The Pirate of Fathoms Deep (5 page)

Even two steps away from killing him, Lesto was still breathtaking. Shemal might have a problem, but he couldn't bring himself to care right then. He had too much else to be worried about. Like being completely honest. He was infinitely more comfortable with lies and half-truths. But the idea of hurting Lesto again was unbearable. "It wasn't a matter of bragging rights. You're not
that
special."

Lesto's eye narrowed, and Shemal could feel the muscles in his arms flex and tense.

"I was scared, all right?" Shemal continued hastily. "I'm a worthless pirate and I
punched
you. I've been places where people like me would be arrested or even killed for looking too long at someone like you. But there you were, sneaking me away, and—" He swallowed, throat suddenly feeling scraped raw. "I think I was allowed to panic a bit. I never—I never said anything. To anyone. It wasn't about that. I punched you just to see what you'd do. I never expected the rest. It never even occurred to me it was possible until it happened."

Lesto stared at him, gray eye intent, his frown as fierce as a hurricane. Shemal loved and hated that they were the same height. It would be so much easier to look away if he were shorter or taller.

Finally Lesto gave a soft huff and pulled away. Disappointment twisted through Shemal like sharp thorns—but it burst into shock and relief when Lesto yanked him in and kissed him like he had the first time. All at once, nothing held back, like a wave crashing over a ship and knocking over the sailors not smart enough to anchor themselves.

Shemal whined, high and sharp and needy, fisting his hands in Lesto's tunic as he kissed back like a man lost at sea who'd finally found land. The most frightening part of Lesto was that
anchor
and
land
were exactly how he'd felt from the moment he'd taken Shemal's punch and met it with laughter and admiration. Like he could take whatever was thrown at him and never break or give up. Why that was so heady, Shemal didn't feel like figuring out.

He'd rather sink deeper into the kiss, wrap his arms around Lesto, and enjoy relearning all the little things he hadn't been able to forget for the past year and a half. Mother Ocean knew he'd tried. Even after days of mistreatment and endless walking, Lesto still had appeal. The warmth of his mouth, the rough scrape of his facial hair, the deft, knowing fingers that twined in Shemal's hair, and the way he didn't protest in the slightest when Shemal took control of the kiss, plundering that willing mouth like it was the last thing he'd ever do.

Drawing back, voice more ragged than he liked, Shemal said,
"Mercy of the sea, you're
more distracting than I remember."

"I don't understand half of what you're saying," Lesto replied with a faint, shockingly pretty smile. "I suppose I'll have to learn."

If Shemal had thought his heart was beating madly before, he was proven horribly wrong. He mustered a scoff. "Mainlanders aren't good enough or smart enough to speak the language of the nine seas."

"There are ten seas."

"Apparently Mainlanders can't count, either," Shemal retorted, a grin overtaking his face. "Why you split the Heart of the Sea—"

"It's called—" Lesto broke off, shook his head. "Never mind. Stop distracting me. Can I dare hope you're not going to run away again?"

Shemal rolled his eyes and slowly let go of Lesto, missing the feel of him the very moment it was gone. "Where would I go? No ship will have me, I just pissed off a whole lot of dangerous people by taking you from them, and I can hardly drag all my problems home. If I try, my father will turn me into
shark bait.
"

"That's a term I actually know," Lesto replied. "Come on, you were right in that this really isn't the time or place."

"Then why did you bring it up instead of waiting until we reached a safer place?"

"Because it was driving me mad." Lesto looked away then sighed and added, "I wasn't certain you'd stay around long enough once you'd dumped me off. I just wanted—no, needed—to know."

Shemal's chest felt so tight he was half-afraid something was going to pop. "My mother always warned me I would get exactly what I deserved one day."

Lesto's brow furrowed. "What?"

"Nothing," Shemal said, face heating. "So what am I supposed to do now?"

"Come back to Harkenesten with me, and we'll figure out the rest from there," Lesto replied gruffly. "Promise you won't vanish on me again."

Shemal swallowed, gave a jerky nod. "I promise."

That got him another genuine smile. It lit up Lesto's face, brought more silver to his eye, made him look younger.

Yeah, Shemal was definitely getting exactly what he deserved. After almost four decades of never holding still, he'd managed to stumble across someone who made him forget how to move.

He was probably going to panic later when he could no longer avoid thinking about it, but for the moment, it was as easy as moving with a tide to steal another kiss before falling into step beside Lesto as they continued their journey.

The village came into view as the sun was nearly set, a small cluster of mud and grass houses, a couple made of actual stone in the middle of the loose circle they formed. Lesto could smell roasting meat and bread on the air, and the evening breeze blew thin trails of smoke all about.

He'd never been so happy to see civilization in his life. He was dirty, hungry, exhausted, and stretched thin to the point of tearing. The only things keeping him together were one, the knowledge that in one more day, two at the most, he would be back in the fold of the imperial army and in control again.

Two was Shemal, who'd gone from a sour memory to awkward reunion to a heady rekindling of hopes Lesto had tried his damnedest to stamp out. Shemal, who'd promised not to run away again and agreed to return to Harkenesten Palace with him.

Lesto had never minded his life the way it was, had always, in fact, been perfectly happy with it and would have continued to be so, whatever memories occasionally haunted his dreams. But he couldn't deny he enjoyed the idea of Shemal becoming a part of it. Something about him tugged at Lesto to the point of madness. Made thoughts of retirement and settling down and family more solid.

"I smell food," Shemal said with a groan. "Thank the
mashta
ocean."

Lesto smiled faintly. Shemal and Allen would probably get along, though it would probably take some time for Shemal to feel comfortable around Allen. "I think the only thing I want more is a bath and clean clothes."

Shemal glanced over his shoulder and flashed a small, faintly shy grin that Lesto could just see in the fading light. "You arrange the bath and food; I'll do something about clothes."

"Deal," Lesto said, and as they reached the center of the village, he split off toward the scraggly little tavern that even the smallest villages tended to have because it was a place for locals to gather, and where travelers would flock and make keeping an eye on them simple. There was no inn, but arranging to bed down in a stable or storeroom wouldn't be hard.

He stripped off his filthy Fathoms Deep tunic so he wouldn't draw too much attention, as the people after them could come looking at any time. Tucking it beneath his undertunic, wedged at the small of his back, he stepped inside. The tavern smelled like shepherd stew and the dark, nutty bread common in Gearth, a bit like smoke underscored by the odor of sweat that existed wherever people gathered often over a long period of time.

It took only minutes to flag down the tavern owner and arrange for baths and food, as well as secure a place they could sleep for the night. Once he'd handed over coin, given to him earlier in the day by Shemal, he headed out the back door of the tavern and down a short hall to where the bathing room was located.

As in most places in Gearth, bathing was a public thing. In cities, there were large, ornate halls with giant pools of hot and cold water. Here, there was probably a nicer bathing house for the village and this smaller, simpler one for the rare traveler.

But it was clean and well-cared for, had a deep bathing pool, a large washing area with plenty of soap, rags, and razors, and the other side had stacks of clean towels. It was very far from the worst he'd seen in a long life of soldiering.

He stripped off his filthy clothes and threw them in a bin meant for garbage. The only thing he retained was his eyepatch, which he carefully scrubbed clean and set aside to dry. When that was done, he set to work on the rest of him. He scrubbed down twice then shaved and trimmed his hair, sadly neglected while he was preoccupied with the ship.

After that, he gave himself a final scrubbing, and by the time he'd rinsed off, he almost felt human again. Reaching up, Lesto touched the ruins of his right eye, destroyed by an assassin's dagger in a swift, brutal, dark-of-the-night fight. Every now and then, on the longest, hardest days, he still woke up remembering the pain, or momentarily confused that something didn't feel right.

The injury wasn't pleasant to look upon either, but hopefully it wouldn't be so off-putting that he lost the pirate he'd just gotten back.

He slid into the bath with a long groan, settled on a bench, and let his head rest against the high edge. Against his chest, gleaming beneath the water, were his rings: the Fathoms Deep signet and the ring of the Imperial High Commander.

Picking them up, he ran his thumb over the Fathoms Deep ring, which bore the skull and swords, and on either side of the band were compasses. Framing the skull was a circle, the top half a string of coordinates, the bottom half the family motto in a shorthand version of formal Harken.

He dropped the rings again, sank deeper into the water with another groan.

"I think I'm insulted that hot water gets more responses out of you than I ever did."

Lesto laughed. "The hot water isn't under arrest and in danger of being caught at any moment." He sat up and twisted around to look at Shemal. "You'll get your chance once we're clean and fed."

Shemal's eyes widened then sharpened with an eager, hungry look. Almost as gratifying was the way he seemed to pay no mind at all to Lesto's damaged eye. If it bothered him, Lesto hadn't noticed.

And then he forgot what he was thinking about as Shemal stripped and all that lovely, colorful skin was bared.

Lesto's heart jumped into his throat when he saw the tattoo on Shemal's abdomen that definitely had not been there the last time he'd seen Shemal. The Fathoms Deep crest. Lesto's crest. "When did you get that?" he asked softly.

Shemal flushed. "After I finished my pardon service. I—I wanted to be respectable, so I wouldn't have to be a dirty secret. The tattoo was a reminder of why I was trying."

Lesto made a rough, ragged noise. "You were always respectable. Given my family lineage, I'd have a lot of nerve taking issue with a pirate. And the imperial army has done much the same things as pirates, mercenaries, and smugglers—the only difference is that we do it with permission. Get clean."

Shemal obeyed with surprising meekness, scrubbing as thoroughly as Lesto had before finally joining him in the water. He settled close by, reached up slowly to rest his fingers against Lesto's scars. "You rather look like a pirate yourself. There's not a one of us who isn't marked up somewhere." He grimaced faintly.

Probably over the scars on his back—not as extensive and horrible as the ones on Allen's back, but nothing to scoff at either. The only 'kindness' granted to Shemal in his whipping was that it had been done by an expert doing a job, not some cretin enjoying the power and suffering.

"Well, it's an improvement on accusing me of fucking my mother," Lesto said with a faint smile.

Shemal laughed and didn't look even a bit sorry.

Lesto was no rude, impatient youth eager to get off at every opportunity. The very idea of trying to act that way was exhausting. The chance to savor a few kisses, to be close for a little while—that idea was infinitely appealing. Lesto lifted his own hand as Shemal's fell away, rested his fingertips against Shemal's cheek.

Shemal drew a sharp breath. "It-it feels wrong to call you Commander, but I don't think I've ever used your name."

Lesto huffed a soft laugh. "Use it now." He didn't give Shemal a chance to do so, however, but closed the remaining distance between them and kissed him. Softly. Slowly. Leisurely. No desperate haste. No biting anger. Shemal tasted salty and sweet, reminiscent of the taffies Lesto had eaten incessantly as a child.

That was the only childlike comparison to be made, however. As Lesto vividly remembered from the day he'd surrendered to a dangerous impulse and snuck Shemal into an empty room, pulled him to the floor, and all but demanded that Shemal fuck him.

In retrospect, it wasn't hard to see why Shemal had panicked and made assumptions about what Lesto was planning to do.

Fingers fluttered against his chest, and Shemal drew back just enough to breathlessly whisper, "Lesto."

Lesto groaned. "Shemal. I didn't even know your name."

Shemal drew back a bit further, eyes the color of a summer sea. "I was always sorry about that. I would have liked for you to know."

"I know now." Lesto leaned in to kiss him again, drawing it out, determined to memorize every last little thing about the way Shemal felt and tasted and kissed. They stopped only when their growling stomachs became impossible to ignore. Withdrawing with a quiet laugh, Lesto said, "Let's go eat."

Shemal smiled and stood. Lesto reached out, helpless against the need to touch the beautiful tattoo. "I like it."

Snickering, capturing his hand and keeping it firmly against his abdomen, Shemal said, "A fancy lordling commander likes to see me wearing his mark, fancy that."

Lesto flinched, jerked his hand away, and stood. "Sorry, that wasn't—" He broke off and turned to climb out—and bellowed when Shemal yanked him back and sent him splashing into the water. Clambering up, sloughing water, Lesto glared. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"Because I can," Shemal said with a grin. "Because you won't punish me for it. Also it's irritating when you try to run off."