Page 82 of Heart of Winter
Oliver blinked, eyes refocusing, and saw Erik lift a glance up at his general, expression sliding from fervent want to steady, businesslike hardness in a moment. His hands shifted to Oliver’s waist – but, still, he did not let go, not even in front of Bjorn. His grip tightened, a steadying squeeze that kept Oliver on his feet, and grounded, when every instinct told him to run and hide. They’d been caught! But Erik didn’t seem to care about that. If anything, he pulled him in closer, snugging him up against his chest. “Where?” he asked Bjorn.
“North gate. I’ll show you.”
Erik sighed. But said, “Fine. Give us a minute, and we’ll join you.”
We.
Oliver listened to Bjorn’s booted footfalls retreat – he’d been too caught up, his pulse pounding too hard to notice his approach, before.
His pulse was still pounding, but it was fueled by fear, now.
“Erik,” he whispered, throat threatening to close, fingertips digging into Erik’s chest.
“Shh.” Erik kissed his forehead, lingering there, and petted Oliver’s ribs with slow sweeps of his palms. “It’s all right.”
“But he–”
“Bjorn is my oldest and best friend.” Erik pulled back and caught his eye, his expression one at war: jaw set with determination, clenched in anticipation of some new problem. But eyes so gentle, and soft. Reassuring. He lifted a hand to cup Oliver’s jaw. “Don’t worry on his account.”
He waited, holding his gaze until Oliver finally let out a shaky breath and managed a nod.
“Come. Let’s go and see.”
They climbed out of the water and made use of the towels waiting on the bench. Erik had a dressing gown there, a crimson one resplendent with silver embroidery. He pulled it on, and, when Oliver fumbled with his own, turned to pull it snug across his front and secure the belt for him.
Oliver’s hands were shaking. “If we go out there – together – people will know. They’ll know what we were – doing.”
“Let them know.” Erik offered him a smile that was more ferocious than reassuring. “Come.”
There was nothing to do but follow.
Bjorn waited just beyond the corner, standing with arms folded, huge and imposing. Oliver imagined he looked disapproving, but he fell right into step with Erik and said, in a low voice, “We’ve caught the bugger this time.”
“You have? Good. Whose man is he?”
“He won’t say, but wait until you see how he’s dressed.”
The baths weren’t nearly as crowded as they’d been, but a few bathers lingered, lounging and chatting quietly. All of them spotted the king, heads turning to follow his progress, which meant all of them spotted Oliver, too. There was no mistaking the narrow glances he received, nor the way friends leaned together to whisper to one another.
Erik and Bjorn marched on, heedless, and Oliver hastened to keep up, face flaming.
The dressing room wasn’t empty – but Bjorn turned to the two gray-haired men sitting and gabbing on a bench and barked, “Get out.” He was completely transformed from the jovial figure who’d met Oliver and Tessa on the pier that first day.
The men scrambled to comply, and Bjorn took up a post in the doorway, arms still folded, shoulder braced against the wall.
Erik went for his clothes, and Oliver did the same, tugging them on with nervous, trembling fingers.
“He was caught in the act, then?” Erik asked, and Oliver’s heart stopped.
The thief, he reminded himself, with a mental shake, and laced up his tunic.
Bjorn said, “Aye. He’d picked the lock, and the tools still in his hands when my boys found him. He’s refused to tell us anything.”
“Where is he now?”
“The cells.”
Oliver tugged on his second boot, and made to slip away.
