Chapter 7: Inauguration
Freya and Gaius slowed as they drew even with the tavern.
Leon's ranch hands had gone inside – the row of horses was tied to the rail. The shadow of the forge and livery stable lay long across the street; sundown was close. The bustle of the street was unusual; instead of folk heading home for the night, for dinner, there was a general movement north down Main Street to the reeve's office at the far end. Elyan and Kenny came from the stable, closing and barring the double doors.
"We don't want to be late," they heard Kenny say. Elyan tipped his hat to Freya as they passed.
It looked like half the town might gather to watch Merlin sign and swear. Freya began to grow nervous for him, feeling fluttery around her stomach and heart, and cold and hot at once in her face and hands.
"You're not hungry, are you," Gaius said to her. "Do you want to walk back?"
"I'll just wait for Shasta and Percival," Freya answered.
Across the street the tavern door opened, spilling protesting ranch hands onto the boardwalk. Immediately behind came Shasta in her best bonnet, shooing them along, then Percival closed the door behind them. He glanced across, up into the sky to ascertain what time they had, then looked again as he recognized them.
Shasta bustled over, the ribbon from her bonnet fluttering. Freya wished she'd changed, and hoped no one would notice she'd been doing laundry in the blue cotton dress she was wearing. And no cap of any kind, either.
"What do the reeve's quarters look like?" Shasta said, turning Freya back down the way they'd just come. Percival and Gaius followed behind them.
"Dirty," Freya said honestly.
"Enough space for the two of you?" Shasta asked. "The dirt we can take care of tomorrow, probably. I doubt Whatley had much by the way of physical comforts, though, did he?"
"Merlin said he'd get a few things," Freya told her. "And that Mike would give me credit."
Shasta laughed. "To have your husband arrange for credit when you go shopping is just as good as saying he loves you right out," she stated cheerily, and Percival snorted good-naturedly behind them. "And to go with you and help you make decisions would be almost like having my own free rein at Mike's," she hinted.
"I'm glad to have you," Freya said.
She almost added Merlin's statement about hiring someone to clean, but stopped. Shasta had been upset at Merlin for telling her not to wash his clothes; Freya was sure she'd be unhappy with him for this, too. And she didn't want Shasta unhappy with her husband.
"Excuse me," Shasta began saying, nudging people out of the way as they neared the reeve's office. Freya couldn't even see Merlin for the rows of hats, bonnets, and caps, though small children found space among legs and skirts to run and chase. "Excuse me," Shasta said more insistently. "Here's the reeve's wife trying to get to him."
Freya blushed as people began to turn to look, then push each other to move out of her way. She tried to take her hand back from Shasta, explain to her that she could stand on the outskirts of the crowd, but it didn't do any good. At one point she was sure that Percival and Gaius were right behind them, but another backward glance showed only a spread of curious faces, and she couldn't make her ears not hear the whispers. Then they reached a small clear space around Leon's wagon, closer to the boardwalk, where people hadn't dared to crowd.
Merlin stood on the sidewalk, leaning against the front wall of the reeve's office, one boot crossed over the other, arms crossed over his chest. He was expressionless under the shade of his hat as he watched Leon carry a small table from the open door of the reeve's office without moving. Leon lifted it with some difficulty to the back of the wagon, then heaved himself up after it, positioned the table deliberately, then took an ink bottle and pen from his shirt pocket.
Shasta led Freya past the wagon to the boardwalk beside Merlin. His gaze flickered to Freya's face for an instant, too quickly to guess at his mood.
"That was fast," was his only comment. She offered a tentative smile in return, didn't try to explain.
"Excuse me!" Leon hollered amiably into the air above the crowd, and most of the noisy shuffle ceased. "Well, it looks like there's a lot of curiosity about our new reeve going around." A nervous or perfunctory laugh ripped around like an aimless wave. "So here he is, folks, ready to swear and sign – Reeve Merlin."
Freya was relieved that the rancher hadn't made the announcement more of an exclamation – no one applauded, but she was sure Merlin would have hated it if they had. But then Leon turned and beckoned as if he wanted Merlin to join him up on the bed of the wagon.
Merlin only straightened and took one long step to the edge of the boardwalk, dropping his arms to his sides. He looked out into the faces – Freya couldn't see anything of his expression from behind, but he nodded no acknowledgment like he had at the tavern. She wondered if he'd met any complaint or objection that day, if he expected any tonight.
Leon looked disappointed, immediately grasping Merlin's refusal to make a spectacle, then a diabolical glint showed in his eye. He continued, glancing back at Merlin now and again, as if to enjoy causing discomfort, "Now, I won't make a secret of my reservations about having another reeve that wasn't born and raised here in Emmett's Creek – but I'm guessing some of you already heard about what happened this morning at Old Matt's place."
Old Matt? Freya didn't recall anyone by that name. She was distracted from Leon's speech for a moment as she combed her memory for anyone who'd come to the tavern, or had been mentioned in passing by a more regular customer, and had no success. Then a single phrase snapped her attention back to Leon.
"He killed himself," the rancher said, his tone hinting that he was coming to a conclusion of sorts in his speech. "Evidently, his wife left him and he couldn't stand living any longer – he hung himself from the rafters in his cabin."
Shock and horror in varying degrees reflected from the faces in the crowd, and Freya was sure her own held what she felt, also. She looked at Merlin, straight and unyielding, face still shaded beneath his broad-brimmed hat, his unshaven chin and jaw darker still, and her heart hurt for him.
So that's what he hadn't told her. What a horrible thing to have to deal with, especially for him, with haunting memories of his own. No wonder he hadn't told her. No wonder he'd held her that way, resting his head even momentarily.
Without thinking, she put out her hand and ran the back of her fingers down his arm from elbow to wrist.
He didn't look back, but as she broke the contact, he swung his hand back enough to capture hers. And he didn't let go. In the sight of Emmett's Creek, Merlin held her hand firm and kept his head up.
Leon finished attributing all credit for the solving of the mystery of Old Matt's death to Merlin, mentioning the details noticed and inferences drawn as proof of Merlin's skill and ability to serve Emmett's Creek well in the post of reeve.
"You'd think it was his own idea to have Merlin as reeve," Shasta muttered behind her.
When Leon paused, maybe deliberately and maybe just for breath, Merlin simply turned to face Gaius, standing at the edge of the crowd. Freya couldn't tell what the old physician was thinking as he met Merlin's gaze but realized that was why he'd mentioned work with Quen. Merlin said nothing; from what Freya could see, his expression held only patience. Gaius stepped up beside Merlin, who looked back into the old man's face as though no one else was present. Though he kept Freya's fingers cradled in his own.
The old physician must have looked up the form for the inauguration of an official. He recited a rather lengthy and formal-sounding oath which Freya didn't follow because she was preoccupied with the feel of Merlin's hand around her own – warm, rough, steady, and strong. Possessive, too, though in a way completely different from Padlow.
"I do."
Merlin did not speak forcefully or loudly, but the people were so still it seemed to Freya that everyone must have heard.
It was exactly how he'd sounded when he'd pledged himself to her as her husband. That was a little disconcerting – he was giving his word to fulfill certain duties, be they however unpleasant. Was that the way he viewed their marriage also?
Merlin dropped her hand to vault up into the wagon, and without show or self-consciousness, unfolded the contract from his shirt pocket. He took the pen and inked it, signed the page without hesitation, without bending his body over the table, without expression, as though he swore his life away every other day.
Just the way he'd signed the agent's writ Arthur had coerced him into accepting. And he'd been close to killed more than once in the course of those duties. Freya felt her heart love him just a little more.
But that didn't stop the cold shiver that rippled through her, or settle the uneasiness that lingered, the rest of the night and the celebrations in the tavern.
The next morning, Freya willed herself to wake when Merlin did – or at least as close to dawn as she could. She was disappointed and irritated with herself when she overslept that goal, and he was gone from the tavern again by the time she came hurrying down the stairs. She wanted to get to the reeve's office and quarters as soon as possible; if whomever Merlin hired came after she was already working, she thought she would find it easier to say thank you I don't need help than to stop someone else already busy with the task.
Shasta had cleared her morning with Percival, so as soon as Freya finished her currant roll and coffee – refusing Shasta's attempts to feed her more – they each took a bucket of soaps and rags and brushes and headed for the reeve's office, Freya with barely-controlled impatience.
"We've got all day," Shasta reminded her.
Freya tried to make her eyes see clearly all the way to the end of the street, to see if anyone was going into the office or maybe was already there. If Merlin was, it might be awkward if she showed up ready to work, or if she tried to send the other woman away.
"Do you know where he was going or what he was going to do today?" she asked Shasta.
Shasta snorted. "I already told you he didn't say."
Freya gripped the key in her pocket – given her by Merlin the night before, he saying truthfully, I don't need the key. Freya wondered if anyone else in town could pick a lock – maybe Merlin would want to replace them.
As the stairs to the second-floor quarters were on the north side of the jail, Shasta and Freya had to pass the big windows of the office before going upstairs – Freya sighed in relief when she saw that no one was present. She sighed again when she found the door of their little living space still locked also.
"You want to work by yourself up here?" Shasta said. "I can start in the office, or we can do it together if you'd rather."
Freya considered. She knew she'd need Shasta's help to finish in one day, let alone one morning, but she felt oddly possessive over living space and office, both.
"Let's just work together," she finally decided, unlocking the door for Shasta's curiosity.
Shasta passed a critical eye over both rooms and concluded, "There's a lot to do."
"If we get everything out we don't want," Freya thought aloud, "then we can clean what's left before adding to it."
"Hm." Shasta eyed her. "How much can he afford to have you spend? Seems to me like you'll have a long list of things you'll need."
"I should probably ask before we start buying," Freya murmured, suddenly nervous.
How much did Merlin have? How much would he be paid? She wouldn't want to anger him by spending too much.
Then again, when was the last time Merlin had been angry at something she'd done? Never, she realized. He'd just find extra work to pay for the extra expenses and not say anything – and she'd feel even worse about that than if he got angry.
"Let's get started," Shasta suggested, rolling up her sleeves. Freya scooped two work aprons out of the top of one of the baskets.
They began in the bedroom, emptying the moldy shucks from the mattress in the bare dirt yard behind the jail, adding to it the rug from the floor and the rotten sacking curtain, the threadbare scrap of a towel that maybe had never been washed. Shasta supervised a small fire that destroyed these useless items while Freya began with the bucket of soapy water. Walls, furniture, then floors was her plan, but she'd barely raised the scrub brush when there was a soft knock on the door. Shasta wouldn't knock.
Freya's heart jumped, then plummeted; Merlin hadn't forgotten about hiring someone to clean, after all. She opened the door reluctantly, and was a little relieved that the woman there was middle-aged, but with plenty of wrinkles – worry lines, Freya thought – her skin sagging somewhat on a thin frame. Freya remembered glimpsing her at times in town, but she'd never been to the tavern, so Freya knew nothing about her.
"I'm Jorry," the woman said softly, hesitantly. She carried a basket of her own; her eyes flicked uncertainly from Freya's apron to the brush in her hand. "The reeve said he'd pay me for cleaning here today?"
"Morning, Jorry," Shasta called cheerily from the bottom of the stairs, starting up. "You just come by to say hello and welcome to the reeve's new wife?"
Freya watched the woman take in Shasta's work-ready attire, and swallow nervously. "The reeve…" she started again, faintly.
"What's that?" Shasta panted slightly as she reached the top of the stairs.
Jorry stood her ground, and repeated, "The reeve said he'd pay me to do some cleaning."
"He said what?" Shasta exclaimed, rolling her eyes at Freya in exasperation. "That man is the most–" she broke off suddenly, looking at Jorry for a keen minute. Jorry started to flush and dropped her eyes, but Shasta continued smoothly, "Yes, that's right, dearie, come on in and I'll show you where to start. You brought an old apron with you? Good thing, it's filthy in here."
Freya opened her mouth in surprise, trying to work up the courage to protest, but Shasta sent her a flashing glance of warning, and she said nothing. Confused, she stood at the door and listened as Shasta gave Jorry instructions on cleaning the bedroom furniture. When she reappeared, she drew Freya to the far corner of the kitchen, past the window, where she began to bang her own scrub brush against the shelves of a wall-mounted cabinet in a parody of cleaning.
"I don't understand," Freya said. "Yesterday when Merlin didn't want me to wash his clothes, you said–"
Shasta interrupted, "He doesn't have anything against you doing it, he just doesn't want you to feel like you have to, you know? He wants you to know you can choose not to, if you want. But this is different."
"Different how?" Freya said, still puzzled.
"Jorry's pretty newly widowed," Shasta said, so low Freya had to lean closer to hear her. "Her husband didn't leave nothing for her to live on, the way I hear it. And I guess she's pretty desperate to make ends meet."
"And you think this is Merlin's way of providing–" Freya began, but Shasta was already nodding.
"Alice asked me if I couldn't do something for her, when her husband passed in spite of everything Gaius could do for him," she whispered, still clattering her scrub brush through cobwebs to cover their conversation. "She won't take charity from no one, poor thing. I think Gaius might have spoken to Merlin about it last night after the signing."
"Do you think he intends for her to be our – our–" Freya stuttered to a stop. The word maid might fit in a city like Turad, where folks like Betsey and Pansy were common and comfortable, respectable in their employment, but it was out of place for Emmett's Creek.
"Nah," Shasta dismissed Freya's sudden fear. "I doubt even Merlin could pretend you needed her all the time. But now, while there's extra work to get the place ready to live in – I guess that's his business if he wants to spend his coin this way."
"You want me to do anything for the bed-ropes?" Jorry said from the doorway. Freya jumped guiltily, but Shasta was all innocence as she turned. "The middle one looks like it's fraying," the widow added in apologetic explanation.
Freya went to look, feeling like someone had something backwards somewhere if she was the one giving directions and answering questions. But as Jorry began to relax into the familiar labor, Freya thought she looked content and maybe even happy to have something profitable to do. It reminded her of how she'd always felt more comfortable working at the tavern to repay her friends there for their kindness in providing for her in Padlow's neglect.
She wondered if Jorry's situation made Merlin think of that, too.
Food stock and bedding were priorities for their new home, so Freya didn't get around to picking out the finer touches until the end of the week, but the night of the last day of the week was always busiest at the tavern. She had a vague idea of returning to help out, but hadn't broached the subject with Merlin.
"If he doesn't like you doing the laundry and cleaning, he ain't gonna want you working here," Shasta had predicted, and refused to let Freya help until she'd gotten Merlin's view of that plan.
So Freya hovered, alone at closing time, in the small corner of the mercantile, where the shelves were stacked with bolts of material, trying to make her decision without the benefit of Shasta's input.
Maybe she should just wait til the next week, she thought, checking her little list against the prices on the cloth, the handful of rugs for sale rolled and tied and leaning against the side of the shelf. But Shasta had cocked an eyebrow and studied her curiously when she'd asked to borrow the thickest quilt, even in the lingering heat, thinking of Merlin sleeping on the floor of the bedroom. She'd stammered and changed her request so Shasta wouldn't suspect the truth of their sleeping arrangements, but she winced every time Merlin stretched himself uncomplainingly on the hard wood, padded only by the thin light blanket Shasta had loaned them from the inn's supplies.
She didn't really want to wait two more nights, feeling guilty that she wasn't brave enough to invite, to persuade her husband to sleep in his own bed.
Freya had chosen an off-white cotton with a flower-leaf pattern to sew curtains from, and had a stack of already-hemmed plain pale-blue towels and wash-cloths waiting to be wrapped and added to the total. Now she only had to choose between a rug woven from a warm tan and the same off-white as the curtain material, or another with golds and greens in a faint leafy pattern. That one was a hooked rug, so it was thicker and warmer, but also smaller and a bit more expensive.
What would Merlin think? She didn't know that; what she did know was that he wouldn't say.
"Have you made your decision, ma'am?" Mike called from his place behind the glass-fronted counter, interrupting his conversation with a stranger. No one else was in the store; Mike probably was hinting at a wish to close before another customer entered to delay him.
The other man, dressed in worn but not ragged work-clothes, looked over at her also. His eyes held an expression that often came into Morgana's face – cool, calculating, amused.
"This one," Freya said, feeling a little reckless to indicate the one that cost more. "And four yards of the white cotton." She named the rest of her list, knowing they were items that needed no choice, quickly located and quickly wrapped.
As Mike stepped away from the counter to fill the order, the stranger snapped his fingers and pointed at her, leaning one elbow on Mike's counter. "I seen you before in this town," he said. "Two, three year ago. Tavern-serving, weren't you?" He gave her a slow smile, remembering.
It was a snake's smile, the smile of a predator sure enough of his prey to toy with it, malicious enough to enjoy the fear. Freya had seen something similar on Merlin's face before a fight. But this man was looking at her. She didn't answer, wanted to turn and run.
"I remember 'cause I was having a drink with your husband Padlow, it was early in the spring and I left with him the next day. And today I come back into town to see if he had any more work for me – and find out he's had his neck stretched." His grin widened unpleasantly. "Imagine that."
I'd rather not, Freya thought, desperately willing Mike to hurry, and wishing now she'd waited to make her choices til Shasta could come with her.
"He paid me well, that's why I remember," the man continued, dark sardonic eyes raking her up and down. "You're looking like he left you pretty well off, too. Maybe you got some work for me, hm?" He pushed himself upright, sauntering toward her.
She jumped as Mike laid the last package beside her on the counter, offering politely, "On the tab?"
She nodded, glad for an excuse to look away from the stranger – but his presence felt a menacing fire, crackling closer. It didn't help to look away. She gathered up her bundles, stacking them haphazardly, then hurried to the door.
"I'll set that rug away for you – come and get it anytime," Mike called after her, already beginning to tidy up.
The stranger leaned his hips back against the counter, watching her and grinning beneath the darkness of his hat.
Outside, the sun had set, and the street was the hazy brown of onsetting twilight. Few people were still out. And if Merlin spent today the way he'd spent every day since the inauguration – out two hours before dawn and not back til after dusk turned to dark – she still had several hours to wait for him, alone in their rooms. The windows of Gaius' office were dark; he'd already gone home. There was plenty of light from the tavern of course, but that was at the opposite end of town, and her arms were full.
Taking a deep breath - and aware that the longer she lingered undecided, the more of a temptation she presented – she turned and walked, as purposefully as she could, down the boardwalk and past the reeve's office. Those windows were dark also; though they'd cleaned there the second day, Freya wasn't sure Merlin had so much as set foot in the place.
She rounded the corner and hurried up the stairs as quickly as she could, glad she hadn't locked the door since she'd only been going next door to the mercantile. One of the smaller bundles bounced, slid, dropped, and she let it go, intent only on reaching the door.
Probably she was over-reacting, probably that stranger had forgotten her as soon as the door shut behind her.
Freya was gasping as she loosened her grip on the lowest package to open the door. It wouldn't kick shut behind her, so she backed around to be able to push it shut with her body, arms still full. Then she'd set her things down on the new table Merlin and Percival had carried up only yesterday – but the door wouldn't shut.
She pushed again, then leaned around to see what the obstruction might be – had she dropped another – it was a boot. Large and dirty – larger than Merlin's, and he always knocked off such large clods of mud. Her breath stopped as her eyes traveled slowly, unwillingly, up to meet the dark amused stare of the stranger from the mercantile.
"You dropped this," he drawled, spinning the small package in his fingers as he filled the doorway.
She retreated, clutching the rest of them to herself like a shield. Maybe if she could coax a thank you from the dryness of her mouth and throat, he'd hand it over and be on his way, a courteous if frightening stranger.
"You know, you never said one word to me that night your husband and me had a drink, either," he continued. "Ain't you gonna say anything at all?"
"My – my husband–" Freya stammered.
The snake's smile was back. "We both know he's hung and gone, don't we," he said. "Now–" and he stepped back out onto the small square landing outside the door.
If she wasn't so petrified, she might have tried to run back and slam the door. He held her package at arms' length.
"Come and get it," he dared.
Freya didn't move. Was she wearing the wrist sheath? She couldn't remember.
"Or I'll come and give it to you," he threatened. She was sure he wasn't talking about the little box anymore. His grin bared his teeth; he knew she was terrified, and he enjoyed that.
As she set her armful down on the table, she hugged the largest box hard enough to feel her forearm bare beneath her sleeve. Where, then? In the bedroom – she hadn't put it on that morning. She'd have to do her best without it – she remembered Merlin's unarmed defensive techniques, but felt as though she was moving through molasses. If there was any doubt about the stranger's intentions, how could she attack? The thought of her attacking anyone was unreal.
He shook the box at her, ominously teasing.
She forced her feet to move, squeezing her trembling fingers together. Two paces, then just one, separated them. She had the idea if she tried to slam the door he'd block it again, and consider it the justification he wanted to enter and do as he pleased. She reached out, took the package – but he didn't let go.
"Very good." He goaded, "Ain't you gonna ask me in?"
This wasn't happening. She felt lightheaded and for an instant wondered how badly it would hurt if she fainted and tumbled down the stairs.
Then, from the foot of the stairs, someone cleared his throat.
They both looked, but Freya knew who she'd see – her heart had lifted, even at the small sound. She knew his voice. She was instantly as safe as she could be, warm and relieved.
Merlin had one boot on the bottom stair, one hand on the rail. His posture was relaxed, nonthreatening, but his face was blank and his blue eyes dark. She knew him, and now felt almost like it would be fair to warn the stranger.
"You the reeve?" Merlin said, pleasantly enough.
"No," the stranger answered, puzzled.
"You looking for the reeve?" Merlin continued. The essence of an innocent local, curious and maybe a shade on the lonely side of intelligent. Freya bit her lip on a hysterical giggle.
"No," the man said again, now a little annoyed.
There seemed to be a faint smile on Merlin's face as he questioned guilelessly, "Then what business do you have at the reeve's home?"
"What business is that of yours?" the stranger challenged, openly irritated. "I happen to know that the reeve got himself hung last year, and this gal's husband and me had business together."
"You mean Padlow?" Merlin said, coming up a few stairs. Freya was startled; she wasn't sure she'd ever heard Merlin say the name of the man who'd killed his family, but his tone now was so mild a listener would never suspect they'd been mortal enemies.
"How'd you know him?" the stranger said. He let go of the package and put his hands on his hips.
Freya clutched the little box, leaned back against the door, trying to disappear. She wanted to turn and run to the far corner of the bedroom and hide, but couldn't take her eyes off Merlin.
"You never worked for him around here, did you? I'd have seen you," Merlin said. "I was here last year, and – say, where did you work for him?"
"I worked for him east a bit," the stranger said, and named two towns Merlin and Freya had passed through on their way to Emmett's Creek from Turad. She wondered what Merlin was getting at, chatting with the man like they were old partners.
Then Merlin said, with a sharper glance from under his brows, "You never worked Ealdor, did you?"
"Nope, never got that far," the man answered promptly. "I heard he had that town covered himself." Then he seemed to remember that he'd been irritated with Merlin for intruding, and repeated belligerently, "Anyway, why do you care if I have business with this gal?"
Merlin ducked his head and jogged up a few more stairs. "She's the new reeve's wife," he said as he came. "If you don't leave her alone, he'll be looking for you."
"And what business is that of yours?" the stranger snapped. "Giving me a friendly-like warning?"
Merlin reached into his pocket as he came, pulled something out that he kept his fingers around til he laid it on the level rail beside the man. "It's my business because I'm the reeve," he stated.
The stranger stared down at the little metal badge, proof of Merlin's claim.
"This is my home. This is my wife. And you are under arrest." Merlin's hand, Freya saw, rested not-so-casually on his belt knife. "Turn your back and put your hands together."
"Now wait a minute!" the stranger protested. "I ain't done nothing in this town!"
"So I'll take you on down the road a piece," Merlin returned evenly, not relaxing his guard at all. "Stack's Corner."
One of the towns he'd claimed he'd worked in with Padlow – at that, the stranger swung.
Freya jumped at the unexpectedly violent movement, but Merlin seemed to expect it, ducking it easily, and driving his fist – empty fist, she saw with relief – into the man's side, under his raised arm. The man's breath came out in a painful puff, and somehow Merlin caught his arm and twisted him around, crowding him into the handrail. He had a length of twine suddenly in his hands, used his teeth to help tie the man's flailing hands together.
Then Merlin looked at her, keeping the stranger face-down over the handrail, just on the edge of tipping him over the long drop to the ground. The man hollered but probably didn't dare move much for fear of losing his balance himself; the toes of his boots scuffed frantically for a moment.
Freya's breath was coming in short gasps, half panic and half relief. The few times she'd faced something similar when she was still new to the Creek – pushy ranch hands, drunken farmers – as Padlow's wife, he'd ignored the man's advances, then knocked her around the cabin til he tired of it and told her to learn her lesson. But of course Merlin wouldn't–
She flinched as he reached for her.
He paused, his jaw tight though his expression was neutral, and she was avoiding his eyes. Then, moving slowly, he put out his hand again, his fingers feather-gentle as he brushed her jaw, wordlessly requesting that she look up to meet his gaze.
"Did he touch you?" he said, his voice low, but rough with intensity. Eyes deep as the ocean, mysterious and untamed.
"Course I never touched her!" the stranger shouted, squirming a little to put more of his weight solidly on the landing.
Merlin ignored him. Freya shook her head, and he pulled her against him one-armed, briefly and lightly but deliberately, exhaling against her hair. She managed a shaky laugh, surprised that he didn't blame her, and impatient with herself that she should be surprised.
"I thought for a moment there you were going to throw him down the stairs," she admitted.
"Hey, what?" the man said, twisting to try to see them better.
Merlin growled in the back of his throat, a sound that sent a shiver down Freya's neck. "I haven't ruled out that option."
The stranger froze, but complained, "You don't have to do that."
Merlin gave her a flat grin. "It would save me a trip," he said. "I don't think Quen would mind the business."
She wasn't completely sure that he was joking. As she stepped back, his fingers trailed down her arm, caught her wrist.
"It was for times like this, that I gave you that knife," he said, but it sounded more like an explanation than a scolding.
"Well, I – it's in the bedroom," she said lamely. She wasn't sure she could have used it anyway, at least not until her life was in imminent danger.
"All you do is push up your sleeve like you're feeling warm, or getting ready to work," Merlin continued, still not berating her, only coaxing a little. He paid no attention to the man leaning far into space over the rail.
She nodded, tears coming to her eyes. If he hadn't come home early – and he was probably thinking that, too.
"Mostly if you let folks know you're able to defend yourself, you don't have to," he said, stating fact. She nodded again, but he sighed as if she'd argued against him, and let her arm drop. "I'll get the gelding from Elyan and leave tonight," he told her, straightening the man and turning to prod him to descend the stairs first.
"How soon until you're back?" she asked, her heart thumping at the thought of being left alone. Probably she'd go back to the tavern tonight, stay there until he returned.
"A week, maybe." He turned, flashing a grin. "As long as it takes this scum to walk to Stack's Corner."
A/N: Happy Thanksgiving!