Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [80]
Her hand cupped his groin, and he groaned, partly in pleasure, and partly in dismay. She began kissing his neck, holding her lips for a moment on his collarbone. He ran his hands along her spine, noting the suppleness in her aging skin. You can mix gain and pleasure so long as you’re doing things right. He was now pushed against the window frame, the glass chilling his back. Her hand continued to work on him, perhaps a little too eagerly.
Oh please, not a fourth time …
To the bed again, sliding his hands along her legs, his tongue licking feverishly from her ankles to her thigh, until she couldn’t stop groaning. The soft light from the window—the heavenly display—enhanced every curve of her body, smoothed every line of aging. At an agonizingly slow pace, Randur’s mouth advanced across her body. She groaned ecstatically, her fingertips gripping the bedsheets.
A thumping at the door.
Randur stared into her startled eyes.
Bugger. He whispered, “Who is it?”
“How should I know?”
Thumping again. A voice shouted, “Lady Yvetta, this is Anton!”
Yvetta whispered, “My husband’s brother.”
Shit, Randur thought, immediately checking for an obvious escape route. The window, the exit of so many a lover in the night, seemed an appropriate choice.
“I know you’re in there, Yvetta,” the voice continued. “I was brought news that you entered your chamber in the company of some young man. I can’t allow our family name to be disgraced in this way.”
“Nonsense,” she shrilled. “I’m utterly alone.”
Randur leaped off the bed, threw on his shirt and breeches.
Yvetta hurried over to the door to intercede.
While she wasn’t looking, he flipped a couple of bracelets from the dresser into his pocket.
“There’s no one here, Anton. Really,” she protested.
“Let me in to see for myself,” the voice said.
“Give me a moment,” she said. “I must make myself decent.”
Randur, meanwhile, had alternative concerns: “Where’s my other fucking boot? Oh.” He grabbed it, fled to the window, opened it silently then stepped out on the balcony. Before he closed the window again, he blew her a final kiss, and whispered, “When you next read some sweet stanza, think of me, as I will of you, my love.” She returned his gaze with a look of anxious foreboding.
It was a freezing cold night. Colors still drifted across the sky, but there was no time to appreciate the view. With one of his boots still in his hand, he emptied its contents and pocketed the jewelry.
As the sound of raised voices came from within Lady Fol’s room, Randur quickly shoved his boot on, leaped to the next balcony with his dancer’s agility, then climbed up to the roof. There must, he reflected, be easier ways to acquire some money. Careful not to slip to his death on the icy stonework, he edged along until he came upon an emergency spiral staircase. He descended it quickly, then jumped out onto the street.
“Evening,” he greeted a couple walking by, waving while he began to button his shirt. “Lovely night, isn’t it?”
Commander Brynd Lathraea stared up at a sky fragmented into color, vivid streaks of red and green drifting across the darkness like sheets of rain. They had been back on the island of Jokull for a day, and they had stationed further up the coast. Another hour or two for them to get to Villjamur, but after Dalúk Point he was painfully aware of how badly their plans might be kept secret. They had then camped for the next night a fair distance up the coast.