Chapter 5: Assumption
The cold space beside her was the first thing Elspeth registered. The sheets held the ghost of his warmth, a lingering indent in the feather mattress, but Kerr was gone. She lay still for a long moment, listening to the distant morning sounds of the castle coming to life. A dull ache throbbed pleasantly between her thighs, a physical memory so stark it brought a flush to her cheeks. She stretched, feeling the pull of muscles in unusual places.
Sunlight cut through a gap in the curtains, illuminating motes of dust and the discarded evidence of the night before. His cravat lay in a silk pool by the hearth. Her slippers were near the door where she’d stepped out of them. The room smelled of spent candle wax, lavender, and something darker, muskier. She sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist. Foolish, she thought. Getting sentimental over an empty bed. He was a young man with duties. She was a kitchen maid with bread to bake.
She moved through her morning routine with practiced efficiency, washing the scent of him from her skin with tepid water from the basin, though the deeper feeling, the satiated looseness in her joints, remained. She dressed in her clean work dress, pinned her hair back with sharp, decisive jabs, and stepped out into the corridor. The castle was a different creature by day, all stone and echo and protocol.
In the lower yard, the air rang with the percussive clash of steel on steel. Kerr moved through the drills with a focus that bordered on grim. His broadsword was a blur, meeting the practiced attacks of the arms master, Ser Derren, with solid, ringing parries. Sweat darkened the back of his linen tunic.
“Again!” Derren barked, resetting his stance. The older man was panting, his face florid. “Your footwork is lazy on the recovery.”
Kerr nodded, breath steady. He feinted high, went low, and tapped Derren’s ribs with the flat of his blade before the master could bring his guard down. It was a clean point.
Derren lowered his sword, shaking his head with a mix of frustration and pride. “Enough. You’re pulling your strikes, lad. You know you had me.”
“It’s just practice,” Kerr said, leaning on his sword.
“It’s never just practice,” Derren grunted, mopping his brow. “But you’re right. I’m not the test anymore. None of us here are.” He gestured to the handful of guardsmen watching, who shifted uncomfortably. “We’ve sent for that Antivan duelist, the one with the braids. And there’s talk of a hired sword from the Free Marches arriving next week. A real savage, they say.”
Kerr felt a twist of irritation. His father’s idea. Importing challenges because home-grown ones weren’t enough. “I don’t need coddling.”
“It’s not coddling,” Derren said, clapping him on the shoulder. “It’s keeping you sharp. A blade never tested against foreign steel grows brittle.” He walked off toward the water bucket, leaving Kerr alone in the center of the yard, the unspoken truth hanging in the air. He was a weapon they didn’t quite know how to wield. He cleaned and sheathed his sword, the morning’s exertion doing little to quiet the restlessness humming under his skin.
The kitchen was a bastion of heat and industry. Elspeth directed the ballet of breakfast with a sharp eye, her voice cutting through the steam. “Turn that bacon, Arlys, before it carbonizes. Jon, the porridge needs more salt, not your entire life story.” Her hands were a blur, kneading dough for the midday rolls, her knuckles dusted white.
She was elbow-deep in flour when she felt the shift in the room. The junior maids quieted, their focus darting toward the doorway. She didn’t need to look. She knew the shape of him, the way he filled a space. She kept her eyes on the dough, pushing her thumbs into its yielding center with more force than necessary. The memory of waking alone curdled in her stomach. She felt exposed, foolish for expecting anything else.
He didn’t announce himself. She heard his boots on the flagstones, moving past the scullery maids who suddenly found urgent tasks elsewhere. The warmth of his body approached her from behind, a distinct presence amid the oven’s heat.
She stiffened, refusing to turn.
His voice was low, meant only for her. “Elspeth.”
She punched the dough.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, the words so close she felt his breath stir the wispy hairs at her temple. “I meant to wake you. Before I left.”
Her hands stilled. She stared at the pocked surface of the dough.
“I was afraid,” he continued, the confession seeming to surprise even him. “If someone had come in… if we were seen… it would just mean we couldn’t…” He paused. “Again. And again.”
The tightness in her chest unraveled, so sudden it left her lightheaded. A wave of warm, stupid relief washed through her. She allowed herself a small, private smile, hidden from the room.
“It’s fine,” she said softly, finally glancing at him over her shoulder. His face was earnest, flushed from training, a fresh bruise blooming on his jawline. “You have your duties.”
“I would like to,” he said, his gaze holding hers. “Again. If you’d have me.”
She turned back to her work, suddenly flustered. “I don’t think we should.” She began shaping the dough into rounds. “I’m becoming… accustomed to it. The sensation you give me. It’s a luxury. Unseemly for a woman my age.”
He leaned a hip against the table, unfazed. “I don’t see anything wrong with being accustomed to a good thing.”
“You’re nineteen,” she said, her voice dropping. “I’m taking advantage. Of your youth. Your… excitement.”
He let out a short, quiet laugh. “Elspeth, I’ve led patrols. I’ve stood in a shield wall. I’ve killed men.” The casual truth of it hung between them, stark against the domestic scent of baking bread. “I think I can manage the emotional weight of making love to a woman.”
She scoffed, a harsh sound. Making love. The words sounded absurdly grand in her flour-dusted world. Needing distance, she wiped her hands on her apron and walked toward the cool, dark mouth of the larder. “You’re impossible.”
He followed. Of course he did.
The larder door swung shut behind them with a solid thud, plunging them into near-darkness. The air was cool and dense with the smells of hanging herbs, smoked meat, and sackged grain.
She heard his movements in the dark. “You’re incorrigible,” she whispered, a chuckle threading through her voice.
His hands found her hips in the gloom, turning her gently. She didn’t resist. He guided her forward until her palms met the rough, sturdy canvas of a stacked sack of flour. She bent over it, the posture both submissive and an invitation. Her skirts were a simple barrier; he pushed them up, his hands rough and sure on the backs of her thighs.
There was no preamble, no gentle re-acquainting. He freed himself and she felt the broad, insistent pressure against her entrance, still tender from the night before. He slid into her with a single, deep, relentless motion that forced the air from her lungs in a silent gasp. He filled her completely, a stunning, familiar intrusion that made her toes curl inside her shoes.
He began to move. His rhythm was constant, endless, the deep, piston-like drive of a man with preternatural stamina. His hips, powerful from years in the saddle, worked with the effortless precision of an expert horseman. Each withdrawal was a sweet, empty ache; each return a jolt of piercing fullness that sparked directly up her spine.
She bit down on her own knuckle, stifling the guttural moans that threatened to escape. The flour sack shifted minutely under her clenched fists. Pleasure coiled in her gut, tight and immediate, fed relentlessly by that perfect, unchanging rhythm. It broke over her quickly, a shockwave of clenching heat that tore a muffled cry into her own skin. It didn’t ebb. It simply rebuilt, another crest rising from the wake of the first, then another, a relentless series of internal quakes that made her legs tremble.
Her strength gave out. Her knees buckled, her grip on the sack failing. With a smooth, strong motion, he caught her, turned her. He laid her back on the flat top of the stacked sacks, the canvas cool through her dress. He moved over her, pushed her thighs apart with his own, and entered her again, never breaking that same, deep, devastating cadence.
Now she could see him in the sliver of light from beneath the door. His face was a mask of intense concentration, watching her. Every thrust rocked her body, her back arching off the coarse fabric in a helpless response. Her belly tightened, the muscles standing in stark relief. And there, just below her navel, with each deep inward drive of his body, a distinct, subtle bulge pushed out against her skin—the shape of him, moving inside her, a visible proof of the occupation of her body.
She stared up at the shadowed ceiling, her mouth open in soundless wonder, her body a vessel for this endless, rolling storm. The world narrowed to the creak of the sacks, the slap of skin, and the perfect, pounding rhythm that held her suspended between the dark larder and the stars.
The rhythm faltered, his breaths turning ragged against her neck. His hips stuttered, lost their martial precision, and drove home one final, shuddering time. He buried himself to the root, a low groan vibrating through his chest into hers, and she felt the hot, internal pulse of his release. It sparked her own, a last, deep, clenching wave that milked him through the aftershocks.
They lay tangled on the rough canvas, breathing in heavy, synced gulps of the dusty air. The only sound was their strained lungs fighting for quiet. Distantly, a pot clanged in the kitchen beyond the door.
Elspeth pushed at his shoulder, her hands weak. “Off,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. He rolled aside, his bulk creating a draft of cooler air where he’d been. She sat up, her body feeling liquid and used. She looked at him, sprawled and spent in the gloom. “I’ll be wanting more,” she stated, wiping her forearm across her damp brow. “Just so you know. If you’re insisting on continuing this… folly.”
He gave a breathless laugh, his eyes glinting in the dark.
“Then I’ll take everything you have to give,” she finished, her tone leaving no room for debate. She slid off the sack, her legs only vaguely reliable. Bending quickly, she took him in her mouth, not for pleasure but for practicality. Her tongue cleaned the evidence of their joining in one swift, efficient pass.
She stood, leaned down, and planted a firm, tasting kiss on his lips. Then she smacked his bare backside with a sharp crack that echoed off the stone walls. “Now off to your duties, my lord. I’ve bread to burn and you’ve a castle to pretend to run.”
He stared at her, stunned and delighted, as he fumbled with his trousers. She straightened her dress, pushed a strand of hair back into its pin, and walked to the larder door without a backward glance. Her hand paused on the latch, a smile touching her lips as she heard him buckle his belt.
Then she stepped back into the heat and clamor of her kitchen, leaving him alone in the dark with the smell of flour and their secret.