Chapter 6: Honey on Calloused Hands
The water was a scalding shock. Elspeth plunged her hands into the deep stone sink, the heat biting through the raw, red patches on her knuckles, a familiar pain that grounded her in the now. Dawn had bled into a pale, busy morning. The scullery hummed with the chatter of two younger maids, Dora and Meg, scrubbing a mountain of pots from the previous night’s feast.
“...and I heard he rode back from the border at midnight, didn’t even wake the stable master, just put his own horse away,” Dora was saying, her voice a conspiratorial whisper that carried.
“Sounds like Sir Edric,” Meg sighed, dreamily polishing a copper ladle until it flashed. “All duty and dark brooding.”
Elspeth scrubbed at a stubborn crust of gravy on a cast iron pan, her mind adrift in the dark silence of a few hours prior. The memory was a physical warmth low in her belly, a stark contrast to the steam rising around her face. The feel of him, the awe in his touch, the solid weight of him sleeping against her...
“...probably didn’t get a wink of sleep, poor man,” Dora concluded.
A shadow fell across the steaming sink.
Elspeth looked up, water dripping from her elbows. Kerr filled the archway of the scullery entrance, the morning light from the main kitchen behind him turning him into a broad, backlit silhouette. He was dressed for riding, leathers worn and dusty, but in his hands, held with an almost comical delicacy, were two honey buns. They steamed gently, specks of flour still visible on their golden tops.
The maids fell silent, their scrubbing stilled. A lord’s son in the scullery was odd enough. A lord’s son holding baked goods was unheard of.
“My lord,” Dora and Meg stammered in unison, dipping into hurried curtsies.
Kerr ignored them. His eyes were fixed on Elspeth. That mischievous glint was there, but tempered with something else—a softness, an uncertainty. He took a few steps into the room, his boots loud on the wet flagstones.
“Elspeth,” he said, his voice a little too loud in the quiet room. He thrust the buns towards her. “I brought these.”
She stared at him, then at the pastries, then back at him. A slow smile threatened to break through her weathered facade. He looked like a giant, overgrown pup who’d retrieved a particularly splendid stick. “I can see that,” she said, her tone dry. “Did the baker hand them to you as you passed, or did you storm the ovens yourself?”
A faint pink touched his cheeks, visible even in the dim light. “I… may have insisted. They said the first batch was the sweetest.”
From the corner of her eye, Elspeth saw Dora and Meg exchange a look of pure, bewildered shock.
“Well, that’s very… thoughtful of you, my lord,” Elspeth said, playing her part. She wiped her hands on her apron, leaving damp streaks, and took one of the buns. It was warm, almost too hot to hold. The scent of honey and baked dough filled the space between them.
He took a bite of his own bun, glancing at the frozen maids. “You two can stop gawping. The stables need mucking. Now.”
They jumped, dropping their cloths with a splash, and scurried out, their whispers starting before they’d even cleared the doorway. Kerr watched them go, then turned back to Elspeth, his bravado fading as soon as they were alone.
“That was subtle,” she said, taking a small bite. The bun was perfect, sticky and soft.
“I don’t do subtle,” he mumbled around his mouthful. He leaned his hip against the table she’d been leaning against just hours ago, his eyes scanning her face. “Your hands are red.”
“The water’s hot. It’s how you get things clean.”
“They were red last night, too.” He said it quietly, a statement that hung in the steam-filled air.
She didn’t reply, just took another bite, watching him. He was fidgeting, a nervous energy in his large frame that seemed to vibrate the very air. He was looking at her mouth, at her throat, at the damp tendrils of hair stuck to her temple. He was seeing her, not the kitchen maid.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he finally said, his voice low. “After. I kept… thinking.”
“About your sword drills, I hope,” she said, aiming for lightness.
“No.” The word was flat, definitive. He put his half-eaten bun down on the table and stepped closer, crowding her space with his warmth and size. The scent of leather, horse, and young man cut through the soap and steam. He reached out, his fingers hesitating for a second before they brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was surprisingly gentle. “I was thinking about your laugh. You have a quiet laugh. I felt it, here.” He placed his other hand, fingers spread, against his own sternum.
Elspeth’s breath caught. The honey bun suddenly felt like a lead weight in her hand. This was not the sweet, fumbling boy from the dark. This was someone else, someone who’d crossed a line in his own head and saw no reason to step back.
“Kerr,” she whispered, a warning.
“That’s not my name,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Not from you.” He didn’t move back. His thumb traced the shell of her ear, a calloused point of contact that sent a shiver straight down her spine. “When you say ‘my lord,’ it sounds like a door closing.”
She looked up at him, this massive boy filling her workspace with his restless need. The steam from the sink curled around them both. “People talk,” she said, but the protest was weak, dying in her throat.
"Let them," he said, his hand dropping from her ear. He looked down at her work-reddened hands holding the bun. His jaw tightened. "I hate the damn water here. It's always too hot."
She placed the bun on the table beside his. "It's just water, Kerr."
"It's not." He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it more tousled. He seemed to be fighting with something inside himself, his earlier confidence shredding into frustration. "You need salve.Your hands. I'll get some from the healer."
"No," she said, a little too sharply. The last thing she needed was him drawing more attention. "I have my own. It's in the larder, with the herbs. It works fine."
He stared at her, unconvinced. His foot started tapping a rapid, anxious rhythm against the flagstone floor.
Without another word, she turned and walked the dozen paces to the heavy oak door of the walk-in larder. The cool, dark space was lined with shelves of preserves, sacks of flour, and bunches of dried herbs hanging from the beams. The smell of sage and earth enveloped her. She reached for a small ceramic pot on a high shelf, her fingers just brushing it.
The door behind her slammed shut, plunging the larder into near-total darkness save for a thin blade of light from under the door. A rush of air, and then he was on her.
Large hands grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. Before she could utter a sound, his mouth was on hers. The kiss wasn't gentle. It was frantic, hungry, a dam breaking. It tasted of honey bun and a wild, unfocused longing.
She gasped into his mouth. His hands slid from her shoulders, one arm wrapping around her back to crush her against him, the other coming up to cup her breast through the rough fabric of her dress. His palm was huge, warm, and he kneaded the soft flesh with a trembling, urgent pressure.
"Couldn't wait," he mumbled against her lips, his breath hot. His other hand fumbled with the laces at her chest. "All morning.Thinking about this. About you."
The herb-scented darkness spun around her. She pushed against his chest, not to get away, but to feel the solid resistance of him. "You're mad. Someone could—"
"No one's coming." He bit her lower lip, not hard, but enough to silence her. The laces gave way. Cool air touched her skin, followed instantly by the searing heat of his hand sliding inside her shift. He palmed her bare breast, his thumb finding her nipple, rubbing it into a tight peak. A ragged groan escaped him.
"Kerr." It was half protest, half plea.
"Elspeth," he breathed her name into the hollow of her neck, his lips traveling down her throat. He backed her up until her shoulders met the cool wood of a shelf. A sack of oats shifted beside her. His body pinned her there, a wall of muscle and leather and desperate need.
His body pinned her there, a wall of muscle and leather and desperate need. The sudden darkness was a conspirator, masking the scandal of his hands on her bare skin. “You’re going to ruin your good leathers on this floor,” she breathed, her own fingers digging into the hard muscle of his arms.
“Don’t care.” His voice was raw, stripped of all lordly polish. He fumbled with the buckle of his belt, the metallic clink absurdly loud in the confined space. His urgency was a live wire against her stomach. “I need— Speth, I need you.”
That was it. The final shred of her caution tore loose and blew away. She batted his clumsy hands aside. “Let me.”
Her own fingers, red and skilled, made quick work of the fastenings. She shoved his trousers and smalls down just enough. He sprang free, thick and heavy and fully erect in the cool, dusty air. The sheer size of him, even in the faint light, still stole her breath. It was a visceral, demanding reality.
Without ceremony, she turned, bracing her raw hands flat against the rough wood of a heavy shelf. She hitched her skirts up around her waist. “Now,” she said, the word leaving no room for gentle negotiation.
He needed no further invitation. One large hand splayed across her lower back, holding her steady. The other guided himself to her. He was slick with his own urgency, and she was wet from the memory of him and the frantic press of his body. He pushed forward.
The initial stretch was immense, breathtaking. She bit down on the fabric of her own sleeve, a stifled scream trapped behind her teeth. Her eyes squeezed shut. Then he was fully seated, a joining so profound it felt less like invasion and more like a truth finally acknowledged.
He let out a shaky, reverent curse. Then he began to move.
It was not the careful, learning rhythm of the night before. This was a furious, driving pace born of hours of pent-up thought and want. The force of each thrust rocked her forward against the shelf, making the jars and sacks rattle in a precarious, tinny symphony. Each impact jolted a sharp, punched-out gasp from her lungs.
Her manners, her reserve, the careful shield of her years, all of it shattered. Raw, unfiltered sound broke from her throat—guttural moans that echoed off the stone walls. She pushed back against him, meeting his drive with a demand of her own. The coarse wood grain scraped her knuckles.
He grunted with each push, his breathing a ragged bellows in her ear. His hand slid from her back around her hip, his fingers finding the taut, sensitive nub of her. His touch there was not fumbling, but shockingly precise, a rough, circling pressure perfectly tuned to the jarring rhythm of his hips.
Pleasure, sharp and coiling, built faster than she thought possible. It wasn’t the slow wave from before, but a lightning storm gathering in her core, fed by the animal clash of their bodies and the secret, thrilling wrongness of it here in the larder at dawn. She surrendered to it completely, her head falling back against his shoulder.
“That’s it,” he growled, his lips against her sweating temple. His voice was choked, yet it held a note of fierce triumph. “Let go. I feel you. Let go for me.”
The command, the possessive claim in his words, was the final key. The coil snapped. Her climax tore through her with a violence that blurred her vision, a silent scream contorting her face as her body clamped around him in fierce, pulsing waves. She sagged against the shelf, her legs trembling.
It triggered his own end. With a final, deep drive and a muffled roar against her shoulder, he spilled into her, his huge frame shuddering and locking as he held himself deep. For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the settling of the shelves.
Slowly, his weight came to rest against her back, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades. His hand, still resting on her hip, gentled, his thumb making slow, absent circles on her skin. It was this simple, lingering caress that undid her most of all—a tenderness that followed the fury.
It was a touch that spoke of lingering, of afterthought, of a connection that existed beyond the physical need. It was a way she never thought she’d feel again: seen, known, and claimed, not just in lust, but in a quiet, startling aftermath.
They stood like that, joined in the dark, for a suspended minute. The world outside the door—the castle, his duties, her chores—waited like a held breath.
Finally, he softened and slipped from her body. He adjusted his clothes with a few rough, practical movements. She heard the buckle of his belt fasten. She slowly let her skirts fall, the fabric feeling foreign against her skin. Her hands, braced against the shelf, ached.
She turned to face him. In the thin light, his face was flushed, his hair wild. He looked exhilarated and utterly young. He reached out and carefully tucked a loose strand of her hair back behind her ear, just as he had at the sink. The gesture was now infinitely more intimate.
“The salve,” he said, his voice hoarse. “For your hands. You should… you should get it.”
She nodded, unable to form words. He leaned in, kissed her once, softly, on her sweaty forehead. Then he opened the larder door a crack, peered out, and slipped into the empty scullery without a backward glance.
The blade of morning light cut across the floor, illuminating motes of dust and flour swirling in the sudden disturbance. Elspeth leaned against the shelves, her legs still unsteady. The scent of sage and sex hung thick in the air. From the courtyard outside, she heard the distant call of a hawker, the world marching on. She took a deep, trembling breath, and reached for the small ceramic pot on the high shelf. Her hands, for the first time all morning, did not hurt at all.