up, the lassitude of a long sleep draped around her like a robe, he can't see any visible signs of ill health or weakness.
"I'm fine." She blinks those lovely tawny-brown eyes, shaking off the mantle of sleep. "But being cold is the worst. I won't make fun of anyone for it ever again."
"Are you cold now?" She's hot to the touch, her own sweet heat long restored, but he still worries. He'll wrap her in heavy wool or soft fur if she wants. Hell, she can jump into the massive hearth in the dining hall. Whatever it takes.
"No, not anymore. But it was awful." She scowls with the force of how much she disliked the feeling. "Awful."
He will not laugh at her. He will not. He forces his eyes back to the mirror, hoping the soap on his face hides the twitching of his lips. He doesn't want to fight before breakfast. "That's why you're coming south with me, leannán."
"Mm. I'm also very attached to that cock." She cups him shamelessly, squeezing just enough to firmly wake his body up. "I don't want to give it up."
Oh, gods, she doesn't have to. He curses and drops the knife. She can't play with him like that, especially not when he's holding a blade to his own throat. He presses her firmly against the wall, trapping her with his arms, his bigger body. His half-hard cock pushes into the muscle of her belly. "Behave, sweetheart. I'm trying to be good. To let you be."
She eyes him, hands hot on his arms. "Why?"
Is that a trick question? That isn't usually her style, but he honestly can't tell. "Because you're…" He trails off, grasping for a tactful way of saying it.
"Miscarrying? It's not a bad word." She rolls her eyes. "I told you, it doesn't really hurt. I wouldn't even have known if Sorcha hadn't said anything. I'd just have thought my moon cycle was a little late."
"And you also nearly died." His hands wind through those beautiful red curls, tipping her head back gently so he can see her eyes better. "Barely a day ago."
"Two days ago. I think." Her hot palms slide up his shoulders, her hands hooking behind his neck. "I don't remember a lot of the details, but I'm fine now." His face and throat, the usual targets for her teeth, are covered in soap. She nips his earlobe instead. "I ate. I slept. I got over it, and you need to, too. Being treated like an invalid gets old fast. I'm a terrible patient. Ask Sorcha."
He has no doubt she's a pain in the ass to nurse; he doesn't need anyone to verify that. Like him, she finds physical limitations aggravating and does her best to ignore them. The problem is when they catch up to her. "I don't ever want to see you like that again."
The irritated look she flashes him tells him he's treading very dangerous ground. "So, what? Are you saying you're never going to fuck me again because you think I'm made of glass now?"
No, that's not what he's saying. He doesn't think he could stop himself permanently even if he wanted to. "How about a week?"
The irritation in her eyes turns dangerous and her fire flares, pushing at him, that delicious heat prickling his nerve endings. He hisses and presses closer, his trapped cock pushing harder against her belly. Fuck, that feels good. Too good.
"You couldn't last a week, and I have no interest in making you," she says. Her hands drag down his sides, hot-sweet, coming to rest on his ass and pulling him hard against her.
"Five days," he counters, though he's honestly not sure he can last five more seconds if she keeps touching him like that, deliberately taunting him with her body, her fire.
"Nuh-uh." She shakes her head and digs her short nails into his skin.
Fuck, he likes that. Likes it far too much. He tilts his head and takes her mouth, kissing her hard, ignoring the soap smeared across his chin.
She welcomes him, her kiss hot and fierce, fingers flexing on his ass as he presses against her soft skin. He can't think, can't process logic as her fire consumes him, drowning him in heat, in pleasure. He wants to be inside her, wants to sink into that plush, wet softness, to hear her panting little cries, taste her pleasure on his tongue. For long moments, he honestly can't remember why he's bothering to fight this. She wants him. He wants her. What else matters?
Finally he drags his mouth from hers, her taste of smoke and honey marred by the bitter sting of soap. He presses his forehead to hers, breathing deeply, even the air tasting of her as he inhales her breath. "How about this?" he says, forcing his eyes open, taking her wrists gently in his hands and removing her grip on his body. "You go see Sorcha today. If she says you're fine, I won't fight you anymore."
She scowls. "I've never known a man to cockblock himself so fucking much for absolutely no reason."
He laughs, a little hoarse and out of sorts. Gods, he wants her. "Except there may be a reason. I know you don't think so, but the chance, however small, isn't one I'm willing to risk."
"Sorcha will grumble and complain. She'll grouse at me for wasting her time."
He has no doubt Sorcha can complain when she wants to, but he doubts the healer will protest Maeve checking in with her. After all, she came to them the other night. "That's my offer."
Maeve looks exasperated, but at least she's considering it instead of ignoring him outright. She could break his resolve and seduce him this minute if she really wanted to, he knows she could. With the combination of that body and her inner fire, he wouldn't stand a chance. She glares at him instead. "If I go see Sorcha, you can't come with me."
"Fair enough." He's not concerned with that. Maeve is too honest to lie to him if Sorcha tells her to take it easy for a while.
"And if I have to put up with her grumbling, you'd better make it worth my while."
"Do I ever not?" Many men may not care about or know how to please a woman, but he does.
"Not so far. It was just a warning." She smiles wickedly. "If you're making me go to Sorcha, I expect to be treated like a queen." She considers. "I take that back. Not a queen. A very high-priced courtesan."
"As you wish." He'll do whatever she wants, just as soon as Sorcha says he can. They often get rough, and he's not risking her if her body isn't ready for it. He licks the curve of her tempting lower lip, ending the touch of his tongue with a bite. She wants him; he can tell by the rosy flush of her skin, the way her lovely pink nipples harden beautifully against his chest. Her inner fire flares with an echoing ache as his teeth squeeze and then release her lip. He'll fuck her. He'll do whatever she wants—rough or gentle, hard and fast or all night long. But not until he knows he won't hurt her.
"An exorbitantly high-priced courtesan," she grumbles as she reluctantly pulls away.
He can't help his smile. "How about high-priced but worth every cent?"
She considers, then nods. "Good point. I want a massage. Hands. That cock. Everything."
She can have all that anyway, she doesn't need to make deals with him for it. He kisses her shoulder and pushes gently on the small of her back. "I'll do anything you want, once Sorcha says I can. Now go dress. You have to be hungry." He clamps his jaw down, fighting through his own discomfort. She's given him blue balls before and will again, but this time he's done it to himself. He has no one else to blame.
At some point while they slept someone took their empty dishes and his bloody clothes away. Sinbad hopes he gets them back. He returns to Maeve's little chamber after shaving to look for the Fae leathers he wore last time he was here.
His mouth drops open.
She said she was a lady. Sorcha said she was a lady. This is not news. Somehow, those comments didn't prepare him.
"What?" She glances at him as she runs an ivory comb through those perfect red curls. "My leathers burned, remember?"
Yeah, he remembers. He's not honestly sure what he expected her to don instead, but this...isn't it. Rich, thick burgundy velvet hugs her body, a color that turns her lovely skin to pure cream and makes her absolutely glow. He's shipped plenty of textile cargoes in his time and he knows the price of that velvet is astronomical. The red-brown fox fur that lines the long belled sleeves and floor-length hemline is darker than her own bright curls. A belt of hammered gold discs set with polished garnets accentuates her waist, hooking low in the front, the long end left to dangle enticingly just where the sweep of precious fabric hides the juncture of her legs. A gem he hopes to all the gods is another garnet and not a ruby hangs at her throat.
She pulls her red curls back, separating them into three strands by touch and braiding them loosely with deft, practiced hands. "Are you going to dress, or just stare at me all day? I thought you were hungry."
He was. He's not sure he is anymore.
He knew she was a lady. She told him so practically from the beginning. But to see her like this...does something to him. Something unwelcome. He fumbles for the leather and linen loaned to him last time he was here. She always looked at home in her Fae leathers, beautiful and capable. He didn't expect her to look just as comfortable in courtly wear. She describes herself as something of an outcast in Riona's court, itching to be away from the nonsense of palace life and political intrigue, but in this moment as he stares at her draped in finery he could never afford to give her, she looks every bit the competent high lady. Like she was born to this role.
"What's the matter?" She rises from her seat on the side of the bed, where she perched to slide matching velvet slippers on her feet. He's used to the confident sound of her footsteps in sturdy boots. Soft-soled slippers meant only for polished palace floors make no noise when she treads. "They'll give your clothes back once they wash them."
He doesn't care about his clothes. He doesn't care if he never sees them again. He watches her, unable to put voice to the sudden, very uncomfortable unease in his mind. She's so beautiful. She always is, but right now she looks exactly like the right-hand of a powerful northern monarch...which she is. She told him so. She never lied about that. It's his own fault for not listening, not really hearing what she was telling him until he saw it with his own eyes.
Her hands touch the waistband of his leather trousers and glide lightly up his bare sides. He holds his linen shirt in his hands.
"Does that still hurt?" She's gentle, her soft fingertips keeping well away from the worst of the gouges across his gut.
He shakes his head slowly, eyes still riveted on her. She shines like a gemstone, but she doesn't really look like his Maeve anymore. Something in him does hurt, but it's nothing physical, nothing she can touch.
"Let me." She kisses his mouth softly, then reaches for a little clay pot. Lifting the wide cork reveals a pale salve.
"Don't," he protests. "You'll dirty your sleeves."
She snorts. "Since when have I ever cared about that?"
Since never, but he's never known her to wear velvet and gems, either. Her long, belled sleeves brush his thighs as she applies the cool, buttery concoction to his closed wounds. She's gentle, her hands soft as feathers. The salve smells like herbs and beeswax.
"That should really be bandaged, but I don't think I have any spare linen in here." She frowns and bends to open the trunk under the window.
"It's fine." He shrugs the linen shirt on, studiously not looking at whatever she does have hidden away in there. More costly fabrics and gems? He doesn't want to know.
She turns back to him, frowning. "Something's up with you."
"I'm hungry." He's not. Not anymore. He doesn't know what he is. This feeling...it's not just uncomfortable. It hurts. It's not envy—he's never been one to care about material objects. He doesn't want the things she has. But he struggles to understand what he does feel.
Those lovely tawny-brown eyes narrow. His history with her may be short, but she knows him and she's difficult to lie to. She can sense bullshit from a league away. Her mouth thins as she presses her sweet lips together. "Don't you fucking lie to me."
He doesn't want to. He's not deceptive by nature. But this feeling is strange. He can't explain it, and he doesn't want to admit to it. His hands reach for her hips and encounter cold metal where he wants hot skin. Gold shifts, chinking softly under his fingers. The blood red, teardrop-shaped jewel just below the hollow of her throat winks at him as she breathes. That perfect skin was made to be draped in jewels; no one can tell him any differently now that he's seen it.
Those piercing eyes search him. She's keenly intelligent, and intuitive too, at least when it comes to him. She pushes closer, chest to chest. He can't see anything but those honey eyes. "You know me. Better than anyone does."
He does know her—part of her. He knows the warrior, the fighter. The lover. Gods, does he know the lover. But he doesn't know the courtier standing before him.
"You've been inside me." Her voice drops, a bare murmur as her lips brush his, warm as a breath of summer wind. She holds there, so close, speaking into his mouth as much as his ears. "And I've been inside you. I can't explain it. I don't know how it happened. Others touched me, down there in the caverns. They begged for the fire. Welcomed it. But I didn't enter them, didn't merge with them. That only happened with you." Her dark eyes meet his, travel the well-loved planes of his face. When she blinks, she's so close he almost feels the brush of her lashes against his own skin. "You asked me to come south with you. You can't take that back now."
He doesn't want to. He doesn't know how to be without her anymore. But he's not...all this. He's just a simple sailor. He desperately doesn't want her to regret this decision. "I'll never take it back. But you're a lady."
"Elevated, not born. This is a costume—what it takes to do my job." One side of her mouth curls in a sardonic smirk. "I'd have rather taken those leathers you're wearing, but then you'd have to go down to the dining hall naked." The tip of her tongue touches his lip, fire-sweet. "I don't want the other women any more envious of what I get to run away with than they already are."
His mouth opens, just a little. Just enough. His tongue touches hers. That sweet-smoke taste melts him, as always. The pads of her warm fingers trace along his smooth cheek.
"It's a costume, leannán. Nothing more." She kisses him slowly, taking his top lip between hers for a long, sweet moment. "What good would I be to a queen if I looked like a thug all the time?"
Slowly, slowly, his arms unbend. They circle her waist, pressing her body against his. Her clothes smell like the cedar wood of her trunk and the cloves meant to repel moths. Even that smell is expensive—he can't imagine the cost of cloves so far north. He settles his nose against her cheek and breathes her in instead. This sweetness is familiar. Adored. "You could never look like a thug."
She smiles. Her lips moue and she kisses the corner of his mouth. "You know me, Sinbad."
He does. He just has to have faith that the woman he knows, the woman who wants to be with him, is stronger than the courtier loyal to her queen. "I love you."
"So quit being weird." She bites his lower lip, harder than a playful nip. One thing he's learned about her—she likes using those teeth. If he didn't know better he'd almost suspect she had a little werewolf in her. "And put your boots on. I'm hungry."
He obeys. Another thing he knows about her, courtier or no: she gets cranky when she's hungry.
Breakfasters still linger in the dining hall when they arrive, the serving tables laden with food. Sinbad doesn't pay attention to anything else, his stomach homing in on the promise of a hot meal. He steps forward, but from his right a glad hail sounds.
He turns, a little grouchy at being interrupted in his quest for food. A small crowd of familiar faces perches on benches clustered in front of the huge fireplace. Maeve swiftly leaves his side, veering for them.
"Look who finally decided to join the living!" Doubar rises. "I wanted to wake you. Several times, in fact. Dim-Dim wouldn't let me." He frowns at the diminutive sorcerer at his side.
Maeve strides toward them, her steps purposeful and swift. The set of her shoulders and the curl of her fists tell Sinbad there's definitely something more than a glad greeting on her mind. She's dressed like a lady, but she's sure not walking like one.
"How's my little sister?" Doubar beams. "All anyone's been able to talk about the past two days is what you did out there. Did you know you caused an earthquake?"
She stares at him. Blinks. Then tightens her fist and punches his arm. Hard. "Your little brother is Sinbad!"
"Ow!" He rubs his shoulder in protest. "What was that for?"
She hits him again. "All that time I thought you were worried about some weak little kid! Some scrappy little human maybe Suni's age! Why the fuck were you worried about Sinbad?"
The rich velvet, the gold, the gems—suddenly they mean nothing. Sinbad steps swiftly to her side. The irritated timbre of her voice and her fierce stance is all Maeve. His Maeve. Not Riona's. She may look like a courtier, but she's a fighter to the core. Warmth bleeds through him as his earlier unease vanishes.
"You were worried about him, too!" Doubar insists. "And you didn't tell us, either! A man, you said. One you hadn't known that long."
"It was true!"
Dim-Dim claps Sinbad affectionately on the back. "I can see that things are about to get very interesting on board your ship." He laughs with delight.
"That's one way of putting it." Sinbad sets his hands gently at Maeve's hips, ignoring the belt of gold. He pulls her back a step. "Don't beat up your new big brother just yet, leannán. At least wait until you've had breakfast."
She desists, considering Doubar. "I've never had a brother before."
"Well, now you have...kind of a lot of them." Sinbad keeps his hands on her though it looks like her attack on Doubar is over. "Doubar, Firouz, and Rongar, of course. And Tetsu and Rolly." All of these men cluster around the fire, along with Senna. Rolly's arms hold his sleeping daughter against his shoulder and Sinbad doubts he's going to put her down anytime soon. "And the Adventurers. And I guess—"
Maeve sets a warm finger over his mouth. "I'm joining a guy's club. I get it."
"If you want a sister, there's always Talia, the pirate queen," Doubar volunteers.
Oh, no. Introducing Maeve to Talia would just be asking for trouble. Sinbad knows that without even considering the idea. They're both strong, iron-tough women, and fiercely independent in their own ways, but they won't get along. Maeve is as loyal as the sunrise. Talia...is not.
Her head turns, a slow smirk curling her full mouth as she looks at him. "A pirate queen? And you said you were an honest sailor."
He bristles. "I am. I just meet a lot of...interesting people in my line of work."
"That's for sure." Firouz laughs.
"So do I," Maeve says. "But not pirates."
"No. Just werewolves." A curl of red hair has escaped her loose braid. Sinbad wraps it around his finger and tugs gently.
She brushes his hand away. "Suni's a good kid. All he wanted was to find his sisters." Her smirk falls. "I hope he didn't get in too much trouble."
"I think by the end his alpha was willing to overlook his transgressions, considering the outcome," Dim-Dim says gently. "The boy was right to trust you. If he hadn't, both girls would have been lost, and more besides. I think Isari knew this, though he didn't want to admit it."
Doubar settles back on his bench. He has a mug of something hot beside him. "That 'good kid' offered to sleep with your girl, you know," he says to Sinbad, grinning as he lifts his mug.
Sinbad grimaces. He hates that Maeve is a target for so much male attention, but there's really nothing he can do about it. She's sinfully beautiful, and that won't change. Nor does he want it to. He'd love if Dim-Dim could teach her to control her fire a little better so everyone around them doesn't feel it when she wants his hands on her, but barring that, he has no wish to change her. Besides, she loves him. He knows that. What other men want can't change what they have together. "I'll save my energy for the idiots who won't take no for an answer."
She presses close, offering her soft mouth to kiss. "That's my job."
"I know, but you may need backup sometimes. And that's my job." He kisses her softly.
Doubar groans. "You have today, little brother. Then I expect the public kissing to be kept to a bare minimum."
"Who's captain here?" He has no intention of complying. Maeve is his, and he doesn't care who knows it. In fact, he wants the world to know it. He offers Maeve his arm. He's not a courtier, but this much he knows to do. "Breakfast?"
"Definitely." She takes his arm, patting Doubar affectionately on the shoulder as she passes, heading for the serving tables. From behind them, Sinbad can hear his brother's amused words. "Even dressed like a princess she hits like a man."
Damn right she does. Sinbad thinks he might be feeling a little bit better about this whole courtier thing. Doubar's right. She may look like a lady, but inside she's still herself.
He's starving, but he bypasses the steaming pot of barley gruel quickly, his stomach feeling a little queasy at the smell. He and his crew are definitely switching to some other grain. Wheat or millet or rice, he's not picky. Anything but barley. He loads a plate full of brown wheat bread, hard cheese, and greasy smoked goat sausage, rich with fat and spices. He looks warily at the steaming mug Maeve hands him. "What is that? The last herbal brew Sorcha made me drink tasted like dirt."
She laughs. "It's not herbs, it's spiced mead. Odhran must be feeling generous today."
"Mead?" He sniffs. The sour, fermented smell tells him what it is before her words do.
"Wine. The Fae make it from honey, not grapes."
Wine is definitely an improvement over herbs that taste like dirt. He takes the cup gladly. Now he knows what Doubar was guzzling by the fire.
They settle with their friends near the giant hearth. Sinbad balances his plate on his knees, watching as Senna rises and hugs Maeve tightly.
"Thank you," she says, swaying slightly as they embrace. "For bringing him back to me. To Aoife."
"All I did was kill some monsters. He's the one who managed to stay alive long enough to be found." Maeve pulls back and squeezes Senna's hands. Her face clouds. "I suspect many didn't."
"And yet many did," Tetsu says gently. He offers her a small, seated bow that looks far more graceful than Sinbad could ever manage.
"You're Tetsu." She smiles. "The one who's not a flying-carpet tamer. If we've met before, I apologize. My memories of the mountaintop are hazy at best."
"No apology is necessary. I was in the mountain with Sinbad and Rolly. I, too, would like to thank you for all you've done."
"Please don't." She waves his attempt off. "By the time I finally reached that fucking cave, all I wanted in the world was to kill those things."
Sinbad doesn't doubt it. Maeve has many admirable qualities, but patience isn't one of them. Searching the mountain instead of fighting the demons must have irked her deeply. She releases Senna's hands and smiles at Aoife curled against her father's chest. "How is she?" She glances at Senna.
Normally a parent in such a situation might offer the baby to hold, but Rolly does not. Sinbad doubts he's let her out of his arms much during the past two days. Rolly strokes her thick black hair and smiles.
"She doesn't remember him," Senna says, her jaw tightening as she braces against the emotion.
"But she loves honey, and I'm not above bribery." Rolly kisses his daughter's head, rocking her slightly. "I'm her favorite person right now." He won't ever be able to get back the lost time with his daughter, but he seems to agree with Sinbad and Tetsu—they need to focus on the future, not the past. What they have, not what they've lost.
Maeve settles at Sinbad's side, warm and smoke-sweet. As they eat, the others fill them in on what happened while they slept. The dining hall became a temporary refugee camp as Sorcha and all the clan's healers assessed the former captives. A mage was summoned from the Fae capital to assist in ridding the women's bodies of the demonspawn, completing the task Maeve began when she killed the creatures in their wombs. Two human men with festering wounds remain in the infirmary. Everyone else has been treated and released, the magical keys sending them back to their clans or villages.
Sinbad is glad for them all, but part of him wishes he had a chance to thank and say goodbye to some of the people who helped him under the mountain, particularly Zara. He hopes she's happy back in her home clan, with her friends and family.
"What happens now?" Maeve sets her plate aside, cradling her mug in her warm hands. She wears a gold ring of Celtic knotwork and another set with a red stone. "Will you go back to pretending the humans below don't exist?"
Rolly looks troubled. "I don't see how we could. We've been through too much together to pretend we haven't. This touches every nearby clan, every lowland village. So many lives were lost—no one was unaffected."
She chews on her lower lip, not a habit she's prone to. "When I entered the mountain, all the people—human, Fae, wolf—you all looked the same. It's hard to explain." She frowns, fighting for the words to describe something no one else in the world has ever seen. "You all had the same inner spark. The wendigos didn't. But everyone else. I couldn't tell a difference. There was none." She turns helplessly to Dim-Dim, her soft eyes searching for a better explanation than she can give.
The sorcerer doesn't disappoint. "You saw their souls," he says, smiling gently. "Bodies show differences—the color of an eye, the shape of an ear. The strength of a jaw. These things change from person to person, region to region, species to species, even age to age. Souls do not. They are immutable. No one knows where they come from before being born into this world, where they go after death. Religions have theories, but that's all they are. We just don't know. But the nature of a soul is constant, its presence and worth not bound by blood. We are as we are. It does not surprise me that, freed from the physical realm, we all look the same."
Maeve rests her mouth gently against Sinbad's shoulder, a sweet touch even Doubar doesn't grumble about.
"This animosity isn't limited to our mountains," Senna says softly, rubbing her sleeping child's back as Aoife rests in her father's arms. "It covers the world. Norsemen tolerate us to an extent, but only the Celts truly accept us. Live with us." She inclines her head toward Maeve.
"I know." Maeve looks more troubled than Sinbad has ever seen her. He wants to soothe her, to erase the anxious crease between her delicate brows, but there's nothing he can say to help this hurt. Senna's right. His time amongst the Fae has been limited, but he's learned this much. They've retreated from the most populated parts of the world, drawing back into wild places like these mountains and Maeve's islands. Too much of their blood has been spilled by humans for this to change easily.
"It will take work on both sides to move forward, not just ours." Rolly's fingers comb gently through his sleeping child's hair. He looks at Senna and smiles. "But it's possible something good can come from disaster. The lowlanders have seen us now. Fought alongside us. I refuse to dismiss that as nothing."
Sinbad agrees fully. They may never know just how many lives were lost under the mountain, but if a step toward reconciliation and healing has been taken, maybe they didn't die in vain.
A sudden commotion at the door steals Sinbad's attention. He can't quite tell what's happening until Rolly, Senna, and Dim-Dim abruptly drop to their knees.
The queen is here.
He and his crew follow Dim-Dim to their knees automatically. Maeve rises swiftly to her feet to greet her monarch. Of course she does, Sinbad thinks as he lowers his head in deference. Does she even know how to kneel?
The Fae queen is as lovely as the rest of her people. He steals a glance at her even as he bows his head. She has rich, warm brown hair and skin as pale as a Celt. She looks almost ageless, though Sinbad suspects she's probably older than Sorcha. She's dressed in pure white, heavy velvet, much like Maeve's, the fur at the sleeves and hemline not brown fox but rich white ermine. A diadem of shining silver rests on her brow, set with little diamonds that sparkle fiercely, a single large yellow gem in the center. He doubts such a monarch would wear topaz; he suspects it's the biggest yellow diamond he's ever seen.
"Riona!" Maeve drops a brief, sketchy bob before tossing her arms around her queen.
The woman laughs, hugging her tightly. "Oh, my girl! I've missed you!"
And there it goes again—the strange feeling Sinbad can't identify, the one that consumed him when he first saw his girl draped in velvet and jewels. His stomach drops. Not just into his boots, but further, down past the heart of the mountain. Maeve said she was useful to her queen. A trusted bodyguard. She didn't say they were close.
Lachlan and Odhran flank the ruler, one on each side. The iceman wears burgundy, the color suspiciously similar to Maeve's velvet gown. Unlike her, it doesn't suit him at all. Sinbad takes heart from Odhran, the big hairy bear of a clan leader, who stands resolutely in his fur-lined leathers. Whether he was surprised by this visit or knew and refused to dress for it, Sinbad neither knows nor cares. He looks uncomfortable standing to the right and just behind his queen, and that makes Sinbad like him.
The iceman eyes Sinbad as he stands to the left and just behind his monarch. No doubt rumors have been flying about Maeve taking up with a foreign human, possibly even whispers that she may consider leaving with him. Everyone in this clan knows she belongs to their queen, knows she's Fae to the bone despite the human blood in her veins. He doubts Lachlan believes she'll choose the human over her queen. In this moment, Sinbad himself isn't even sure. He wants to be. He knows she loves him. But faced with her monarch, her vow, will she change her mind about leaving? What if this queen won't release her?
As if he can sense his discomfort, Dim-Dim touches his shoulder gently. They remain on their knees, waiting for the signal to rise. Sinbad breathes slowly, taking comfort from his mentor, his crew. No matter what happens, he'll always have them. He tries to tell himself that's enough—he doesn't need anything more than his ship, his men, and a star to sail by. The problem is, he's never been good at lying to himself. Maeve hasn't been his for long, but the timeline doesn't matter. He needs her.
Riona releases Maeve but keeps her close, cupping her cheek in one soft white hand. "I've missed that warmth." Dark eyes survey her vassal. "You don't look as bad as I feared."
Maeve smiles. "I had more help than I expected."
"So I have heard." The queen glances at the clustered people and motions for them to rise. "Introduce me."
Odhran steps forward to do so. Maeve resumes her place at Sinbad's side, which calms him somewhat. When he can feel that sweet warmth, all the tension in him eases. He turns his head and brushes his mouth against the soft velvet covering her shoulder. She smells like herself, even over the scent of cedar and cloves. That smell steadies him, gives him faith, just as it did in the caverns below the mountain.
Maeve takes his hand, squeezing gently. He hopes it's meant as reassurance, because that's how he takes it. His eyes cut sideways, glancing at Lachlan, motionless to the side of his queen. Sinbad suspects the color choice was intentional, but it makes the iceman look even whiter than usual, like a blob of melting snow, so white he's washed out and featureless. His face is perfectly schooled, his expression unreadable, but his eyes linger on Maeve's hand clasped in Sinbad's, her body resting lightly against his side.
When Odhran introduces him, Sinbad bows without letting go. The queen sees, he knows she does, but she says nothing. She smiles and strokes Aoife's cheek when introduced to Rolly and Senna, and she looks musingly at Dim-Dim when he bows gallantly, his silver staff clasped in his hand.
"That face...I couldn't forget a face such as that. But I don't quite recall where we've met before." She offers him her hand, which she has not done with the others.
The old sorcerer bends over it, smiling sweetly. "I was at your coronation, majesty. Part of the delegation from Basra, along with my dear friend Cairpra."
"Cairpra!" This is a name she knows; Sinbad sees it instantly as her face lights with pleasure. "I have not seen my old friend in years. Tell her for me, when you see her, that it's been too long. She needs to spend a summer in the north."
"I will certainly," Dim-Dim says, bobbing his head respectfully once again.
The queen's keen dark eyes fix on Sinbad once more. "This is the one I wish to speak to."
Beside him, Maeve frowns.
"Don't give me that look, child. You're too bold."
"You like me this way." Maeve tosses her head, ignoring the rebuke. "What do you want with him?"
"Calm yourself. I'm only going to talk to him. What could I do, when I know my greatest weapon won't raise a hand to him?" She cups Maeve's cheek tenderly and strokes her warm skin with a gentle thumb. "I've heard much while you've been convalescing."
"Monarchs shouldn't listen to rumors."
"Of a certainty they should. Though they should also mark where rumors come from. The trustworthiness of the source." The corner of her mouth twitches with amusement. "You've given the gossips quite a bit of fodder lately."
Maeve doesn't look upset. "I always do."
"True enough." Riona chuckles. "Come, captain. Walk with me. Lachlan, Maeve, you stay here."
Maeve scowls. Lachlan looks like he wants to as well, but he has better training and more respect than his fiery counterpart. He bows, the movement reeking of displeasure, but says nothing.
Sinbad drops to Odhran's spot just behind and to the right of the queen as they leave the dining hall, heading into the open corridors of the mountain palace. He's spent a fair amount of time in the presence of royalty of varying degrees of wealth and power, from the caliph of Baghdad to minor pashas and enterprising warlords. Never has he felt so nervous around one. Riona's status as a powerful ruler doesn't scare him as much as the hold she has over Maeve. He desperately wants something she owns, something he's not sure she's willing to part with.
"Keep up," she says, her head shifting slightly in his direction. "I can't stand talking to someone behind me. All this protocol is bothersome, and meaningless at the end of the day."
He increases his pace, stepping swiftly to her side. He's glad she doesn't insist on formality, but he's still cautious. People with power can be dangerous, he's learned, and in this case doubly so. She holds all the cards. He has to make a good impression.
He considers her as they walk. She's a woman of average height, which means she's at least several inches shorter than Maeve, and slender, lacking her firestarter's strength. The pale skin on the back of her hands is still smooth and supple despite the years he can see in her eyes. Do Fae age differently than humans? He wouldn't be surprised.
"I have heard the story of what my Maeve has done many times over the past two days," she says, walking with a measured, easy tread, neither rushing nor meandering. When other people turn a corner and catch sight of her, they bow low and scamper away quickly. "I want to hear it from your perspective."
"Why?" He quickly regrets the word. It's not his place to question the monarch. "I apologize," he says. "I'm just not sure what more I can add."
Her head turns and she looks at him fully for the first time since leaving the dining hall. Her face is bland, the schooled, expressionless slate he's seen many times on Lachlan. "Has my firestarter told you much about me?"
"No," he admits. "Only that she serves you." He should have asked for more details. He knows he should have. But he honestly never expected to be in this position.
"I was the third and last child born to my parents, behind an elder brother and sister. I was never meant to rule, and my education reflected it." She reaches a tall bank of windows and pauses, staring at the snowy expanse of a winter courtyard. It's lovely, Sinbad has to admit. As long as he doesn't have to be out in it. "I was not neglected—that isn't what I mean to imply. But I wasn't given the same level of preparation my brother received. He sat on our father's council from the age of ten, and his endless lessons revolved around martial tactics, economic policy—the dry business of running a kingdom." She unlatches the window and pushes it open. Frigid air engulfs them. Reaching into a hidden pocket, she extracts a piece of bread, which she crumbles on the snowy sill. From out of nowhere several crows land, fighting for the crumbs.
"I received none of that, and at the time I was glad. I found business insufferably boring. I was meant to marry well, in service to the kingdom, and I was content with my lot. But as I'm sure you know, life doesn't always happen the way we plan." She closes the window again as the crows peck happily at the bread, arguing amicably with their hoarse cries. "My brother died at fifteen. My sister ruled for a while, but died in childbirth. Our healers are better than yours, but far from perfect."
"I'm sorry, majesty." Sinbad isn't sure what else to say.
She doesn't respond. "Her child turned out to be twins. The boy died with her. The girl lived. When I heard, I didn't know what to do. The law was unclear. I could either become queen or my niece's regent. It was my choice to make. Royal councilors advise, but they cannot decree."
"What did you do?"
"I chose to become queen, a title I never wanted and was not trained for." She looks at him, and the expressionless mask cracks just a little. A faint smile touches the corners of her mouth. "It sounds odd, I know. I felt I was doing the right thing for my niece, motherless and vulnerable as she was. She would have to rule one day regardless, and I could not give her a choice in that. But had I made myself her regent, she would have been forced to take up the crown and all that means at eighteen, regardless of whether she wanted to, whether she was ready. Instead, I became queen and named her my heir. I vowed that I would not wed and produce my own children unless she died underage, to save the kingdom from the threat of a war for the throne. And I took up the crown I didn't want."
"But you wanted to be married," he says hesitantly. "Didn't you?" It's a very personal question, and not one a common man ought to ask any monarch, but this isn't a normal situation and he's insanely curious about this woman who holds such power over Maeve's life.
"Yes," she agrees. "That was what I wanted. But we don't always get what we want in life."
Sinbad's heart sinks. He can hear the double meaning clearly in her words, the warning she's giving him, as plainly as if she spoke it outright. She's not going to release Maeve. She's going to tell him to forget her. He knows it.
"That," she says, turning down a new corridor, "was my very long-winded answer to your question. I was not trained to rule. I had to learn on my feet, develop my own way of doing things. One thing I learned over the years is to listen to a story from everyone involved. It's never the same tale. You won't tell me what Lachlan told me, or Odhran, or anyone else I have spoken to. So I want to hear what you have to say."
So Sinbad tells her. He tells her about the desperate plea for help from the human village of Ralgorōd, the promise of badly-needed funds if he and his friend Tetsu the ronin could solve the mystery of the disappearing villagers and return the people, or their bones, safely to their families. He tells her how he heard Maeve singing and first came upon her fighting a pack of werewolves. The queen chuckles at this—she obviously knows her firestarter well.
He holds nothing back. He has everything to lose, but withholding information will not win him favors with this strange northern queen, so he doesn't bother. She appreciates Maeve's boldness, so he hopes she at least tolerates it in him, as well. He tells her honestly that he loved Maeve from the start. Wanted her, yes, but more than that. He's never loved a woman before, but he knows what he feels and he refuses to apologize for it or bend the story into something more socially acceptable. He slept with her that first night, and he refuses to feel shame or apologize. Whether it's normal in Fae society or not he doesn't know, but it isn't for his people. He doesn't care.
He tells the queen about finding the lake and Senna's child. Diving in, unaware of the consequences of such cold water. He would have gone after Senna anyway, had he known. A mother's life was on the line. What else could he possibly do? He speaks of being brought to Odhran's palace, meeting Sorcha and the clan chief. The semi-disastrous attempt to use magic to discover what Senna knew of the creature lurking on the mountain.
"And Odhran sent you out again with my firestarter," Riona says, nodding. "This he did tell me. He did not want to send her alone, and Lachlan did not want to send her at all. But Odhran was willing to send her with you. Why, do you think?"
Sinbad has no idea. "I was a stranger, and human. He didn't have to trust me. But he's a good man, and a good leader. I trusted him. I placed myself at his service."
"So he said. He was worried for my Maeve. She's immensely capable, but he knows he would have felt my wrath if she died on his mountain." The queen's eyes are intelligent. She watches Sinbad closely. "I would have been within my rights to take his head, had she come to harm. Yours, too."
He takes a chance. "Legally, maybe, but not morally. Not when he did nothing wrong. You wouldn't have done it."
The corner of her mouth quirks in amusement. "Are you so sure?"
"No one who protects her niece as you said you did, who cares for Maeve as you seem to, would take a man's life for something that wasn't his fault."
The amused quirk broadens toward a fuller, caustic smile. "And now I have learned something about you, captain."
"What's that?"
"You lack the ability to compartmentalize." She adjusts the heavy silver necklace around her throat and continues to walk. "It's a skill all rulers—the ones who hope to keep their thrones—learn quickly out of necessity. It's a skill I had to hammer into Maeve when she first came to court. You think she's wild now? When she came to me she would hold a grudge until the end of time. Would duel over virtually anything. Good and bad, right and wrong—she felt these were immutable concepts. Perhaps they are, in other circumstances. But not for monarchs. Monarchs have to learn otherwise. What's right in one situation may be wrong in another. The woman who adopted her motherless niece is not the queen who would absolutely take the head of anyone who acted recklessly with the safety of my firestarter."
Sinbad frowns. There's something unsaid here, something telling him to tread carefully. "But Maeve isn't a monarch."
The queen is silent for what feels like a long time. He can't even hear her breaths as they walk, and the heavy white velvet she wears makes no sound. What she's thinking, he has no idea. Her lovely face is perfect and placid as a child's doll.
When she speaks, her voice is level and even. Controlled. "My niece, Niamh, died some years ago. A riding accident. She never married, and produced no children. I was too old by that time to possibly produce an heir of my own. There are distant relatives, aye, but none I would trust my crown to, and the choice is solely mine to make."
Sinbad's jaw clenches. He closes his eyes for a long moment. When they open again he stares at Maeve's queen. "Does Maeve know?" His voice is hoarse. Fuck, this feels awful. He doubts Maeve has any idea what her ruler intends, and he's not okay with having this knowledge when she doesn't.
"That I have long considered her a viable choice for my heir? No, of course not."
Maeve will blow like a volcano when she learns something this monumental has been kept from her. If Riona expects him to keep this secret, she's crazy. He will not make that vow.
"She's human."
The queen inclines her head. "Very. And low-born, at that. But my people know her. They know her power, her loyalty. They trust her. Were she to marry a high-ranking member of my court and produce Fae heirs, they would not oppose my choice."
"A high-ranking member of your court. Like Lachlan."
"Aye. Like him. He is a distant cousin on my father's side. He hasn't the strength to rule, but I would be very content with the pairing if Maeve so chose."
Sinbad can't look at Riona—her inhuman beauty, her intelligent eyes in that expressionless face. He stares at the polished wooden floor, the honey-blond grain paler than Maeve's sweet dark gaze. She's his. Her fire, her light. That sinfully perfect body. Her heart. She gave herself to him, agreed to come south with him. Hell, she carried his child until the battle under the mountain stole that from her. But she gave a vow years ago to another, and Riona isn't going to release her from it.
"She won't want to be queen," he says softly, staring down the silent corridor, the cold winter light sharp like icicles. "She'd hate it."
"I didn't want to be, either, but here I am. I love that girl dearly, captain. More than I loved my niece, however cruel that may sound. But I told you: monarchs must compartmentalize. She is the best choice for the good of my kingdom, especially with a man like Lachlan by her side to cool that temper. I knew she had the strength for it the day we met. Eire is an island set upon by invaders, cannibalized from within by feuding human clans. The very rivers run with blood. Do you have any idea what the pope's men would have done with her, had she fallen into their hands? They would have tried to burn her as a witch, and I don't want to think about what would have happened once they learned she cannot burn." Riona's eyes bore into him. "I saved her from that fate. No one can train that wild magic—my mages tried, but her fire doesn't work like their powers do. But I molded that spirit. It took time. Like a high-spirited horse, she had to be handled carefully. I never wanted to break her. Just teach. I taught her everything I wished someone had taught me, prepared her to take over for me when I am gone."
"Except you didn't tell her the most important thing—what you were planning."
"No. I wanted to spare her that. I still do."
Sinbad is skeptical. Does this queen truly want to spare Maeve the heavy yoke of that responsibility for as long as possible, or merely spare herself the task of finding a new heir should Maeve refuse? He feels the queen's eyes on him. They burn, but it's nothing like Maeve's sweet warmth.
"You are a sea captain. You have a responsibility to your men, but it's nothing like the weight of ruling a kingdom." Her voice remains level as she speaks, calm and evenly-paced, betraying no emotion. He thought the iceman was good at schooling his outward tells, but Riona is the master. "You have no idea the burden of running such a disjointed kingdom. Most rulers have a set territory to control, a small chunk of contiguous land with clear borders they can patrol. I do not. My people live in isolated clans across the world—further than even a sailor could imagine. Across seas more vast than you can comprehend. They are pockmarked here and there in your populated world, spread more thickly in places such as this, where you humans fear to tread. Keeping such far-flung people safe from harm in a world bent on their destruction is nearly impossible, and it takes more than average strength and intelligence to do it. My firestarter is a legend, a thing of near-mythical status. Why shouldn't I want her as my heir?"
And that's the thing, the terrible, awful thing: she should. Riona absolutely should want Maeve as her heir, assuming her people will accept a low-born human as their queen. She's the strongest woman he's ever met, full of near-inexhaustible stamina and resilience. She doesn't back down from challenges and she fears very little. She's keenly intelligent, and even in the short time he's known her she's demonstrated skillful tactical knowledge and devious cunning. Were he in Riona's place, he'd choose her, too.
Except there's one very, very big problem with the Fae queen's plan.
Maeve doesn't want that life.
He knows it with everything he is. Yes, seeing her dressed as a courtier shook him earlier, but he knows her. She needs more freedom than a queen could ever have, needs a world far bigger than a throne room. His appearance in her life did not change her, did not cause this fierce desire to be free. It's part of her, an undeniable piece of who she is. She can stifle her urge to fly free for a while, when necessary. She can don velvets and jewels and stand at her queen's side for a while. But she can't do it forever, which is what Riona is asking of her.
And she loves him. This truth can't be denied any more than her spirit can. This is his fault, and he takes full responsibility. Had she known at the time that she was meant to be the heir, she probably would have resisted this pull. They both would have tried, he thinks. He doesn't know that either of them would have been successful. Some things are just meant to be. Kismet, as she said when they met. This bond is too deep now to sever without debilitating scars on both sides.
"She will serve you loyally to the end of her days if you make her," he says quietly. He already knows this. If Riona demands that Maeve keep her vow, she will. She loves him, but she takes her oath far too seriously to ever flout it. "But you'll break her if you do."
Sinbad can feel Riona's eyes on him. Gathering his will, he turns and meets her steady gaze. Moments stretch past, agonizingly slow.
"I know," she says finally. Her mouth thins, the faintest hint of her displeasure as she looks at him. "And so we have a problem, you and I."
Do they? He rather thinks she and Maeve have a problem, and it's one that has only tangentially to do with him. Riona should have been honest with her vassal from the start. Whatever her reasons, they don't justify hiding something this vitally important.
"I won't stop fighting for her," he says softly. "Maybe I should, but I won't. I can't." He swallows hard. "It would be different if I didn't know how she feels. But I do."
Riona's body shifts, the first hint of impatience he's seen from her. "She was with child. Yes, I know. My healer told me. Maybe in your world an illegitimate child is romantic, but not among my courtiers. That's not evidence of love, captain, just irresponsibility. She terminated it herself."
Sudden anger flares in his gut. "She didn't. She thought about it, yes, and admitted as much to me. But she didn't."
"If that's what she said, she told you what you wanted to hear. As I said, she can compartmentalize. I taught her myself."
"That's not what I mean." He struggles to keep his voice even. He's not a member of the Fae court and cannot control himself as they do, and right now he's furious. He doesn't blame Riona for wanting Maeve as her heir. That makes sense. But he seethes at her for saying his child was a mistake, merely the product of irresponsible behavior, and insisting that Maeve terminated her pregnancy by choice. She didn't. She had conflicting feelings about it, which was fully her right, but she chose not to act on them. "When she entered the mountain to rescue us, she and I, we...merged. I can't explain it. Maybe Dim-Dim could. But she was inside me. My head—my soul. She felt what I felt. I knew what she knew. Lying was impossible. I can't explain, but I know. She loves me, and she didn't miscarry by choice." He breathes deeply, hanging firmly onto his temper. He doesn't think Riona is purposefully taunting him, baiting him to anger, but he honestly isn't sure. She's difficult to fathom. But she was young once. Wanted to be married, presumably to love and be loved. Can't she understand? "When you were young you wanted to marry. Was there someone you loved?"
It's an audacious question for a commoner to ask a monarch—for anyone to ask a monarch. He knows this. She'd be within her rights to lock him up for it, but she doesn't. A curious gleam enters her eyes. "No. I wanted to. I wanted someone to see me for who I was, not what. A girl, not a princess. But rulers don't get that luxury."
"Maeve wasn't born to rule. Why would you intentionally impose that sort of life on someone you say you love?" He stares at the queen. He can't even begin to guess her years. At least two generations separate them if she's near Cairpra's age, which he can't guarantee she is. But she still must remember that loneliness, mustn't she?
"Because I can compartmentalize, captain. Must I say it over and over? This conversation is getting tedious. A monarch must prioritize. The good of the many, not the few. The kingdom above all. Even above love. If it's true that Maeve did not purposefully terminate her pregnancy, she still must have known what using so much power, turning from a human woman to pure flame, would do to it. That proves my point, and redoubles my insistence that she is the best choice for my people. If she can sacrifice her own child to save countless other lives, she is exactly the person I need to follow me onto the throne."
He struggles to breathe evenly, steadily, though he feels as if he's being strangled. Every argument he tries to make turns back in his face—all but one. Maeve does not want this. He knows it with everything he is. Even if she never comes south with him, she does not want to be queen and would never willingly choose it. If she follows Riona onto the throne it will be because of her oath of service, nothing more. And it will break her.
"I'm just a sailor," he says. His own voice sounds strange in his ears, hollow and tight. He can't lose her—he can't. But he's going to anyway. She loves him. She chose him. He's still going to lose her. "I have no business loving a lady of your court, and I know that. But that's not who she was when we met, and it's not who she is now. You can teach her all you like. Drape her in silk and diamonds. You can't change who she is. I don't think you see the same person I do when you look at her." Dim-Dim said souls were immutable. Unchangeable. That's what he sees when he looks at Maeve. "She's a wild thing—a fighter. She's not a tame little songbird. She's a wild hawk. I know why you want to keep her. I do. But understand that I'll fight just as hard as you do. The cage you want to lock her up in is a beautiful one, I'm sure, but it's still a cage. She doesn't want it."
Riona frowns at him, the clearest sign of her displeasure she's yet shown. "How long have you known her?" she demands. "A couple of weeks at most. Less, if you don't count the time you spent a slave under this mountain." She's a small woman but she seems to grow with her indignation, though her body remains impassive. "She has been mine since before she came of age. I molded her. Shaped her. It took time and patience, and I'm the first to admit she's far from perfect. But I did it, and all with the intention of giving her my kingdom."
"A kingdom she doesn't want."
"You don't know that. You think you know her? I can't speak to her magic, which does as it will. But if you think her willingness to lay with you means something, be advised. We Fae don't hold the same morals you stuffy southerners do. We are very capable of physical pleasure without romantic entanglement."
He's figured that much out already. Maeve wouldn't have been so willing to fuck him so quickly if she had the usual hangups his people do. She delights in her body without shame, which is one of the many things he loves about her. But while this relationship may have started with a mutual wish for physical pleasure, it turned very swiftly into something far more.
"Ask her." It's the biggest gamble Sinbad has ever made in his life, and he tends to be a gambling man. He makes this one with no reservations. As he told the queen, he's been inside her. She's been inside him. He knows how she feels, what she wants. "Tell her the truth about your intentions. Free her from her vow and see what she chooses." She'll honor her vow for life if forced, but if freed he's confident she'll choose him. She loves him. Wants to stay with him. And being crowned would kill the beautiful, wild spirit within her.
Riona watches him. She's impossible to read, but he knows she doesn't like him. How could she? He's in her way, an obstacle in her neatly-laid plan. He wants to be sorry for that; he doesn't mean to cause anyone strife, and she seems to be a good ruler, one who cares about her people above all else. But he can't give Maeve up now. He loves her too much, and he despairs for the life he sees stretched before her if Riona doesn't free her. "You say you'll fight for her," the queen says, her dark eyes steady. "But what else would you do?"
"What do you mean?" Does she want him to list the various things he's willing to endure for Maeve? He's not a poet. He's a sailor.
"Would you come north? Give up your ship and reside in my capital?" Her face is impassive once more, the momentary disturbance of her displeasure nowhere to be found.
He frowns. "Your people would never accept a human queen with a human husband." Nor does he want any part in ruling a kingdom. That's not who he is.
"No. You could never marry her. That I would not allow. But you could be near her. As long as you were circumspect, and she never bore a human child."
Could he do it? The prospect is not a happy one. Could he be the hidden consort of a queen? Watch her bear another man's children, quite possibly Lachlan's?
Give up the sea? Could he?
"You hesitate." Riona smiles thinly. "It's amusing, captain, to see a man struggle to swallow what women are expected to endure without protest."
Yes, he knows. It isn't fair. And honestly, he's not sure he could stand to share his Maeve, even if she asked it of him. But she's not asking. Riona is. And he's not accountable to the Fae queen. She's not his monarch. "I'd give up everything I have in the world if she honestly asked me to. But she hasn't, and I don't believe she ever would." He turns to fully face the queen and bows low. She hasn't given him permission to leave, but he's done with this conversation. He won't negotiate with Riona, only with Maeve, and Riona needs to be having this conversation with her vassal, not with him. Maeve is going to hit the roof when she hears that they were discussing her future without her input anyway, and he's determined not to make that argument any worse for himself than it already will be. "Tell her the truth, majesty," he says. "Give her free will. Let her choose. I can give you nothing until then." He turns and walks away.
Yes, Riona's history is loosely based on that of the Tudors, but with obvious changes, mostly to account for a more female-friendly society and one less concerned with a royal bloodline than the competency of the monarch.