Chapter 4: Hey there Delilah
The latch clicked shut with a sound like a falling stone. Kerr stood with his back to the thick oak door, the silence of the room pressing in, broken only by the low crackle of the hearth and the faint, rapid sound of Delilah’s breathing. The air smelled of old parchment, woodsmoke, and her lavender scent, which now carried a sharp, nervous edge.
He breathed slow, deliberate, watching her. Her earlier defiance had crystallized into a tense, focused energy. She didn’t wait. She closed the distance between them, her hands moving with that same practical efficiency she’d used to set down the tray. Her fingers found the buckle of his leather jerkin, worked the tongue free with a soft scrape of metal.
“Quiet,” she whispered, though he hadn’t spoken.
He let his head tilt back against the door, watching her through half-lidded eyes as she pushed the jerkin open, then grasped the hem of his linen shirt. She pulled it up, exposing the taut planes of his abdomen, the dark trail of hair leading downward. Her clinical assessment was gone, replaced by pure, raw curiosity. She swallowed, her throat working.
Her hand, cool and dry, slipped past the waistband of his breeches. Her fingers encountered him, soft against the coarse hair. Then she wrapped her hand around him.
Her eyes, fixed on his, widened instantly. It wasn’t theatrical shock. It was a pure, physical recalibration. Her fingers couldn’t meet. Her thumb pad barely touched the tip of her middle finger. She adjusted her grip, tried again. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her lips—part gasp, part acknowledgment.
“Stories,” he murmured, the word a low rumble.
She looked up at him, her breath coming faster now. “We must be quick,” she said, her voice tight. “My father’s meeting cannot last forever.”
“Then don’t dawdle,” he said, a flicker of his old mischief returning.
It was all the permission she needed. She sank to her knees on the worn rug, the fine blue fabric of her dress pooling around her. There was no artful seduction in it, no practiced grace. It was a functional movement. She freed him fully, pushing his breeches down just enough. In the firelight, the reality of his size was undeniable, a thick, heavy weight in her hands.
She leaned forward, her dark hair obscuring her face. Her first touch of her tongue was tentative, experimental. Then she took him into her mouth, not with deep, languorous skill, but with a determined, furtive suction. It was workmanlike, almost urgent, her goal clear: to get him ready. Her jaw strained, her lips stretched taut. A flush spread from her chest up her neck.
Kerr let out a slow, controlled breath, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. He watched the top of her head, the concentration in the set of her shoulders. It was profoundly unromantic. It was also intensely arousing.
After a minute, she pulled back, gasping for air, a string of saliva breaking. She looked up, her lips swollen, eyes glassy. “Now,” she panted.
She stood, shaky, and turned her back to him. Her fingers fumbled with the fastenings at the back of her dress. “Help me,” she commanded, her voice rough.
He reached out, his large hands making quick work of the laces she couldn’t reach. The dress loosened. She shoved it down over her shoulders, along with her shift, until her back was bare to the waist, the curve of her hips pale in the dim light. She bent forward, bracing her hands on the edge of his heavy oak desk. Maps and letters crinkled under her fingers.
“Hurry,” she whispered.
He stepped behind her, his own need a sharp, pressing thrum. He guided himself with one hand, the other settling on the flare of her hip. She was tight, unready, clenching with anxiety. He pushed in slowly, feeling her body resist, then yield. A sharp, choked cry was bitten off into a groan against her arm. Her knuckles whitened on the desk.
He didn’t ask if she was okay. Her body answered, tightening around him in a vice-like grip. He began to move, shallow at first, then deeper as she arched back against him, a low, continuous moan now vibrating through her. Her clinical curiosity was gone, incinerated by sensation.
Her first orgasm came quickly, a sudden, convulsive tightening around him that made her jerk and cry out, her head dropping between her shoulders. He kept his rhythm, steady and deep, the long, slow strokes she couldn’t have anticipated. Just as the shudders began to subside, he angled his hips, changing the pressure.
A second, sharper cry was torn from her, her body bowing again. This climax was different, a rolling wave that stole her breath, leaving her gasping. She was trembling violently, her arms barely holding her up. “I can’t—,” she slurred.
“You can,” he gritted out, his own control fraying. The sight of her, the noble daughter brought so utterly low by simple, raw feeling, was intoxicating.
A third peak seized her almost immediately after the second faded. This one was silent, a series of internal, pulsating clenches that milked him relentlessly. Her legs gave way. He caught her weight with an arm around her waist, holding her up, never breaking his stroke.
It was fast, efficient, and devastating. Her climaxes stacked upon each other, a chain reaction he’d ignited. With a final, deep thrust, he spent himself inside her, a rough groan escaping his throat. For a moment, they stayed locked together, her body slack against his, both breathing in ragged, shattered unison.
The only sounds were the fire and their slowing breaths. He carefully eased out of her, holding her steady as her knees threatened to buckle. She righted her dress with clumsy, shaking hands, not looking at him. The porcelain composure was shattered, replaced by a dazed, raw vulnerability.
She straightened slowly, the fine wool of her dress whispering as it settled back into place. Her hands came up to smooth her hair, fingers trembling only slightly now. When she finally turned to face him, the vulnerability was being tucked away, piece by piece, behind a growing, incredulous smile.
“Well,” she breathed, the word laden with a world of re-evaluation. A faint, rosy flush colored her cheeks and throat, visible even in the fire’s low light. She let out a soft, astonished laugh, shaking her head as she looked at the floor between them. “The stories were… incomplete.”
Kerr fastened his breeches, a slow, satisfied ease spreading through his limbs. Seeing her like this, unguarded and visibly satiated, erased the last of his own tension. “Curiosity satisfied, my lady?” he asked, his tone gentle, lacking its earlier edge.
“For the moment,” she said, her smile turning wry as she met his eyes. She took a steadying breath, her shoulders settling. “I should… my father will be looking for me. To discuss the wedding I’m apparently having.”
He nodded, moving to the door and unlocking it with a quiet click. The castle’s ordinary sounds rushed in—distant footsteps, the faint echo of voices from the hall below. It was a return to the world of duty and arrangement. He pulled the door open just a crack, checking the corridor.
“All clear,” he murmured.
Delilah approached, pausing beside him. Her hand rested on his arm for a brief second, a gesture of thanks, of shared secret. “Thank you, Kerr,” she said, her voice low and surprisingly sincere. Then she slipped through the door and was gone, a whisper of blue fabric disappearing down the torchlit hall.
Kerr leaned against the doorframe for a moment, listening to her footsteps fade. The scent of lavender and sex still hung in the air of the room behind him. He felt a loose, uncomplicated happiness. It had been a simple, human moment in a keep filling with political tension.
He closed the door and stretched, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders. Cain, who had been lying like a patient statue outside, pushed his broad head against Kerr’s thigh. “Missed the excitement, did you?” Kerr scratched the mabari’s ears. “Come on. Let’s go check on Oriana. She’ll have a list of complaints as long as my arm by now.”
He left the study, his own footsteps firm on the stone. The encounter with Delilah already felt like a brief, vivid dream, compartmentalized. Ahead lay the waking world: his sister-in-law, the refugees, the endless weight of a teyrn’s hold in waiting. He greeted a passing servant with a nod, his face once more the courteous, responsible mask of the younger Cousland son.
He descended the main staircase, Cain a solid, silent presence at his heel. The weight of the keep settled back onto his shoulders—the muted conversations from doorways, the anxious eyes of the refugees bundled in the Great Hall. The scent of Delilah had been replaced by roasting meat and the omnipresent smell of damp wool and unwashed bodies. He took a shortcut through the lesser-used eastern passage, a narrow corridor lined with storage rooms and pantries.
A door swung open ahead, releasing a cloud of flour-dusted air and the rich smell of simmering broth. Elspeth emerged, balancing a heavy tray of cleaned leeks against her hip. Her hair, mostly gray now, was escaping its practical bun, and a faint sheen of sweat glowed on her brow from the kitchens' heat. She’d been a fixture here since his boyhood, the one who’d slip him an extra honey-cake when he was small and scowling through his lessons.
He remembered sneaking into her quarters years ago, a gangly giant of seventeen, all awkward hands and new-found confidence after a growth spurt that felt like his bones had been stretched on a rack. She’d been widowed, lonely. It had been a fumbling, educational thing that she’d gently guided, her experience a balm to his youthful intensity.
“Elspeth,” he said, his voice warm. “They’re working you to the bone.”
She jumped, nearly dropping the leeks. “Maker’s breath, Master Kerr! Don’t sneak up on an old woman.” But a genuine smile crinkled the corners of her eyes, the familiar one that always made him feel ten years old and welcome. She looked him up and down. “You’ve that look about you. Like a cat that got the cream and the songbird both.”
He just grinned. The corridor was empty save for them, the distant sounds of the keep muffled by thick stone. Daylight, gray and thin from a high window, slanted across the floor. He still had some of it to burn before the inevitable council meeting.
“Tell me the latest gossip from the scullery,” he said, stepping closer as if to hear a secret. His movement was natural, fluid.
In one smooth motion, his hand was on her arm, not grabbing but guiding. His other hand reached past her to push open the door of a narrow linen closet. He turned the step, his body blocking the view from the hall, and pulled her inside with him. It was deft. It was stealthy. The door clicked shut, plunging them into near-total darkness scented with lavender and starch.
“Kerr!” she hissed, but it was more surprise than protest. The tray was wedged between them, the earthy smell of the leeks sharp in the confined space.
“Shhh,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration in the dark. His hands found her waist through her simple work dress, feeling the familiar, solid curves he remembered. Time had been kinder to her body than to her hair. “Just a quick hello.”
She let out a shaky breath that was half a laugh. “You’re impossible. And huge. You take up all the air in here.” But she didn’t pull away. One of her flour-dusted hands came up to rest on his chest.
He bent his head, finding her mouth in the dark. The kiss was familiar, comfortable, a practiced dance. It lacked the frantic charge of his encounter with Delilah, but held a different warmth, a deep-seated knowing. Her free hand went to the front of his breeches, working the laces with an efficiency born of memory. “Still a beast,” she muttered against his lips, her fingers wrapping around him.
“You used to like that,” he whispered, his breath hot in her ear.
“I still do, you great fool,” she said, a husky note entering her voice. She hitched up her skirts, the rough fabric bunching around her hips. There was no preamble, no bending over a desk. In the close dark, he lifted her slightly, her back against the shelves of folded table linens. She wrapped her legs around his hips, her sturdy strength meeting his.
He entered her slowly, giving her body a moment to remember. She was tight, but yielding, a soft, welcoming heat. She buried a gasp in the shoulder of his tunic, her arms clinging to his neck. The rhythm they found was slow, deep, and profoundly intimate, the quiet, wet sounds loud in the confined space. Shelves creaked faintly against the stone with each movement.
Her climax was a quiet, internal trembling, a series of clenched shudders that made her bite the wool over his shoulder to stay silent. He followed soon after, his own release a stifled groan pressed into the crook of her neck. For a long minute, they just stood, pressed together in the dark, breathing each other in—lavender, leeks, sweat, and sex.
Finally, he gently lowered her. Her feet found the floor, her skirts fell. They adjusted their clothing by touch in the absolute dark, the motions routine. Her hand found his face, her thumb brushing his cheek. “You’re a good lad, Kerr,” she whispered, her voice thick with an affection that had nothing to do with what they’d just done. “Even if you’re a terrible distraction.”
He kissed her forehead. “Tell Cook I kept you. Blame it on a rodent in the pantry.”
She snorted, a genuine, quiet laugh. He cracked the door, checked the empty corridor, and slipped out first. A moment later, she emerged, straightening her apron, the tray of leeks once more balanced on her hip. She walked off toward the kitchens without a backward glance, her step perhaps a little lighter.
Kerr turned toward the family quarters, Cain falling in beside him. The interlude had grounded him, stripping away the last lingering haze of Delilah and the political weight. He felt clear, present. He rounded the corner into the main passage outside his brother’s apartments and nearly collided with Oriana. Her arms were crossed, one foot tapping impatiently on the flagstones.
“There you are,” she said, her Antivan accent sharp with exasperation. “I have been looking for you for an hour. The merchant from the docks is complaining about the quartering of his horses, the Rendon girl looks like she’s seen a ghost, and your mother wants to know if we’ve enough barley to see the week through.” Her dark eyes scanned him, missing nothing. “And why do you smell like lavender and kitchen herbs?”
“I’ve been sampling the soaps in the laundry,” Kerr said, the lie effortless. “Also stole a tart. Elspeth caught me in the pantry and I had to listen to a lecture on the economics of honey.” He gave her a weary, brotherly smile. “The lavender’s from the sachets they’re stuffing everywhere for the refugees. Seems we’re preserving their dignity and airing out their fleas.”
Oriana’s posture softened a fraction, the tension in her shoulders releasing into a sigh. She uncrossed her arms. “This is a madhouse. I feel like a innkeeper whose guests have forgotten how to pay.”
“Tell me,” he said, falling into step beside her as she began walking. Cain padded ahead, snuffling at the base of a tapestry. “The merchant first. Is he in the stables now?”
“He is. He claims our grooms are overfeeding his Fereldan Forders, making them lazy.” She shot him a sidelong glance. “His words, not mine. I think he is angling for a discount on his tariffs.”
Kerr nodded. “Standard negotiation. I’ll go charm him, agree the horses look a bit sluggish, and suggest we put them to light work hauling stone for the wall repairs. He’ll suddenly decide our feed is perfectly adequate.” He rubbed his temple. “And the barley? Mother already reconciled the granary ledgers yesterday. We have enough for three weeks, longer if we thin the porridge for the soldiers and supplement with turnips from the southern crofts. The root cellar there is at two-thirds capacity.”
Oriana stopped, looking at him with genuine surprise. “You did read the ledgers.”
“I glance at things,” he said, shrugging. “When I’m not being ambushed by pastry-related morality tales. Now, Delilah.” He kept his voice neutral. “She seemed… strained at breakfast. Howe’s been parading her like a prize bronto. It’s enough to unsettle anyone. Maybe have one of the maids take her some tea, or take her to see the hounds. Distract her from her father’s scheming.”
They reached a junction where a chill draft funneled down from the battlements. Oriana hugged herself against the cold. “And me? My state of being?” she asked, her voice quieter now, the administrative veneer cracking to reveal the loneliness beneath. “You have a list for that, too?”
Kerr stopped, turning to face her fully. The playful glint left his eyes. “No list. But Fergus would skin me if I didn’t ask.” He leaned a shoulder against the cold stone wall.“Really. How are you holding up? It’s just you and Oren in that big suite, with all this noise and fear pressing in. He’s what, seven now? He must be sensing everything.”
Oriana looked down the empty corridor, her lips pressed thin. “He has nightmares,” she admitted, the words a quiet confession. “He hears the refugees crying sometimes. He asks when his father is coming home to make the bad people go away.” A sheen of tears glossed her eyes, but she blinked them back, hard. “I tell him his father and grandfather are protecting us by being away. It feels like a lie some days.”
“It’s not a lie,” Kerr said, his voice low and firm. “If the Blight reaches the coast, Highever is a stocked fortress. They’re trying to stop it from ever getting that far. Oren’s safe here. You’re safe here.” He paused, choosing his words. “You could move to the eastern wing.Fewer echoes. I’ll have a guard posted at the end of the hall, not to lock you in, just… so you hear friendly footsteps.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice for a moment. She reached out and squeezed his forearm, a quick, tight gesture. “Thank you, Kerr. You are a better brother than you pretend to be.”
“Don’t tell anyone. Ruins my reputation.” He pushed off the wall. “Now, point me toward the offended horse-lord. Let’s go convince a man his animals are fat and lazy.”
“The inner courtyard,” she said, gesturing. “And Kerr?” He looked back. “Wash your face. You have a smudge of… something… on your jaw.”
He grinned, wiping at it with his sleeve. “Flour. From the tart. Told you.” He whistled for Cain and strode toward the courtyard, the echo of his boots on stone a steady, deliberate rhythm in the uncertain quiet of the keep.