Chapter 16: Restless Youth
The castle was a different creature before dawn. The grand halls, so full of life and noise mere hours before, lay silent and vast, their shadows pooling in the corners like cold water. Kerr moved through them with the quiet familiarity of a ghost, his footsteps swallowed by thick rugs. The only sounds were the distant, rhythmic snores of a guard by the main gate and the faint scurrying of mice in the walls.
The kitchen, though, was always alive. Even at this hour, the great hearth held a banked fire, its embers pulsing like a sleepy heart. The air was warm and carried the ghost of last night’s feast—roasted meat, yeasty bread, spilled ale—overlaid now with the sharper scent of drying herbs hung from the beams.
Nan was already there. She stood by a central butcher’s block, her back to him, kneading a lump of dough with a steady, practiced rhythm. A single tallow candle burned beside her, its light catching the silver in her hair and glinting off the honed steel of a paring knife laid neatly to the side. She didn’t turn as he entered.
“I heard you prowling,” she said, her voice a soft rasp in the quiet. “Stomping around up there like a discontented bear. Hungry?”
“Always,” Kerr replied, sliding onto a stool at the block. He watched her work, the strong muscles in her forearms flexing as she folded and pressed.
She finished, covered the dough with a cloth, and wiped her hands on her apron. Without a word, she went to the hearth, using a poker to stir the embers to life before adding a few small logs. She placed a heavy iron skillet over the growing flames, then fetched eggs, a slab of bacon, and a heel of cheese from the larder.
The sizzle of bacon hitting hot iron was a profoundly comforting sound. Kerr rested his elbows on the block, the warmth of the fire beginning to seep into his bones. Cain, who had followed him, settled with a sigh by the hearthstone.
“Coffee’s brewing,” Nan said, nodding to a small pot nestled in the edge of the coals. She cracked eggs into the skillet beside the bacon. “You look like you could use a gallon of it.”
“I feel like I could,” he admitted, scrubbing a hand over his face. The residual tiredness wasn’t from lack of sleep, but from the slow return of the castle’s weight settling back onto his shoulders. The freedom of the road, the simplicity of a clear enemy, was gone.
She brought him a steaming, chipped mug first, the bitter, fragrant smell cutting through the grease of the cooking food. He took a long sip, letting the heat and caffeine spear the fog in his head. A moment later, she set a full plate before him: crisp bacon, eggs fried in the fat, a thick slice of cheese, and a chunk of yesterday’s bread.
As he picked up his fork, she moved behind him. Her hands came to rest on his broad shoulders, giving them a firm squeeze. Then one hand slid down, over his chest, past his belt, and gave his cock a playful, knowing squeeze through his breeches.
“You keep sustaining yourself, big boy,” she murmured into his ear, her breath warm. “A man your size needs feeding. In all ways.”
Kerr chuckled around a mouthful of egg. “You’re not wrong.” He took another sip of coffee. “But it’s the ‘all ways’ part that’s the problem. What am I supposed to do, stuck in this castle all day? I try to satisfy the women when I can, but Maker’s breath, I’m constantly hard. It’s like a permanent state of readiness.”
She laughed, a low, rich sound, and returned to the hearth to fetch her own plate. Sitting on the stool beside him, she shook her head. “There’s only so much a woman can take, love. Even the eager ones. You did a number on me last night. I’ll need a week. Maybe less if you’re charming, but still. A body needs to recover.”
He chuckled again, but it was thinner this time, edged with genuine frustration. “So I ask again. What am I supposed to do?”
Nan chewed a piece of bacon thoughtfully, studying his profile in the candlelight. “What they’ll do is marry you off,” she said simply. “Like they did Fergus. Solve the problem neatly. Give you a noble wife and a lifetime of diplomatic bedsport.”
Kerr’s fork paused midway to his mouth. He set it down. “I wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t have a choice, boy. Not really.” She gave him a sidelong glance, her expression turning serious, almost pitying. “You’d better make sure Delilah Howe is aware of that stubborn streak of yours, then.”
He looked at her, truly confused. “Delilah? Arl Howe’s daughter? What does she have to do with anything?”
Nan sighed, as if reluctant to be the bearer of the news. “Your mother and father,” she said quietly. “They’ve been in correspondence with Rendon Howe for months. They plan to arrange a marriage between the two of you. Cement the alliance between Highever and Amaranthine. It’s… well. It’s practically decided.”
Kerr let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders slumping. He stared into the middle distance, past the candle flame, into the shadows of the kitchen. “Oh.”
“You don’t sound pleased.”
“Arl Rendon Howe gives me the creeps,” Kerr said flatly. “He smiles too much. His eyes are like two little stones. And Delilah… she’s what, sixteen? She always looks like she’s smelling something foul, even when she’s curtsying.”
Nan laughed, a full-bodied sound that filled the quiet kitchen. "And you think your brother found his wife's scent so pleasing when it was first decided? Politics rarely cares for pleasant aromas, my boy." She nudged his plate with a knuckle. "Eat. The world is heavier on an empty stomach."
He took a grudging bite, the food suddenly tasting of ashes. "It's not just her. It's the... permanence of it. A lifelong binding to a man I don't trust, through a girl I don't know." He shook his head. "I'd rather face those bandits again. At least that was a clean fight."
"Those bandits are dead," Nan said flatly, her tone shifting. "This is the fight you're bred for. The quiet one in solar rooms and over letters." She studied him, a softer light entering her eyes. "Besides, you've never much liked the girls your own age anyway. All that giggling and drama. You've always had... other tastes."
A slow smile touched Kerr's lips despite his mood. He reached out, his large hand wrapping around her wrist with gentle firmness. He pulled her from her stool and into the space between his knees, her apron brushing against his breeches. "Are you saying I'm predictable?"
She placed her hands on his chest, not pushing away, but holding the space. "I'm saying you like a woman who knows what she's about. A woman who doesn't need pretty words explained to her." Her thumb stroked the linen of his tunic. "A woman with some miles on her."
He leaned in, his forehead nearly touching hers. "Maybe I just like the best teacher I ever had."
Nan laughed softly and gave his chest a light, playful slap before extracting herself from his grasp. She returned to her stool, smoothing her apron. "Flatterer. You'll turn an old woman's head."
She wasn't lying. Kerr's introduction had been through Nan herself, a whispered, guiding hand in the confusing dark when he was fifteen and she was a widowed cook still in her prime. When he’d had the choice since, in darkened castle corners or in town, he'd gone for the miller's wife, a seasoned merchant widow, the armorer's practical sister. Women with laughter lines and capable hands who looked at him, all of him, and saw a man, not a title.
"You put it out of your mind until your parents bring it up," she said, her voice firm again. "No good comes from borrowing trouble. It'll come soon enough."
He nodded, the rebellion in him cooling to a simmer. He finished his breakfast in silence, the simple act of chewing a steadying rhythm. She fetched the coffee pot and refilled his mug, her shoulder brushing his.
They spent the rest of the pre-dawn hour talking softly of nothing. She asked after Cain's cut, told him a silly story about a kitchen maid and a misplaced pie, complained about the price of saffron. He listened, adding a word here and there, his large hands cradling the warm mug. It was easy, this sweetness between them. She was the older nanny who loved his cock and his cum, and he was the dutiful boy who fucked her and filled her good, and in this quiet kitchen, that was a simpler, truer thing than any political match.
Finally, the first grey light began to seep through the high, narrow windows, staining the darkness. Kerr stood, his shadow stretching long and tall across the flagstones. He placed his empty plate and mug in the wash basin.
"Thank you, Nan," he said, his voice low.
"Go on," she whispered, not looking up from where she had begun to roll out the dough. "Your father will be wanting you soon. Try not to look so grim. The day hasn't even started yet."
He gave her shoulder a final squeeze, then turned. Cain rose, stretching, and padded after him. Kerr stepped from the warm, bread-scented kitchen into the chill of the grey stone corridor, the weight of the coming conversation settling back onto his shoulders like a familiar, too-heavy cloak.