Chapter Text
For reasons unexplained, Daine and Numair are on the road in the guise of common travelers, and it’s imperative that no one in their camp find out that they’re together.
Although, really, Daine wonders . . . is it truly “imperative”? They’ve found their way out of more than a few nasty predicaments before. They’re quick on their feet; if they’re found out, well, they’ll find their way out. And if Numair weren’t just so enjoyable a man to tease . . .
She catches him in the early morning as he stands next to his bedroll, still shirtless. A few of the other men strewn in bedrolls nearby are half-dressed as well, each at their own point in the daily routine of waking, and stretching and yawning, and unfolding, and sitting up straight, and then finally, when it becomes clear that returning to sleep is no longer a viable option, standing and heading over to the latrine or the cook-fire. A constellation of bodies on the ground in various states of wakefulness, most wakeful and chattering, and none of interest to her but the one.
Numair is rummaging in his pack when she strides over, her eyes locked (as they shouldn’t be) only on him. Their plan had been to act indifferent to one another, enduring benign neglect for as long as it took for their group to reach their destination. Now Numair lifts his head as Daine approaches, his eyebrows raised in a question. She isn’t supposed to know him; is something up?
Daine comes to a stop a touch closer to him than a stranger would. “The girls’ camp bet me a copper to come talk to you. We gathered you’re shy. A pity for a man of your looks, or so says Emmeline.”
He remains silent as he watches her, eyes hard.
“You might as well come over to talk with us, see who you connect with.” She reaches out—suddenly, now that her body is involved, feeling almost tentative again—almost—and presses a hand to the hard of his chest. “The Garazo say you can tell someone’s disposition just by feeling their heartbeat, for example.”
Numair keeps his eyes trained on hers as he reaches up to gently grasp her wrist in his hand and pull it back to linger in the space between them. “My people choose to wait until we know someone before we touch them.”
“Oh? And who might your people be, exactly?”
“That’s a topic for another time. Mistress Casser.”
Daine rocks back, smiling impishly. “Well, I could learn to appreciate that practice. The anticipation . . . ” Her eyes flick down to his chest, then back up to catch his gaze again. “It would amplify the eventual thrill, wouldn’t it?”
“Are we moving toward a thrill?”
He breaks her gaze then, dropping her wrist and reaching a hand back into his bag to pull that sought-out item, his shirt, from his pack. He swings it over his shoulders and neck. “Because I think it’s about time for the morning meal. I heard Rudolphe is making pan-cakes.”
Her peripheral vision snaps back to her, banal details breaking in to deflate their tension. Bodies, grass, woods, cookfire. Rudolphe and pan-cakes. Gods burn it, he does this on purpose.
She scowls, pouting, as he trots off toward the cookfire without her. They don’t know each other, then, fine. For another spell.
______
He catches her next that night, when they have a chance to be alone.
Not for that.
“What were you thinking?” He hisses.
The tone surprises her. She’s unsure if he really is irritated, or just determined to hew to their prearranged rules.
“It’s so dreary here.” She hears the whine in her voice as he fiddles with the magic extending their camp’s protective spell. “We have another fortnight before we make it to Renton. And I miss you. I thought it’d be fun.”
He lifts his head suddenly so his face is next to hers. “And would you stop, if I said to stop?”
She starts. “Of course.”
He continues to watch her, searching her eyes.
(She likes this too, about him. He spends so much time thinking, sometimes he lets her have two turns.)
She speaks again. “Are you telling me to stop?”
______
His eyes flick down to her chest.