A/N: If you haven't read the prologue for The Agent, posted in the previous chapter, please do so! I uploaded two chapters at once today, and wouldn't want anyone to miss anything!
Prologue
A reeve's contract, especially for the smaller towns of the region, was a vague agreement in general. Much like an agent's writ, or a marriage vow. Or even a councilor's inaugural certification, really. The standard premise was laid out in broad terms to cover years, if not a lifetime, of specific occurrences, a governing guide of behavior and decision rather than step-by-step instructions on how to proceed toward success.
It was debatable, perhaps, whether success in any case is ever possible.
Included in the legal language were conditions stated and implied, certain categories excluded because assumed. A reeve, like an agent or councilor, swore to uphold the written code of law, but also to be an upright and trustworthy servant of society, an example to the best of his ability. A revenger had no such oath, but for any in a position of authority, it lay with the individual to keep his word, and only the strength and willingness of the folk he was contracted to, to hold him to it. In the case of Emmett's Creek, the posse held their reeve to account for his crimes with his life after many years of suffering under his authority. In the case of Turad, a much larger city, Uther had sent an agent with special authority to prevent something similar, and on a grander scale. Unlike Sage Springs, and except for the judge and reeve, Turad had accepted the agent with gratitude.
A marriage vow was also a long-term agreement, nonspecific and all-inclusive in its wording, so much included and yet left out at the same time. And like the more public offices of reeve or agent, the years spent fulfilling the contract were open to the interpretation of the individual who'd signed and spoken his or her word.
The common folk of Turad and Emmett's Creek and everywhere in between likely didn't give a thought a day to the fact of their reeve's oath. And still fewer thought of the couple dozen agents roaming the realm on Uther's business.
Many spouses also, years into their marriage, wasted no time in contemplating the words of their vows and how best to live by them. Many spouses, like many reeves and even an agent or two, chose to use their promise to their own advantage and benefit, regardless of the second person or persons of the contract. And while very few wives would lynch their husbands for a breach of trust or other incidents of not living up to the vow, it wasn't unheard of for wives to turn sour and nagging, for husbands to shout and slam doors and even resort to physical violence.
More often than that, the active component implied in the marriage contract was neglected after a time, both parties drifting into a noncompliance that was at least familiar if not always comfortable. Marriages like Percival and Shasta's, or Gaius and Alice's, or Arthur and Gwen's, or Drew and Nell's, were few and far between.
In the first few weeks following his own marriage, Merlin was faced with plenty of time to contemplate these truths.
The days of physically enforcing the council's decisions were far fewer than days of debate and deliberation. Merlin's presence in the Inner Chamber was daily required; his input solicited almost never. He thought sometimes he would explode with the irritation of inactivity.
But he had given his oath to Arthur as a temporary agent, and if it was part of his sworn duty to go slowly insane with boredom, he guessed he'd grit his teeth and try not to hurt anyone in the process. He watched Councilman Drew and thought of his trim happy little wife.
He watched Arthur and silently demanded his freedom.
Chapter 1: Contractual Obligations
The night Merlin's own contract arrived from Emmett's Creek, he returned to the chalet too late for dinner, but just in time for an evening training session with Gwaine.
The lamps surrounding the field were being lit due to the activity, and he approached the group of watching apprentices from behind, much as he had the first night he'd been back in Turad. The same young man on the end glanced over with a smile of recognition and welcome, but still no one said anything; they knew better than to take their attention from the lesson for a conversation.
Gwaine was down on the grass, locked in a grunting, straining wrestling match with one of the two females, the lead apprentice since Mordred's departure. Amery had her legs curled over Gwaine's shoulders, her feet tucked behind his back to keep his arms and hands from reaching her while she fought to keep her grip on his head and neck from being broken by his struggles. And suddenly, Gwaine's bare feet kicked up at her, and in ducking, she lost her hold. Gwaine continued his flip to land in a crouch; Amery rolled to come up ready a short second later. Gwaine grinned at her and nodded.
"Good, very good," he commented, straightening. He was barely breathing hard.
Amery took her place at the end of the line, nodding to Merlin as she did so. Her breath was coming in short gasps and her blonde braid was streaked with sweat.
"Who's next?" Gwaine continued, bending to rub his hands in a flat dish of chalk dust.
The apprentices looked as one down at Merlin, standing in the ready position at the head of the row. Gwaine glanced over his shoulder, then turned, rubbing the chalk into his hands.
"Merlin?" His grin was almost feral. "You up?"
Merlin had resumed training since Agravaine's death and the pardon received from Camelot. With not much left to do but talk, he needed strenuous physical activity to be able to sleep at night. But he hadn't taken Gwaine on in single hand-to-hand. Yet.
He began to unbutton his vest, removing his boots by standing the heel of one into the instep of the other. When he started to shrug from his shirt, Gwaine slid his own off also. Merlin stepped onto the grass of the field, all senses heightened, attention focused, muscles loose and ready, hands open at his side.
"No holds barred," he said. He felt like fighting. Maybe he should invite all comers, singly or at once. Maybe a good beating would make him feel more like himself, a few bruises make his skin fit better. And the hardest fight, he knew, was someone who has the advantage of familiarity.
Gwaine's teeth showed. That familiarity cut both ways.
"We're fighting dirty?" he said, clarifying the absence of rules in their match. The apprentices collectively leaned forward.
Merlin used a foul phrase inviting Gwaine to attack, and the older man laughed. He'd half-supervised Merlin's training the past month, and Merlin supposed it was a compliment of sorts that Gwaine circled twice and feinted once before moving in to come to grips.
They wrestled using full strength and every inch of muscle – holds broken, missed, held with grim determination. After a few moments Gwaine wasn't grinning anymore, but Merlin knew he himself would have to do his utmost merely to reach a draw. He wasn't the wild, barely trained kid he'd been when Gwaine last fought him, but that desperate fire, the energy of hate, wasn't there anymore, either. Gwaine bit his shoulder blade hard, and Merlin just missed breaking the trainer's nose with his elbow in retaliation.
But first blood had been drawn, and though it was wrestling, not boxing, neither man would concede. He heard breath whistling through bared teeth, and couldn't tell which of them it was.
Gwaine rammed his elbow into Merlin's back, on the side below his ribcage three times in quick succession, but Merlin still had the breath to kick his ear. Gwaine swung at the back of Merlin's head and neck and Merlin drove his shoulder into Gwaine's off knee just below the kneecap. Sweat stung his eyes, burned in his bitten shoulder.
"Enough," a female voice said coolly.
Merlin obeyed because he knew Gwaine would, releasing his hold on Gwaine's hair. And Gwaine let Merlin's leg drop back to the ground. Both were gasping for air, but Merlin drew himself up to stand straight and breathe through his nose, and sensed Gwaine beside him doing the same.
Morgana stood next to the row of apprentices, who all looked crestfallen that the match was interrupted before the conclusion. Merlin felt bruised and battered, all energy spent – as he'd intended – and shook Gwaine's proffered hand uninhibitedly.
"That was well done, Merlin," he said generously.
"Thanks very much," he returned in the same genial tone.
"I can't have you two killing each other, can I?" Morgana added sardonically. She made a curt signal and the apprentices as a group turned for the door to the bathing-rooms.
Merlin could hear snatches of their conversation, reliving the fight move by move, discussing the possibilities of the theoretical outcome. Some were disappointed that bets couldn't be collected, and Merlin wondered fleetingly what the odds had been.
He didn't catch the unspoken suggestion passed between Morgana and Gwaine, but the trainer scooped up his clothing from the field, saluted Merlin with one finger, and headed for the door opposite where the others had gone. Gwaine passed Freya on his way in; she hadn't been there when the match began, and Merlin cursed himself. He'd been trying to keep that side of himself from her for a while, training mostly without fighting if there was a possibility she'd be watching.
The corner of the door was too dark for him to see her clearly, but he felt instinctively that she was looking at him, and his heart bumped once out of rhythm.
"I haven't seen you fight like that for a long time," Morgana remarked.
Merlin bent to retrieve his own clothing, and didn't answer. His skin was still slick, slow to dry in the summer heat, so he chose not to try to slide into shirtsleeves.
"Something happened today that frustrated you?" Morgana's tone suggested to Merlin that she thought she already knew what it was.
"Nothing happened today," he answered, more emphatically than he'd intended. Maybe the fight hadn't been entirely successful after all.
She nodded, her lips curling in a knowing smile. "Tired of playing agent?"
Merlin knew that, for an agent, violence was supposed to be a last resort. The diplomacy of weeks in the council room was more an agent's role than the fight at Jordan's house, or the days of captivity Agent Lancelot had undergone in Sage Springs. And it wasn't for him.
But, "I wasn't playing," he said evenly.
Her eyes narrowed with her concentration on him. "You know, Merlin, sometimes I look at you and see you as I saw you first – it was a toss-up whether you'd bled to death or drowned. I thought I had Gwaine retrieving a corpse." She shook her head, smiling a little sadly as she looked him over. "Look at you now. An agent of the realm, and a married man."
He glanced at Freya, waiting patiently for him at the door in the gathering dark.
"Though now," Morgana went on, her voice regaining its usual ironic edge, "you remind me more of Gwaine before I took him as my lover. He chased fights then also, to work off frustration of a different sort."
Merlin felt his hands rise to his hips, shirt still draped over his wrist, bootlaces in the other fist. He warned her with a fierce glare not to continue.
"A girl of fire and beauty, I expected," Morgana mused, her green eyes still sharp on him. "And you said, have you seen her smile? The smile's not enough for you, anymore? You're letting a daughter of Turad's finest deny you?"
"That's not your business," he told her bluntly and forcefully, biting back the curse. "You don't say a word to her, you hear me?" He moved to pass her, but she restrained him with a hand on his elbow.
"Tell me one thing," she demanded. "Did she know you love her when she agreed to this marriage-in-name-only?"
"Dammit, Morgana." He shrugged her hand off violently.
"A month ago, you'd have stared me down and said nothing," she stated. He gritted his teeth, held her gaze, and said nothing. She laughed softly, tilting her head back. "You really are a grown wolf now, aren't you?" she said. "When Agent Arthur releases you, would you be open to an offer for a partnership?"
He closed his eyes, tipping his head back to ease the sore muscles of his neck. More often recently, he found himself chafing under the orders of another. In Sage Springs he'd disregarded whatever he didn't agree with, but here, when his rebellion would have real consequences for those he was acquainted with, he felt more and more constrained. And he had no confidence that the feeling would ease with Morgana and Gwaine giving orders rather than Arthur.
"And that's my answer." Morgana's tone was wry. "In that case, I guess I'll pass this on." He opened his eyes and turned; she handed him a dingy folded missive from the pocket of her skirt. "That came for you today," she added, and as he turned to leave, she whispered after him, "Good luck."
He stopped to turn and meet her green eyes once more, and nodded genuine but unspoken gratitude.
As he neared, Freya reached to open the door for him, saying, "Are you all right?"
He transferred his boots to his other hand so he could take the door and usher her inside before him. She kept pace with him up to their second-story suite, though she had one hand over her heart by the time they arrived.
"I'm just tired," he said only, throwing his things down and striding across to open the door to the balcony. It was so hot, not a breath of air; his skin felt damp all over, even on his scalp.
"I should think you would be, after that – fight," she said from behind him.
He turned to see her kneeling to pick up his boots and shirt. "Leave it," he said, and she dropped the articles, looking up at him.
"Did you have any dinner?" she said then, quickly, clasping her hands and remaining crouched over his discarded clothing. She looked as she had the day he'd startled her in the woods outside Emmett's Creek. But she looked like that most days since their marriage, and almost constantly whenever they were alone. "I could get you something–"
Merlin sighed and went to the writing desk in the corner of the room. He tossed the letter Morgana had passed on to him on the desktop, sprawled in the chair, and rubbed at the scar on his forehead.
"Are you hurt?" she ventured. When he didn't answer, she said, in a voice so low he almost didn't hear her, "Are you angry with me?" She wasn't looking at him, biting her lip.
Why had things changed?
He treated her the same the day they married as he had the day before, and the day before that. Yet something he had done or said must have scared her, frightened her so badly she no longer trusted him. He wanted to treat her well as a good husband should, he wanted to try to be a good husband for her sake, but she kept asking the same question every day – was he all right? And she kept offering the same things to him – food and medical care. It hurt her feelings – he saw it in her face – when he refused her offers, but he didn't care to have her wait on him. It reminded him too much of how she'd been when he met her.
The only thing that seemed to calm her was for him to talk about other things – about work. It seemed to make her forget that the two of them were alone in the room, reassure her somewhat.
"They still won't vote," he said, and as she turned her head to look at him, he looked away. She seemed more on edge when he was looking at her than not, so he tried not to let her notice his glance. "Three or four still don't want to give the power of governing their own district back to the council as a whole, and most of them think the measure was good in conception and only needs altering. Arthur isn't convinced whether he ought to address that alteration of law, or just the tolls."
She straightened, moved to a chair by the open balcony doors where the lamplight was full on her face. She crossed one knee over the other as she sat, tucking her dark blue skirts close to her ankles, then folded her arms tightly over her ribs.
"Do they have to vote before your writ is fulfilled?" she said.
This was another change he'd noticed. The questions she asked him, sometimes seemed to have another behind them, ones maybe she feared would anger him, so she asked a different way. Freya had never been one for anything but forthright honesty, and he couldn't remember having given her cause to fear asking whatever was on her mind. Yet here they were talking around something again, and he couldn't for the life of him figure what it was.
"That'll be up to Arthur," he answered. The bite on his shoulder blade hurt where he rested against the chair back, so he eased forward, and caught sight of the letter again. He opened it as he finished, "He can release me from that oath whenever he wants to - I've served my sentence."
Maybe there was bitterness in his voice, and maybe she wouldn't notice.
She said, "Do you want me to have someone draw you a bath before – before you sleep?"
He didn't answer.
The letter was a contract for the office of reeve from Emmett's Creek and surrounding countryside. It was very basic, rough even, a mere outlining of peacekeeping duties and the small stipend offered in return. Quarters above the jail and the reeve's office. It needed only his signature – the inauguration and the actual badge he'd carry as a mark of his authority would come later, when he arrived in town.
Technically speaking, he could sign and this moment become Reeve Merlin. The irony was shocking, even for him – here he was the husband of Padlow's wife, contemplating taking Whatley's job.
"What's wrong?" she said.
Merlin stood and moved to her across the carpet; she sat as far back in her chair as she could go, as he came. He said nothing, just handed her the sheet.
"Oh," she said only, as she read.
"I'll try to talk to Arthur tomorrow," he told her, leaning into his grip on the lintel of the open balcony door. He could see some of the city from where he stood, and beyond the edge of dusk, more lights twinkled to outline the rest. He glanced down; her gaze was on his side, maybe where the leather of his belt was beginning to crack.
What was she thinking? Was she eager to return to Emmett's Creek, or reluctant? Was she happy here at the chalet, or did she wish she'd stayed at her cousins' after their wedding, in spite of the gossip?
Then her eyes met his, and confusion and embarrassment flooded her face with color. She jumped up, backing away from him to lay the contract on the desk again.
"Your – your bath?" she said, almost as breathless as when they'd come upstairs. Her back was against the wall.
He turned from her to enter the inner bedroom and wash up at the basin on the commode. It made no sense for her to be afraid of him. He hadn't done anything.
Freya had entered Whatley's cell with him, alone. She'd even come up to the treetop platform in the rain, when he'd probably been the closest to actually harming her. She'd been nervous and unsure when she and Gaius had come to him in Camelot, but it only took a few days for her to decide to trust him, and to relax.
How long would it take this time? Without knowing what was bothering her, he had no way even of guessing.
She followed him into the bedroom, slipped behind the dressing screen. He tried not to notice, but he was fairly sure she didn't begin to undress until after he left the room.
He took the basin full of water out to the balcony, rested it on the edge of the stone handrail as he stripped off the rest of his clothes in the dimness of twilight, then dumped the water over his head, letting it splash over him. It was only marginally cooling, the water and the air being too warm, both. He stayed outside until his skin dried, then he stayed a little longer. He stayed outside, wishing for a cool breeze to blow through his mind as well as over his skin, and receiving neither.
Then she turned down the lamp in the bedroom, and he went back inside. She was curled on one side of the bed, fully under the cover in spite of the heat. By the light of the one candle left burning on the mantel opposite, he saw she had her eyes closed already, and sighed again.
Dressing himself minimally, he stretched out on the rug beside the bed, no closer than six feet to her, pillowing his head on his hands. She never opened her eyes, but it was more than half an hour, by the mantel clock, before she relaxed enough to fall asleep.
Every night it was the same, now.
The first night, after their little wedding at her cousins' house on Sycamore Avenue, he'd let her have her space, and privacy to change before he entered. She'd been sitting on the bed waiting, her robe buttoned and tied close under her chin, her gown pulled down over her feet – arms hugging her knees, eyes huge with apprehension. She looked as she had the night the thieves had attacked her at the Full Cup Inn.
Merlin started counting, as much to calm himself as to fall asleep. He'd told her, Nothing is going to change. But he'd be a fool and a liar to say he hadn't considered the physical aspect of their marriage. Twenty-one, twenty-two.
He hadn't spoken, touched her, or even stepped toward her, that first night, yet her breathing sounded loud and harsh through the whole room. So he'd let her have the entire suite to herself, retreating to sleep on the roof rather than his old apprentice's cell so none would know.
And the way she'd looked in the morning, tearstained and almost haggard with weariness, prompted him to let her know, the second night, that he'd be on the roof if she needed him – maybe she'd been worried about sleeping by herself in a new place. Yet the second morning hadn't been any improvement.
So he tried sleeping on the floor in the adjoining sitting-room, but then she'd gotten out of bed several times each night, to peer around the doorway at him, her breathing quick and light until she saw him. Now he slept on the rug next to the hearth in the bedroom, single candle burning all night long so she could see him whenever she opened her eyes, see that he hadn't moved from his place there.
Sleeping on the floor didn't bother him one bit; he'd grown up sleeping on a floor mat in the farmhouse loft, and had slept in worse places, since. Freya's ever-present fear did grate on him, but because it was her, and she was his wife, he tried very hard to be 'all right' whenever she asked. And he was never angry at her.
How long would it be until she trusted that again?
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Grass-stains were always hard to get out of clothing, Freya reflected ruefully, examining her efforts. At least Merlin's trousers were dark material anyway. But why he was fighting without changing to an older pair, wasn't for her to guess. She'd been surprised to see him fighting at all when she came down to the field yesterday, especially with that level of serious ferocity.
"You're glad I stopped them?" Morgana's voice, throaty and amused, startled Freya.
She turned to see the revenger lounging in the doorway, her plum-colored gown cut an inch or so too low at the neckline, in Freya's opinion. And here was Freya in one of her oldest cotton dresses, sleeves rolled up over arms wet and soapy, hot and tired and damp from the steam in the laundry room. Morgana pointed at Merlin's trousers to indicate her meaning.
"Yes, I am," Freya said, troubled. "I know Merlin's been chafing because he thinks the council is dragging out their discussions, but–" she shook her head. She'd seen the marks of the fight on him, the bruises, both the previous night and that morning as he dressed. "I don't understand how fighting Gwaine like that could make anything better."
"He didn't seem more relaxed afterward?" Morgana said, her green eyes keen under the wave of hair she wore on her forehead.
Freya shrugged and wiped her hands on the laundry apron she wore, saying, "Maybe it will be better for him when we leave Turad."
"He's sure of that, is he?" Morgana's expression, usually slightly sardonic, was now slightly regretful. "Ah, well, I guess he never did like taking orders from someone else."
Freya thought of his brief description of his time in Sage Springs. She agreed softly but sadly, "No."
"You know," Morgana said conversationally, "I employ someone to wash the clothes."
Freya looked down at her hands, red and wrinkled from scrubbing. "Yes," she said softly. "I know." Morgana waited, watching her and not saying anything, so Freya felt compelled to explain, "I don't have a lot to do here, and – I know it would be extra work for Pansy, and–" And I'll have to do it anyway once we're back in Emmett's Creek, she added silently.
"And you love him," Morgana said, halfway between a statement and a question.
Freya looked at the older woman, dismayed. She knew her thoughts and feelings were easy for others to see, but she hadn't thought her heart had gone quite that far, yet. Was it true?
"He can't know it," Morgana said in disbelief, as if to herself.
"Oh, please don't tell him," Freya said quickly. That would only make things worse. If he was regretting his decision to marry, the knowledge of her attachment might drive him further away – in spirit, if not in fact. Or he might take it as an invitation to… She stopped that thought.
"You don't want your husband to know you love him?" Morgana's voice was just short of sarcastic. "Whyever not?"
"It's – complicated," Freya whispered miserably.
Morgana shook her head, the edges of her short hair brushing her cheeks. "Fire and beauty," she muttered inexplicably. "Well, my best to the both of you, then. I came to find you because Agent Arthur sent a runner with a message. He wants both of you at Hamstead Manor at sundown."
The Hamstead Manor – that was Philbert's family home. Why on earth would they be going there? It was weeks overdue if Philbert intended to make a fuss over the events that had led to Merlin and Freya's marriage. Then she realized that sundown – if her sense of time wasn't off – was little more than an hour away. And it would take some time to get to the Manor…
"Is he back yet?" she said to Morgana, untying the apron with hasty fingers and leaving it swinging from its hook. Merlin was the junior agent; what Arthur ordered, requested, or invited of him, he would have to do. And Freya's duty as Merlin's wife was to obey also.
Morgana shrugged. "No one's seen him, but that doesn't mean much. If he comes in, I'll have someone tell him. He might have to be late."
In that case, Freya would have to choose whether to obey the agent's summons alone, or wait and be late with Merlin. But how would it look if she came alone? She moved past Morgana in the doorway with a hurried, "Excuse me, please."
"Feel free to take the carriage," Morgana offered, turning and gliding away.
"Thank you!" Freya called after her. It gave them a bit more time; she hurried toward the suite on the second floor of the guest wing of the chalet.
As Freya entered the sitting half of the suite, she was mentally rehearsing what she had to do with herself to be ready to arrive at the Hamstead Manor by sundown. There was no time for a full bath, but if she washed her hair and scrubbed her skin a little by the commode basin, she felt she would be presentable. And the dark green dress, she thought, would be–
At the doorway of the bedroom she froze.
The setting sun flooded golden-bronze rays through the open balcony door, washing over the bare skin of the man sprawled on the bed. It was Merlin, of course, she recognized him even as her rational mind reassured her that no other man would be in that room. And he was asleep, judging by his stillness and lack of reaction to her entrance, quiet though it had been.
But for all that, Freya remained at the doorway, her heart pounding as hard as if he'd jumped out from behind the door to startle her.
He hadn't so much as touched her since the kiss that had sealed their union. Brief as it had been, there had been some element that a very feminine part of Freya both responded to and shied away from. It was enough to warn her, as if she could have forgotten, that Merlin was a man. And if there was anything her months with Padlow had taught her, it was that men had specific needs and passions when it came to their wives.
Only – she hadn't really been Padlow's wife, and he'd known it, at least… did that make a difference? She didn't know.
Merlin had behaved circumspectly toward her when he believed she was someone's wife, when she was considered a widow, but as his wife? She figured it was only a matter of time before he reached for her, commanded, demanded his right to her.
But he didn't move except to breathe. His face was turned from her, turned from the light of the sun.
The sun, which was setting closer to sundown. And she figured he didn't know about Arthur's summons. But if she roused him now, she'd have to prepare with him in the room, and awake… He could be ready in under a minute, she knew, and if he'd wanted a wash after his day's work, he'd have done it when he arrived.
She began to unbutton her dress, rushing so her fingers seemed clumsy and foreign. His breathing didn't change; she watched the faint rise and fall of the bite-bruise on his shoulder-blade. Just keep sleeping, she begged him silently as she slipped off her blouse and stepped from her skirt. Merlin could hear the shadows move even in slumber; she was pleased that she had been quiet enough so far that he hadn't stirred. Just a little longer…
As she sponged off with the tepid water in the commode pitcher, she debated the advisability of dressing before washing her hair, weighing the advantage of being fully clothed when he woke with the possibility of spoiling the dress with water or soap and having to change again. But he hadn't moved…
She made her decision quickly, draping the washing-cloth over its bar before unbraiding her hair and turning her head over, tipping half the pitcher's contents over her hair to wet it. Dripping, she reached for the bottle of soap lightly scented for her hair, and worked it into a lather, all the while attuned to any stray sound from the bed behind her.
A stray thought played oddly from her memory – elbow to the stomach, heel on the instep…
Freya poured the pitcher over her soapy hair, trying to hurry and take her time all at once. It would do her no good to reach the end of her water supply and still have suds in her hair. She had to be thorough, but – there. The results of the rinsing were satisfactory; she fumbled for a towel, drying the water that had run in her eyes, rubbing her hair through the cloth. This was the loudest part of the process, probably – quick, quick – she slung her hair up and over her head, pulled it over her shoulder to continue drying it so she could see to find her dress in the wardrobe on the other side of the bed–
Merlin was sitting up against the headboard, legs stretched before him and feet crossed comfortably, hands folded casually over his bare stomach. Watching her.
How long had he been awake? She found she was clutching the damp towel to her underclothes in trying to cover herself from that piercing inscrutable gaze. And she'd have to approach him to claim her dress from the wardrobe – why hadn't she gotten that out first thing?
He didn't move, didn't say a word. His expression gave nothing away, but his eyes never left her face.
She was aware of her breathing in the quiet of the room. She was waiting for him – surely now he would take her – but he was waiting, also. For what? Any moment now he'd reach out, he'd leap to his feet – and he was half undressed already, she was half undressed, she might as well have screamed, come and get me – unless he knew, unless she told him–
"We're going to be late," she blurted out. One of his eyebrows rose questioningly. "Arthur sent for us – the Hamstead Manor, at sundown."
His eyes flicked from her face to the open balcony doors, the lengthening shadows, calculating. His voice was quiet and a little rough from sleep when he spoke, "Did he say what for?"
"No," she answered.
Merlin didn't looked back at her, and she moved cautiously to the wardrobe, reaching to open the door. If he kept his mind on Arthur and the speculation of the other agent's plans for the evening, maybe he wouldn't notice her lack of appropriate attire. Maybe now Merlin knew they didn't have time, he wouldn't-
He stood then, moving quickly as he often did once his mind was made up about something, and because the wardrobe was close to the bed on that side, and because she was just reaching for her green dress, that brought him standing within one pace of her.
Startled, she stumbled back, banging her elbow on the door of the wardrobe hard enough to make a loud crack! audible to him also.
He looked at her again, down into her eyes, and her breath caught somewhere in the middle of her chest. His expression was unreadable – blank – stony. He stepped back from her once, then twice, til his back was at the wall. Then he crossed his arms over his bare chest – where she was specifically not looking – and waited.
Freya hesitated only a moment, then snatched the dress from the wardrobe and retreated all the way to the sitting room in a rush. She dressed in the far corner, as quickly as she'd undressed, keeping her eyes on the doorway between the two rooms. She didn't hear him in the bedroom, couldn't hear anything above the thunder her heartbeat and her breathing made in her ears. And when she had buttoned the last button at her collar, she snagged her brush and comb from the dressing table and swiftly fixed her hair for an evening in company, without sitting to use the mirror.
It was only as she was bending for a swift glance to ascertain that each still-damp strand was in place, that Merlin appeared at the bedroom door, wearing the charcoal-gray trousers and the wine-red vest, buttoning his own last button and not looking at her.
"You ready?" he said only.
She rushed to the door, scooping up her wrist-purse as she went. He followed, closing the door behind them, staying a gentlemanly half-pace behind her down the hall, down the stairs.
"Morgana said we could use the carriage," she said as they reached the bottom.
He nodded without reply and left her in the front hall to see to having the carriage brought to the front door. It was the first time, Freya reflected, that they'd gone out together as husband and wife.