Chapter 3: Larder Trouble
The scent of crushed thyme and wet dog hung in the air of the scullery, a pungent counterpoint to the usual kitchen aromas. Kerr crouched on the flagstones, a wet rag in one hand, scrubbing at the last dark smudge of gore left by the mabari’s enthusiastic rat disposal. The hound, Ser Pounce-a-Lot—a name chosen by a seven-year-old Kerr in a fit of irony that had stuck—sat by the door, tongue lolling, thoroughly pleased with himself.
“You’re a menace,” Kerr said to the dog, not unkindly. “And your breath could strip varnish.”
Nan watched from the hearth, her arms crossed over a flour-dusted apron. The firelight softened the lines of her face, catching the amused glint in her eye. “Takes me back, that does. You on your knees, cleaning up after this brute’s mischief. Only you were about yea high.” She held a hand a few feet from the floor. “And the mess was jam, not… rodent.”
Kerr sat back on his heels, surveying the now-spotless floor. “Jam was easier. Less… anatomical.”
“Aye.” Nan uncrossed her arms and stepped closer, her soft-soled shoes whispering on the stone. She handed him a clean towel. “You’ve the touch for it still. A noble’s hands shouldn’t know scrub-water so well.”
“Father says a ruler who’s afraid of grime is a ruler who doesn’t know his lands,” Kerr quoted, drying his hands. He stood, his frame unfolding to its full height, making the spacious larder suddenly seem cramped.
Nan looked up at him, a fond, knowing smile playing on her lips. She reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, a gesture so familiar it carried the weight of years. Her hand lingered for a moment, then trailed down, her knuckles lightly tracing the line of his jaw. Then her gaze dropped, and a different, slyer look entered her eyes.
She closed the small distance between them. Her hand pressed, firm and deliberate, against the front of his breeches, feeling the solid, thickening shape of him through the worn leather. A soft, involuntary sound escaped him, a stifled groan that was half-surprise, half-recognition. He bent his head, his lips finding hers in a kiss that tasted of hearth-smoke and sweet red wine.
When they parted, she was breathless. “Still starving?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
“For you,” she whispered, her fingers working at the laces of his breeches. “Always.” She took his hand, guiding it beneath her apron, over the soft wool of her dress. “Come. Take care of me before you’re off. As you should.” Her smile was a secret shared. “I was your first, after all.”
A memory flashed: a gangly, bewildered giant of a boy, puberty having hit him like a charging bronto, and Nan’s patient, guiding warmth in the hayloft over a decade ago. He obeyed now with the confidence of a man.
His hands went to her hips, lifting her with effortless strength onto the heavy oak table where she rolled dough. Jars of preserved fruit rattled softly. He pushed her skirts up, her skin warm and yielding under his calloused palms. She leaned back, bracing herself, her grip whitening on the table’s edge as he positioned himself and slid into the wet, welcoming heat of her.
The rhythm he set was smooth, practiced, a deep and steady piston stroke that had her gasping into the crook of his neck almost immediately. Her body, strong and seasoned from a lifetime of labor, clenched around him, wave after wave of pleasure breaking over her so swiftly she couldn't catch her breath. “Kerr,” was all she could manage, a choked plea.
His own control began to fray. The slick, hot friction, her muted cries, the illicit thrill of the kitchen around them—it fueled him. His pace quickened, becoming urgent, powerful. She arched against him, her nails digging into his tunic. “Fill me up,” she breathed, a command and a prayer in one.
With a final, shuddering thrust, he did. He spilled into her, a plentiful, warm rush that made her cry out softly, her own climax pulsing around him in continuous, weakening flutters. They stayed like that for a long moment, his forehead against her shoulder, their breathing the only sound in the silent, shadowed larder.
Slowly, he withdrew. She slid from the table, her legs momentarily unsteady. She didn’t hesitate; she sank to her knees before him, taking him in her mouth to gently clean him, her touch tender and proprietary. Then she rose, kissed his cheek, and smoothed his tunic with a practiced hand.
“My dutiful boy,” she murmured, her eyes shining with a complex pride.
He smiled, a real, unguarded expression that softened his youthful severity. He gave her backside a familiar, playful slap through her skirts. “Your dutiful man, Nan.”
“Go on with you,” she chuckled, swatting him away as she straightened her own clothes. “See to your hound. The castle won’t run itself.”
He refastened his breeches, gave Ser Pounce-a-Lot a whistle, and strode from the kitchen. The familiar path to the kennels felt different now; the cool evening air was sharper on his skin, the weight of the castle around him both a burden and a comfort. Nan’s quiet, demanding affection had grounded him, as it always had—a tether to a simpler self, before the full weight of Highever had settled on his shoulders. He walked a little lighter, the ghost of her touch and the taste of her kiss a secret warmth against the gathering dark.