Merrick gritted his teeth as spasms of reflected delight ran down his spine. Whatever the young Pretender was doing, he was doing it very well. Knowing these things about another man was awkward, and it was something that had not been covered in any novice class he could remember.
He should have been thinking about the task ahead: what they were going to say to the Arch Abbot, how exactly they were going to find the Grand Duchess—anything at all but the physical pleasures his partner was indulging in. However, the only thoughts Merrick could muster were along a similar vein. The curve of Nynnia’s soft neck, the swell of her breasts beneath her bodice, the long, tapered length of her fingers, the . . .
He swayed sideways and smacked his knee into the wood of the halyards; it was not entirely accidental.
“Merrick.” Nynnia clutched him to her, completely negating any advantages from the momentary pain.
He wanted to turn and kiss her—certainly he had already, but he knew if he felt her soft lips beneath his, there would be no going back. He wasn’t about to satiate desires based on Sorcha’s—that felt wrong, and a disservice to Nynnia.
Merrick jerked away as Kyrix hobbled toward them. The old man was slowly recovering from the beating he’d received at the hands of the Prior, but his eyes were still weary.
He nodded to the Deacon, but clasped Nynnia’s hand in his own. His fingers on hers were white and almost shaking. “Daughter, I would speak to you.” His gaze darted almost resentfully to Merrick. “Alone.”
“Father, I—”
“Please, Nynnia.”
The woman straightened, kissed the back of his hand and allowed herself to be led forward beyond the range of everyday ears. The expression on Kyrix’s face tempted Merrick to strain his trained senses further, but he heard the snap of boots on the wood behind him.
Captain Revele was striding along the gangway toward him. With Sorcha occupied, the officer turned to Merrick for instruction—not that there had been much required. The young fleet officer’s short dark hair ruffled in the winds that drove her ship, and her lips were slightly pursed. Beautiful, full lips that—
Merrick cursed the Bond, and tried once again to concentrate on his throbbing knee. “Captain,” he managed to mutter, “is there a problem?”
“No, not at all,” Revele tucked her hands behind her back. “In fact, we are drawing up on Vermillion.”
“Two days?” Merrick glanced over the edge of the dirigible. “Very impressive.”
“Summer Hawk is one of the fastest in the fleet, and we have encountered fortunate wind . . .” Her voice trailed off
“Is there a problem, Captain?” Merrick pushed his hair out of his eyes with one hand.
“Well”—Revele glanced down at her boots—“I was wondering which dock you wanted us to make for—there are several in Vermillion we can choose.” She leveled a knowing look at Merrick. “Depending on how . . . obvious you want to make your arrival.”
Most captains of the fleet were not known for their tact, yet Revele had obviously recognized Raed as the Young Pretender. She was as subtle as possible, but was letting Merrick know that she knew.
The Deacon cleared his throat, wishing that Sorcha were standing at his side. She might not be diplomatic, but she had a certain commanding presence. “Our mission is . . . sensitive.” He smiled a little at this choice of words. “So the less obvious, the better. In fact, if you could possibly—”
“Make an excuse for diverting from Flight Central?” Revele asked him directly. She tapped her finger on the top button of her uniform. “Summer Hawk is due for a ballast refit. It wouldn’t be a lie, and it doesn’t directly affect my orders.”
“The Order would appreciate your tact.” Merrick leaned forward, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, “And if you could talk to your crew as well.”
The Captain let out a long sigh and looked at him through narrowed eyes. “My crew know how to keep secrets, but you won’t have very long, even if I do all these things. The outpost commanders submit their logs at the end of the month, a few days from now. Once they reach Vermillion, the General will be informed of your”—she shot a glance in the direction of the cabins—“traveling companions.”
The old commander at Ulrich had undoubtedly recognized Raed, and that could make things very tricky. The Emperor would be very interested to know that the Pretender to his throne was in Vermillion. If what Sorcha said was true, then the man that they had all put their trust in was corrupt beyond any understanding. Merrick’s fists clenched unconsciously at his sides as he contemplated what that would mean for the Empire.
Revele was watching the clouds, sensing a change in wind; perhaps like the namesake of her ship. “We’ll land at the Imperial Air Fleet repair facilities, then—not many troops or officers about. They’re not likely to want to get their hands dirty.”
“We understand, Captain. Thank you for all you have done for us.” He gave a little bow, the most a Deacon was permitted to give to any not of the Order. “Now I must go and inform my partner that we are nearly at our destination.”
A tight knot was growing in his belly, even as he watched Nynnia kiss her father on the cheek and walk back toward him, alone. When they’d set off for the dirigible depot, she had insisted on coming along with them, and no one—not even Sorcha—had been able to deny her. Taking her hand in his, Merrick pressed it. She was wearing gloves against the cold, and he would have loved to feel her skin; flesh-to-flesh contact was always best.
Flesh. A warmth began to spread from the base of his spine, fanning out through nerve endings that weren’t his own.
“Merrick,” Nynnia asked softly, “are you quite all right?”
He was more than all right, more than any normal person could possibly understand. He nodded shortly, not willing to risk opening his mouth, just in case a groan came out instead of anything sensible.
“Well,” she began, pulling him further in the direction of the cabins, “we should go immediately and let Deacon Faris know we’re about to land. Father told me we are close.” Seeing her expression, Merrick wondered if that was the only thing her father had told her, but he refused to pry.
Nynnia was quite possibly the only one who did not know how his partner had been spending the last few days. Merrick stayed her hand, contemplating the reflected waves of enjoyment racing along the Bond. He cleared his throat. “In a minute. I think we should wait just a few minutes.”
Raed heard the knock on the door, lifted his head with a sigh and glanced across at Sorcha. The Deacon, out of her armor and cloak—in fact, completely naked—looked incredibly beautiful and uncharacteristically vulnerable. She was curled in the bed, bronze curls in a tangled mass against her white back, still glistening with a sheen of sweat. Her lips, even asleep, were curved in a faintly satisfied smile. An artist could not have painted a better picture of a woman relaxed and satiated. She did not look like a woman who could challenge geists and dare the Otherside, yet it gave him a curious thrill to know that was exactly what she was capable of.
His thoughts ran to the past two days—the most enjoyable of his life. Even a Pretender had a chance at a throne, and there had been plenty of nobles who had thrown their daughters at him—at least, before the onset of the Curse. As a young man, he had enjoyed his fill of them. He could find no memory, however, to match the Deacon. The situation was filled with complications, and yet he had no regrets—save that she could not be his. But that was the truth of it.
The knock came again, more insistent this time. Snapping away from the tinge of melancholy that had snuck up on him, he slid out of the bed. Wrapping the sheet around his waist, he walked to the door, twisting his neck slightly to alleviate a crick.