Bad Boy's Bard, page 7
When he’d slipped away after his performance, Niall had been waiting.
“It’s customary, is it not, to offer a bard a pint after a worthy performance?” Niall’s voice held a hint of an Irish lilt, which, for a Welsh fae who’d never forgotten the cruel treatment of Branwen ferch Llŷr by the Irish King Matholwch, should have been off-putting. But instead, it was one more thing—one more forbidden, and therefore exciting, thing about Niall.
“Are you offering then?”
“I am and all. Yon inn serves a decent brew, and if we hurry, we’ll be able to quaff a few before the rest of these thirsty buggers snabble the lot.”
The taproom at the inn was busy but not overly crowded, and Niall led the way to a table in the corner which had been occupied when they’d entered, but which was miraculously free by the time they reached it.
The barman brought them two pints with only a glance from Niall. “Evening, John. Keeping all right?”
“Ach, Niall. That bastard of a baron has nearly stripped us bare again. Taxes.” The barman snorted. “You ask me, them taxes is going to buy another trinket for the blighter’s jewelry box, while half the town is nigh on starving.”
“Is that so? Well, we’ll have to see what we can do about that.” He took a sip of his ale. “Ah. Always the best around, John. You never disappoint.”
“Obliged to ye, Niall.”
“By the way, this is— What was your name again, boyo?”
“Cynwrig. Gareth Cynwrig.”
“Gareth then. Gareth’s a rare bard, John, and we wouldn’t want his throat to get too parched, now, so keep them coming, aye?”
“Welcome to ye, bard. If the ale’s to your liking, perhaps you’d favor us with a tune?”
Gareth smiled at man. “It would be my honor.” He could sing his latest song, the one that would have won him the eisteddfod chair if he’d been unscrupulous enough to pit his bardic magic against human musicians. But here, he could repay the barman, and maybe catch that look of admiration in Niall’s eyes again before he had to move on.
After the song, though, Niall welcomed Gareth back to their table with an arm slung across his shoulder. “That was grand, boyo. But are you after a spot more excitement tonight?”
Gareth swallowed. Is he going to kiss me? Do I want him to kiss me?
But instead of the expected kiss, Niall led him behind the inn to the stables. Is he going to do more than kiss me? Gareth’s mouth went dry with newfound desire. He expected the Voices to mock him for that, since he’d never approached another man, but they were mute, as if Niall’s presence—so big and bold and real—had muzzled them.
But Niall didn’t lead him to the hayloft and the tryst that Gareth was suddenly desperate for. Instead, he nodded to a groom, who led out two horses.
“You can ride, can’t you, bard?”
“It’s Gareth, and yes, I can ride. Better than you, I’ll wager.” That was one thing other than music that he excelled at.
“A wager, eh? You’ve pegged my weakness. I’ll never say nay to one of those.” Niall grinned as he mounted a black stallion with a blaze on its forehead. “What are the stakes?”
Gareth took a moment to whisper to the chestnut mare the groom handed over to him. She flicked an ear back before pressing her head to his chest for him to stroke her neck and mane. Stalling. He could admit it, but if he asked for what he really wanted, and Niall said no, or worse, attacked him for the insult? He mounted, and when he glanced at Niall, his grin had widened, as if he knew what Gareth was thinking.
Gareth took his courage in both hands. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “A kiss.”
Niall’s eyebrows shot up. “A kiss is it? From some comely barmaid?”
“No. From—from you.”
Niall laughed then, a sound that Gareth had longed to try to capture in a melody. “Then, boyo, I hope you outride me for certain.” He pulled a fist-sized bundle out of his saddlebag and tossed it to Gareth. “Once we’re clear of town, put that on. Wouldn’t do for anyone to see that pretty face.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve got my own, never fear. Coming?” He urged his horse to a trot.
Gareth wheeled his own mount and followed Niall out of the stable yard. He’d never stepped a foot out of line before, the responsibility of being the last bard in Faerie weighing him down, reinforcing Arawn’s—and later the Queen’s—refusal to allow him combat training. His hands were too valuable to risk, they said; his voice too precious to break in a battle cry.
But the excitement surging in his veins tonight set off a whole new melody in his soul—bright and martial and a little bit sly.
His heart beat like a bodhran as they nearly flew through the windy night, Niall’s eyes dancing behind his mask, his grin manic in the moonlight when they intercepted the coach.
When the coachman raised his weapon, pointing it square at Gareth’s chest, he ought to have been terrified. Instead he’d never felt more alive. One moment of life before death.
But the gun misfired, and Niall’s order to “Stand and deliver!” met with no more resistance.
The trembling lord handed over his fat purse and stickpin, causing a twinge of guilt in Gareth’s chest. Thievery—the Voices were dismissive of it, all of them having been thieves or worse themselves. For that reason alone, Gareth disapproved on principle.
But then Niall led him back to the village where the lord had just been to collect taxes, returning the money to the villagers, and their gratitude, the lessening of desperation in their faces, wiped out any regret.
Niall had given the stickpin to Gareth, along with the promised kiss. Gareth had had the sapphire made into an earring that he still wore to this day, but the kiss was the greater treasure.
That night, Niall had made love to him for the first time, adding yet another thrill to a day that’d been brim full of firsts.
“Oi. Gareth.” Hamish clunked his glass on the table, jerking his head at the discreet door in the corner of the bar. “You’d best be off before the fight crowds arrive. Wouldn’t want to offend your fae sensibilities.”
“Shut up.” But Gareth slipped out of the booth nonetheless, even though the rest of the band hadn’t yet left the dance floor. David hadn’t texted yet, but Gareth couldn’t stay away any longer. He had to see Niall, make sure he was all right. He tossed a few bills on the table to cover their tab. “See you at rehearsal tomorrow.” He raised his hand in farewell to the others as he left the bar.
The drive back to Hillsboro was interminable despite the lack of traffic this late at night. When he got to the house, he’d barely parked the car in the garage before he was out of it, the last minutes of separation suddenly too much to bear.
He breathed a sigh of relief as he closed the front door behind him. Then he heard the murmur of voices from the guest room. Niall was awake? Had he gotten worse? Why hadn’t David called him?
He strode down the hall and stopped in the doorway, anger warring with anxiety. Niall wasn’t speaking—in fact, his eyes were closed, tremors shaking his body as he moaned. David and Bryce were standing at the foot of the bed, frowning at Niall’s back, which seemed worse than it had been not two hours ago when Gareth had left.
Anger won out over anxiety. “You promised me you’d call if he worsened,” he whispered fiercely. “I’d call this worse.”
David glanced up, his cupid’s bow mouth forming an O of surprise for an instant before he blinked. “Calm down. We’re just about to apply a more potent remedy.”
“You should have called.”
Bryce dug something out of one of the many pockets in his canvas vest. “You’d have gotten here at exactly the same time, so I don’t see the problem.”
“The problem,” Gareth said as he advanced into the room, “is that I should have been here.”
Bryce glanced at Gareth irritably, the harsh words Gareth had flung at Mal the night the Unseelie King was deposed obviously still hanging between them. Those words would have been harsher if I’d known that the Unseelie monster Mal had been abetting was the one who’d kidnapped Niall. “You’re here now, so don’t get in the way.”
Gareth circled the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. He couldn’t help it—he had to touch Niall, at least a little. Surely it wouldn’t matter since Niall was unconscious and would never know. Very gently, he laid his fingers over Niall’s where they rested on the sheet.
Bryce snorted, but Gareth ignored him. Sometime in the not too distant future, he needed to sit down with Bryce and clear the air. He still wasn’t entirely onboard with Mal’s relationship with a druid—nobody knew better than Gareth that relationships between fae and other species rarely ended well, although in the case of a fae/druid pairing, it was the fae with more at stake.
“Why should that matter to you, boyo? Aren’t you the bloke who wants all fae to suffer?”
Not all fae—only the Unseelie. And definitely not his brothers.
Bryce handed David an ampoule of some cloudy liquid, which David inserted into a spray pump. David moved to the side of the bed opposite Gareth and used the device to mist Niall’s back with the potion. The skin on Niall’s back twitched.
“You’re hurting him. Druid potions—”
“I told you. Bryce doesn’t believe in the cathartic healing power of pain. The potion is cold and Niall is reacting to it, that’s all. He’s pretty out of it anyway, so even if it stings a little, he won’t know.”
“He might. You don’t know—”
“Gareth.” David’s tone was laced with exasperation. “Do you want him to get better or not?”
“Of course I do!”
“Then stop being obstructionist.”
Gareth gazed at Niall’s tousled hair, his dark curls spilling across the pillow, stroked Niall’s fingers and sighed. “I’m sorry. I— I just feel so helpless. I want to do something.”
“Then why don’t you sing to him? Something soothing so he can rest more easily.”
“I . . . can do that, I suppose.”
“Good thing you’re cooperating for a change,” Bryce grumbled as he gathered packets of herbs from the top of the dresser.
“Bryce.” David’s voice held a warning this time. “You need to behave too. I don’t allow anyone to distress my patients—even if they’re not conscious enough to know about it.”
Bryce huffed, then ran his fingers through his hair, sending it spiking every which way. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just— Well, the portents are really weird right now. I’ll be much happier once Mal and Alun get back.”
David’s lips compressed into a line. “You and me both.”
“I’ll check back in the morning, but call if you need anything.” With one last glower at Gareth, Bryce walked out of the room.
Gareth laced his fingers with Niall’s, and when Niall’s tightened on his, a tiny thread of joy wound around his heart. He settled down with his back against the headboard and began to sing a Welsh lullaby. When that made Niall stir restlessly, earning Gareth an admonitory glare from David, he switched to “Bridge Over Troubled Water.”
He knew he should sleep. He knew he should rest his voice; he had a concert in less than twenty-four hours. But screw that. Niall needed him, so he sang. Simon and Garfunkel. Fleetwood Mac. Five for Fighting. All the popular Outer World standards.
When he ventured into one of Hunter’s Moon’s songs, though, with their roots in Celtic folk music, or one of the old ballads he used to sing when he and Niall had been lovers, Niall would thrash and moan. So Gareth sang his way through songs Niall had never heard until the dawn bled through the blinds and Niall finally opened his eyes.
Niall was in the underworld again, strung up next to the flames while Tiarnach strutted across the cavern. Not content with simply having Niall flogged, he had to talk at him too. Perhaps he believed it worsened the punishment—the anticipation of knowing the blows were coming, but first having to wait in suspense for the usual pointless demand.
“He dallied with not one, not two, but seven this year, both fae and human, and some that were neither. What say you to that?”
Every year it was the same—Tiarnach spouted tales of Gareth’s adventures in the bedchamber of one Seelie lord after another, or affairs in the Outer World that would put a satyr to shame. But it had never made a dent in Niall’s resolve. Better that than dead. If Tiarnach realized that Niall actually treasured those stories that proved Gareth wasn’t mourning a relationship founded on deception, perhaps he’d never speak again.
But Niall, who’d given up any hope of clemency long since, couldn’t forgo those nuggets of information. He let Tiarnach natter on, pretending indifference.
“Nothing. Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
The wildness in Tiarnach’s eyes, the way his hands writhed in the ermine trim of his velvet cloak, should have warned Niall this wasn’t a normal visit, but he’d gotten so resigned to Tiarnach’s rants that he simply nodded to Govannon to place the leather strap between his teeth and braced himself for the first blow.
Tiarnach continued to march back and forth, his steps keeping pace with the stroke of the whip. Niall counted them off in his head, but when Govannon would have stopped at the expected number, Tiarnach cried, “Again!” over and over, until Niall collapsed, hanging from his manacles, legs unable to support him.
Still Tiarnach didn’t call a halt—Govannon laid down his whip himself. “I’ll not be your executioner. If you want to kill him, you’ll have to strike the blow with your own hand.”
Tiarnach advanced and gripped Niall by the hair, wrenching his head up. “For the last time, will you kill the bard?”
Niall spat the strap out of his mouth. “No. Never.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say, you stubborn, insolent fool.” Tiarnach’s eyes burned with fury as he glared at Niall. “I grew tired of waiting. I killed him myself.”
Niall’s breath caught on a sob—he couldn’t help it—and Tiarnach finally smiled in triumph and let go of Niall’s hair. “Leave him there overnight. Let him consider what his actions have cost.”
But Govannon must not have obeyed, because he wasn’t shackled to the wall, the agony in his back nothing to the pain in his heart. Someone stroked his hair, held his hand gently, as an angel crooned to him of comfort and happiness and love.
He sighed, the words a healing salve to body and soul. When he blinked open crusty eyes to an expanse of white pillowcase, the hand holding his was real, the voice not that of anything as ineffectual as an angel, but—
Gareth. The ceremony. The escape. The lie. Goddess strike him blind, what had he done?
He whimpered, and immediately Gareth was there, blue eyes full of concern and affection that Niall didn’t deserve. “Hey. You’re awake. You were unconscious all night long.” He squeezed Niall’s hand. “I was so worried.”
“You needn’t be. I was . . .” Shite, what was he? He vaguely remembered a conversation with David, when he’d seemed to be recovering, then suddenly the pain had rebounded. But now? He flexed his back muscles tentatively. Not yet fully healed, thank the Goddess, so he still appeared human. But better. As if the wounds were healing normally. “I’m fine.” He withdrew his hand, and Gareth’s smile faded. “But I—I need to take a piss.”
Gareth’s eyebrows popped up and he laughed, which made Niall frown. “Not funny. Fine way to repay hospitality, soiling a bloke’s bedding.”
“No. I know. I’m just— Never mind. The bathroom is across the hall. Let me—”
“I can manage it.” He pushed himself to his haunches, wincing a little, then glanced down at his body. Naked. All my imperfections on display. He bolted across the hallway and closed the door behind him.
Fixing all his latest mistakes would take every ounce of his former cunning, but just when he needed it most, his old cleverness seemed to desert him. Bloody hells. Now what?
The hollow-eyed stranger staring at him from the mirror over the sink had no answers, but the ethera had a suggestion.
:Punt!:
Gareth hadn’t missed Niall’s full-body blush before he’d rushed into the bathroom. He still doesn’t want to be naked in front of me. If that wasn’t evidence that he didn’t remember Gareth, nothing was. In their days as lovers, they’d barely managed to make it to the inn of the day, or to Niall’s lodgings, before ripping each other’s clothes off. They’d only bothered to put them on to venture out to eat or to appease the servants.
Gareth heard the toilet flush and the water turn on in the sink. How does he know about bathroom fixtures? Was the Unseelie Keep equipped with modern plumbing? Hells, for all Gareth knew, they regularly kidnapped construction workers to build onto the bloody thing.
Or it could be magic? Whatever.
Niall emerged from the bathroom, scrubbing his hands through his hair, one of David’s lavender bath sheets wrapped around his waist. “Danu’s tits, whatever David did is bloody remarkable. I’ve never recovered as fast as—” He glanced at Gareth. “I mean—”
“It’s all right. You don’t have to go into it.” Yet. Although Gareth hoped Niall would feel comfortable enough soon to share a little of what he’d been through. Maybe if they talked about it, Niall would start remembering more about their lives, their love.
David bustled in, stopping when he got a look at Niall’s back. “Holy cats. Now that’s what I’m talking about. Nothing like a druid with a chemistry degree, I always say.”
Niall tried to look over his shoulder. “It feels better. I checked it in the mirror and it looks better too.”
“That’s because it is better.”
“Think I might rate a shirt today then?”
David chuckled. “I think so. I’ll put a light dressing on first, and you can borrow one of Alun’s nice, soft T-shirts.” He studied Niall dispassionately, head tilted to one side. “Your shoulders are as broad as his, I think, and your chest as deep. I’ll bring you some of his sweatpants too. They’ll probably be a little long, but sweats aren’t supposed to be tight.”
