Chapter 10: A warriors welcome
The ache lasted until dawn, a low, persistent hum beneath the rhythm of her day. It was the sound of linen torn in the corridor, a private wound she cleaned and bandaged by rote. She folded the memory of his words into her apron pocket, pressed it flat beside her handkerchief.
Duty, as always, was a relentless tide. It swept her from the buttery to the smokehouse, from supervising salting to inspecting damp for rot in the lower pantries. The turnips got peeled, mountains of them. The kettle for the scullion’s weak ale never seemed to boil.
Then the news rode in just past noon on a lathered horse and a guard’s hoarse shout.
Raiders. A ragged band had tried for the southern lumber camp. It should have been a massacre. Kerr, out hunting with a handful of men, had intercepted them. The stories filtering down to the kitchens were fragmented, told in the awed hush the household reserved for violence. He’d killed four, they said, disarmed two more with a shattered spear shaft. The rest had scattered back into the wilds, leaving their dead and a cart of stolen ironwood behind.
The supper hall that night was a web of low, electric chatter. Elspeth moved through it like a ghost, directing the serving girls with a silent gesture, her ears tuned to the high table.
Bryce Cousland’s voice boomed, full of a pride that shook the rafters. "Single-handed, near enough! By the Maker's grace, my boy!" The Teyrn clapped Kerr on the shoulder so hard the wine in Kerr’s goblet sloshed.
Her gaze snagged on him for a second. He was still in his field leathers, unwashed. A long, shallow scrape marred his cheekbone, and his knuckles were raw. He nodded at his father’s praise, but his smile looked carved from wood.
"I merely secured the perimeter, Father," Kerr said. His voice was flat, a servant handing over a report. "Ser Arl and his men did the real work of routing the stragglers."
"Nonsense, little brother!" Fergus’s laugh was too loud, forced. He swirled his own wine. "Modesty from you? I almost don’t believe my ears. Mother, have we a changeling at our table?"
Lady Eleanor’s smile was gentler, her eyes holding Kerr’s. "You did well. The foresters' families will sleep safely tonight because of you."
Kerr’s gaze dropped to his trencher. He prodded a slice of venison with his knife. "They should always sleep safely. That’s the point, isn't it?"
An awkward silence bloomed for a heartbeat before Bryce roared back into it. Elspeth turned away, the cold clench in her stomach tightening. She knew that quiet. She’d felt it radiating from him in the kitchen, the weight of a decision that felt like guessing.
The feast wound down. Lords and ladies drifted to the solar for music. The hall emptied of all but servants clearing the wreckage of the meal.
The hall emptied of all but servants clearing the wreckage of the meal. Elspeth was scrubbing a trestle table when a page boy, breathless, tapped her shoulder. "Milady Eleanor says the young lord is to have a hot meal and a bath in his chambers. You're to see to it."
Her heart gave a hard, sudden knock against her ribs. "Of course."
She worked quickly in the now-quiet kitchens, the echoes of the feast feeling far away. She sliced cold roast venison, piled soft cheese and yesterday’s brown bread, and filled a bowl with the rich barley and leek soup kept warm at the hearth’s edge. She arranged it all on a tray with a tankard of small ale, her hands steady but her mind racing.
His private chambers were at the top of the family’s wing, a world away from the servant’s quarters. The door was ajar, candlelight spilling onto the dim landing. She nudged it open with her hip.
Kerr stood at the window, his broad silhouette blotting out the night sky. He’d shed his leather jerkin and boots. He turned as she entered, the flickering light carving deep shadows under his eyes and along the fresh scrape on his cheek.
"You look like you fought a bear," she said, setting the tray on a small oak table.
"A few particularly ornery shrubs," he replied, his voice rough with fatigue. He sank into a chair, the wood groaning under his weight. He picked up the spoon, then set it down with a clatter. "It's too quiet in here."
"Eat," she said, softening the command. "You’ll feel more human."
He ate with a focused, mechanical intensity, the warrior fueling his body. The silence stretched, comfortable but charged. She busied herself lighting more candles, chasing the shadows from the corners of the room.
After a few minutes, he spoke around a mouthful of bread. "This is good. Solid."
"High praise."
He grinned then, the familiar mischievous glint finally cutting through his tiredness. "It is. Could use a certain spice, though."
"Oh?" She leaned against the post of his massive bed, arms crossed. "And what spice would that be?"
He looked at her, his gaze traveling slowly from her face down her body and back up. A slow, dirty smile spread across his lips. "You know the one. Piquant. Warming. Goes straight to your head."
She felt a flush bloom low in her belly. "I think we have that in the larder. But it’s kept on a very high shelf."
"Is it now?" He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping on the stone floor. He stood, stretching, and the sheer size of him in the intimate room made her breath catch. "Might need a hand reaching it."
"I might be persuaded to help," she said, her voice dropping to a murmur.
He crossed the room in two strides. He didn’t kiss her. He just took her hand, his fingers threading through hers with a deliberate certainty that made her knees feel weak. "Show me."
They slipped out into the silent corridor, moving like ghosts past the empty guard posts. The kitchens were dark, lit only by the banked red eyes of the hearth. The larder was a cave of shadows and hanging herbs, the air thick with the smells of dried meat, earth-crusted potatoes, and sage.
He pulled her inside and shut the door, plunging them into near-total darkness. "High shelf, you said?"
"Right there," she whispered, pointing to a vague shape in the blackness.
His hands found her hips in the dark, turning her gently. He pushed her apron and skirts up in one rough, eager motion. The cool larder air kissed her bare skin. She heard the rustle of his laces, the quiet intake of his breath.
Then he was there, the hot, insistent press of him against her. He was already fully hard, a thick, familiar weight. She braced her hands against a sack of grain, the rough burlap scraping her palms.
"Good?" he breathed into her ear, his voice a vibration down her spine.
"Getting there."
He didn’t wait. He guided himself into her with a single, deep, stretching stroke that forced a gasp from her lungs. The fullness was immediate, breathtaking. He filled her completely, a perfect, claiming pressure.
He set a fast, driving rhythm, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises. Each thrust drove her forward against the grain sack, the coarse material rubbing her belly. It was raw and simple and brilliant. His breathing grew ragged behind her, mingling with her own sharp gasps.
"That’s it," he grunted, his pace relentless. "That’s the spice."
She came suddenly, a sharp, unraveling climax that tore through her with silent violence. Her inner muscles clenched around him, pulsing tight, and he let out a choked-off curse, his own control shattering.
He hammered into her, once, twice more, then stilled, buried deep as he spilled himself with a long, shuddering groan. His forehead dropped between her shoulder blades, his big body leaning heavily against her for support.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their panting in the dark, the scent of thyme and sex.
He eased out of her with a soft sigh, his hands smoothing her skirts back down with a startling tenderness. He found her mouth in the darkness for a quick, hungry kiss. "Best seasoning in the castle."
She laughed, a soft, breathy sound. "Your soup is getting cold."
"Worth it."
They straightened their clothes in the dark, a familiar, fumbling dance. He opened the larder door a crack, letting in a sliver of kitchen firelight. They slipped back into the corridor, her hair a mess, his laces slightly crooked.
Back in his chambers, he returned to his meal as if nothing had happened, spooning up the now-lukewarm soup with gusto. She went to the adjoining washroom, where a large copper tub already sat.
She worked the pump handle, the squeak and groan of the iron loud in the quiet room. Cold water splashed into the tub. Then she hauled kettles from the hearth, the muscles in her arms burning with the strain, steaming the air as she poured.
When the bath was ready, deep and hot, she returned to the main chamber. He was finishing the last of the bread, watching her.
"Your bath is drawn," she said.
He nodded, pushed his chair back, and rose with a groan that seemed to come from his bones. He crossed to the washroom, the candlelight chasing the lines of his broad back. She followed, a soft presence in the doorway, watching as he began to undress.
He made no show of it. He simply unbuckled his belt, the leather sighing as it came loose. He pulled his linen shirt over his head, the muscles in his arms and shoulders moving under skin marked with fresh scratches and old silvered scars. He toed off his hose and stepped out of his smalls, letting them fall to the flagstones.
For a moment, he stood naked before her in the steam-hazed room, a living statue of worn warrior and tired youth. He was magnificent, all coiled power and weary grace. And he was heavy. She could see it in the set of his shoulders, in the slight dip of his spine.
He stepped to the copper tub and swung a long leg over the rim, the water sloshing. He let his dong hang as he lowered himself into the water, a brief, thick pendulum before it vanished beneath the surface. A long, guttural sigh escaped him as the heat enveloped him. He submerged entirely for a second, coming up with his dark hair plastered to his skull, water streaming down his face.
He sat forward, resting his arms on his knees, his back to her. The steam rose around him. “It’s good. Hot.”
Elspeth knelt beside the tub, the stone biting into her knees through her skirts. She took the cake of lye soap and a rough sponge. She worked it into a lather, the sharp, clean scent cutting through the mineral smell of the hot water.
She placed her soapy hands on his shoulders. The skin was hot and slick. She began to work the sponge in slow, firm circles over the landscape of his back. She could feel it immediately. Beneath the skin and heat, the muscles were not just firm. They were ropes of iron, twisted into Gordian knots from his neck down to the small of his back. His body was wound tighter than anything she’d ever seen, a physical echo of the wariness in his eyes at the high table.
She pressed her thumb into a dense, furious knot near his right shoulder blade. He hissed, but didn’t pull away. "Maker's breath," he muttered.
"You're all bound up," she said softly, working the sponge down his spine. Each vertebrae was a hard ridge under her touch. The pressure he was under at such a young age wasn't just an idea. It was right here, locked in this flesh, this warrior's frame carrying a Teyrn's burdens before its time.
"Long day," he said, his voice a low rumble. He dipped his head forward, giving her better access.
"It was," she agreed. She rinsed the sponge and moved it over the sculpted planes of his sides, tracing the hard lines of his ribs. "You saved the foresters today."
"I did my job," he corrected, but his tone was absent, his attention turned inward.
She washed his arms, the powerful forearms corded from wielding a sword since childhood. The water grew cloudy with dirt and dried sweat and the faint, coppery trace of blood not his own. She moved the sponge lower, over the swell of his buttocks beneath the water.
Then her hand, following its path, dipped between his legs. She washed his thighs, the soap making his skin slippery. Her fingers brushed through coarse hair. She reached down and washed his enormous testicles, cupping their heavy warmth in her hand. She felt they were engorged, full and tight, a stubborn physical truth that remained even through his exhaustion. She could feel the thick root of his cock resting against her wrist under the water.
He shifted slightly, a barely perceptible tightening of his stomach. A quiet, complicated tension filled the steam between them. The memory of the larder was fresh, but this was different. This was not hunger, but a deep, physical need that had survived the fight, the feast, the brief release in the dark. His body, even drained, was demanding completion.
She moved her hand, wrapping her fingers gently around the thick shaft beneath the surface. He was already hardening, the flesh swelling rapidly to fill her grip. He let out a long, shaky exhale but said nothing.
She looked at the taut lines of his back, at the way his head was bowed. She couldn't leave him like this, strung this tight. "You're not done," she whispered, not a question.
He shook his head, a slight movement. Water dripped from his hair.
So she began to stroke him slowly under the water. Her movements were deliberate, not frantic. She used the soap’s slickness, her fist moving with a firm, steady rhythm from the root to the broad head. The only sounds were the soft lap of water against copper and his deepening breaths.
His hands gripped the sides of the tub, his knuckles bleaching white. He kept his face forward, his eyes squeezed shut. His whole body was a bowstring pulled taut. This wasn't about pleasure, not in the simple way. It was about release of a different kind. It was about emptying the vessel so he could finally, truly rest.
His breathing grew ragged. A low moan vibrated in his chest. His hips began to move in tiny, involuntary thrusts against her hand, meeting her rhythm. "Elspeth," he ground out, the word strained.
"It's alright," she murmured, her own heart pounding. She tightened her grip slightly, her thumb swiping over the slick crown with each upward stroke. "Let it go."
He came with a massive release that seemed to shake his entire frame. A harsh, animal sound was torn from his throat. His back arched, straining against her other hand which still rested on his shoulder. He pulsed heavily in her fist, again and again, into the soapy water.
The tension drained from him all at once. His grip on the tub loosened. His shoulders slumped forward, his head hanging low. He breathed in great, shuddering gulps of the damp air.
She released him, her hand trembling slightly. She rinsed her fingers in the water, watching the ghost of his seed dissipate into the clouded bath. The knots in his back, she noticed, had finally begun to loosen, the terrible rigidity seeping away.
He stayed like that for a full minute, motionless but for his breathing. Then he slowly sat back, the water sloshing. He leaned his head against the high back of the tub, his eyes closed. A profound stillness settled over him, the stillness of a storm passed.
He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her. The fierce warrior was gone, the haunted lord’s son was gone. In his face she saw only a raw, grateful weariness. "Thank you," he said, the words simple and devastating.
She nodded, unable to speak. She picked up the sponge again, rinsed it clean in a bucket of fresh water, and gently washed the soap from his back. This time, her touch was pure tenderness, a silent benediction on his cooled skin.
This time, her touch was pure tenderness, a silent benediction on his cooled skin. The water had lost its sharp heat, settling into a tepid embrace. She let the sponge fall into the tub with a soft splash.
“You’ll prune,” she said, her voice rough with unshed emotion.
He grunted, a non-committal sound from the depths of his chest. With a groan that spoke of every strained muscle, he braced his massive hands on the copper rim and pushed himself up. Water cascaded off him in sheets, pattering loudly on the stone floor. He stood there, dripping, steam rising from his skin in the cool air.
She grabbed a linen sheet from a stack nearby, its clean scent a brief benediction. “Come on then, you great soggy bear.”
He stepped out, dripping a small lake onto the flags. She began to towel him off, starting with his dark, wet hair, then the broad expanse of his shoulders. The linen soaked quickly. She moved down the hard planes of his back, over the curve of his buttocks, down the thick pillars of his legs.
Drying his front, she paused, a soft chuckle escaping her. She gently cupped him, the weight familiar and yet still astonishing. “Honestly,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Even now? You’re ridiculous.”
“What?” he said, a genuine, weary confusion in his voice.
She just smiled, a secret, knowing thing, and finished drying his thighs. “To bed with you. You’re dead on your feet.”
He let her guide him, his movements heavy and slow, into the bedchamber. He collapsed backwards onto the dark silk coverlet of the four-poster with a thump that shook the frame. He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow, his breathing deepening instantly into a slow, steady rhythm.
Elspeth stood by the bed for a long moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest. The candlelight softened the scrape on his cheek, made him look younger. The terrible, knotted tension was gone from his body, replaced by a vulnerable sprawl. Her heart did a complicated, painful twist.
She bent, brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead, and then turned to leave. Her duty was done. The tray needed clearing, the washroom tidying, and her own cot waited in the silent, distant wing.
She took two steps.
His arm, a band of warm iron, shot out from the bed and wrapped around her waist. He pulled, not with his earlier decisive force, but with a sleepy, undeniable gravity. She gasped as her feet left the floor, her body pivoting in the air.
She landed on her side on the soft mattress, her back pressed flush against the furnace of his chest. He’d moved with that unconscious, predatory grace he possessed even in sleep. His heavy arm settled over her ribs, his hand splayed possessively across her stomach, pinning her to him.
“Kerr—” she started to protest.
But her body was already arching, a response as natural as breathing. His hips snugged tight against the curves of her buttocks. She could feel him there, thick and insistent once more, a drowsy heat pressed against the small of her back through the layers of their clothes.
Her eyes rolled back in her head. A shuddering breath left her. Without thought, her hand darted down, fumbling with her own skirts and the laces of his borrowed sleeping breeches. She found him, silken and hard, and guided him to her entrance.
“You are utterly incorrigible,” she whispered into the dark, her voice trembling. “Just fill me.Quickly. Before I come to my senses.”
He made a low, sleepy sound of acknowledgment. His hips pushed forward. There was no resistance, only that slow, breathtaking stretch as he entered her from behind, inch by impossibly deep inch. A low moan vibrated through his chest and into her spine.
He was still half-asleep, his movements languid and deep rather than frantic. Each slow, rolling thrust pressed her firmly into the mattress, a profound and weighty possession. There was no goal but this connection, this anchoring. She reached back, her hand finding the solid muscle of his thigh, urging him deeper.
The pleasure built not in a sharp crest, but as a deep, spreading warmth, radiating from her core out to her fingertips. It was different from the larder, different from the kitchen block. This was quiet, essential. He nuzzled the nape of her neck, his breath hot on her skin.
“Elspeth,” he murmured, the word slurred with sleep and sensation.
That was all it took. Her climax unspooled slowly, a series of long, pulsing waves that made her toes curl into the silk. She pressed her face into the pillow to stifle her cry. Her inner muscles clenched around him, a rhythmic, milking pressure that pulled his own release from him.
He shuddered violently against her, a final, deep push, and then stilled, buried to the hilt. A long, contented sigh ghosted across her neck. His arm tightened around her for a moment, a brief, fierce squeeze.
Then his body went utterly limp, his breathing evening out into the true, deep rhythms of unconsciousness. He remained inside her, a drowsy, full claim, as sleep reclaimed him completely.
She lay there, pinned by his weight and his arm, filled with him. The candle on the vanity guttered, casting long, dancing shadows. The ghost of old perfume and their mingled scent clung to the air. Her own eyelids grew heavy, the frantic pace of the day finally, completely, spent.
For the first time in years, she did not slip back to her own narrow bed. She drifted into sleep in the Teryn’s son’s bed, wrapped in the heat of him, the world outside the velvet drapes finally, completely, silent.