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By Michele aka Ygraul Verdemorte |
Chapter 9. Winds of Fortune |
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’m going to miss you,” Teleri said, curling into Brigit’s thick arms for a final embrace, “Be careful, the Shiverpeaks have never been a friendly place.” “Don’t worry about me, I’ve got Armie,” Brigit giggled, blushing red beneath his gaze. “Keep each other warm,” Teleri said with a sly grin. Armand looked away, trying not to blush as Teleri rejoined her husband. The tall Tyrian mesmer enfolded the woman in his long arms, his lips brushing her temple as she squeezed his gloved hands over her bulging belly. In a fit of jealousy, Armand cursed at the man. He made it look so easy and natural. He was further incensed to see that Brigit was looking longingly upon her friends. Her desire to be held and cherished like that blared from her mind. “Fat chance,” he thought. With his luck he would accidentally grope her breasts and she would blacken both of his eyes. It seemed half the guild had turned out to see them off. The Winds of Fortune rocked slowly at her moorings, her single mast tracing a lazy circle against the grim sky. Clinker built with a shallow draft, she was designed for stability and speed through icy waters. A pair of dwarves were among the crew and they were busily helping to load the heavy chests of clothing and equipment that Zhou had insisted they take with them. Privacy on a ship was rare at best, but the only shelter on the boat was a long tent set within the boundaries of the benches where the oarsmen sat. No doubt Zhou had paid the crew well for he and Brigit were treated like respected guests, their smallest items carried onto the boat for them and the gangplank laboriously cleared of ice to ease their passage. “Army!” Mog roared, emerging from the throng and towering over most of them as if they were children. The lanky man moved effortlessly through the crowd. People parted at his approach, no doubt concerned he would accidentally crush them underfoot. The enormous mesmer was rosy with cold, his short ginger hair fluttering in the icy wind off the sea. Armand considered his options as the man rumbled toward him with arms extended. He did not like being touched at the best of times but being embraced by Mog was like tangling with a hungry boa constrictor. His ribs still ached from the last time over two weeks ago. Hesitation cost him and there was literally nowhere to run. He instinctively stepped back and bounced into Brigit’s breast. He turned around to apologize and their noses brushed as she leaned over to prevent him from dropping the scroll tucked under his arm. Scorched by the heat of embarrassment he scrambled to turn around only to be gathered roughly into Mog’s arms and squeezed tightly. Brigit whimpered beside him and he realized the two of them were now pressed inexorably together within the steel vise of Mog’s gangling arms. “A good journey to yer both!” Mog proclaimed, lifting them off the ground in his rowdy enthusiasm. Armand wanted to kill him. “Put me down, you fool!” “Eh, Army, loosen up, lad!” But thankfully, the man released him before his ribs broke and he stood panting breathlessly beside Brigit. “Yer take care o’ me friend,” Mog instructed her, “Make sure he keeps warm.” “For the love of Lyssa, would you please stop, Mog?” Armand fumed. He feared that his complexion would forever after be stained ruddy. His only consolation was that Brigit looked equally humiliated. He could feel the impressions of Mog’s double row of buttons engraved on his cheek. “I take it yer don’ want me t’ come along!” Mog guffawed, throwing up his arms in surrender and nearly punching one of the rushing sailors in the jaw. “We’ll manage without you, thank you.” “Farewell!” Mog announced his voice warm with fondness for Armand. He could not stay angry with Mog. The big lout had a kind heart and he meant well. And with that they boarded, he and Brigit standing a respectful distance from one another at the fore gunwale waving as the crew drew up the gangplank, released the moor lines, and allowed the parting tide to aid their journey out to the open sea. The luffing sail drowned out the cries of farewell as the vessel drew further from the pier and the first of many waves slapped her broad hull. Brigit wobbled uncomfortably, her knuckles white as she clutched the high edge of the gunwale. She had stripped off her gloves and cloak and leaned her belly against the planks. Armand sighed. She was going to be sick. One of the sailors came over to usher them inside the tent but Brigit refused to follow. He felt a bit of a heel abandoning her, but vomiting was a decidedly solitary pursuit and he had no desire to join her. The four large chests had been neatly laid out within the long tent to form an alcove at its farthest end where the thick oiled canvas abutted the base of the mast. It was the most sheltered point of the boat, and once he had settled on the nest of blankets and fur laid out for them there, he realized it was also the most stable. The gray light of day seeped through the thick cloth walls. It was too dim to read but it was comfortable. Considering he had stayed up late with Master Bei helping to compile the list and had risen early to catch the morning tide, he decided a nap was in order. That was when the first of many awkward dilemmas emerged. As he burrowed below the nest of blankets and furs, he realized there was not really room for both he and Brigit to lie there. Her things were stashed beside his and it was clear they would share this narrow spot, but how were they supposed to sleep without touching? As if on cue, the tent flap flared open and she was escorted inside. Her pale flesh had a green tinge to it as the sailor patted her hand and lead her to Armand’s side. He immediately sat up, intending to sit near the entrance so that she could have her turn in the bed. The sailor obviously thought this meant he was just scooting aside to make room for her and drew the blankets back on her side so that she could scoot under them. Armand was trapped between the hard curve of the mast and Brigit. “We’ll come fetch you once things are well underway and the cook has warmed up some soup,” the sailor said kindly, “Until then, snuggle up with your mistress. I’ve given her some candied ginger to settle her stomach.” Armand flushed with embarrassment. Mistress… Brigit giggled weakly, unable to hide her misery but apparently amused by the abject horror engraved on his face. “Stop it,” she murmured once the sailor had departed, “Just lie down and keep me warm. It’s not as if I’m in any condition to do anything to you.” “Bwee…” Armand gasped as she tugged on his arm and his body turned to jelly, obediently dropping down beside her. She rolled onto her side and faced him, her hand trembling with weakness as she stroked his long golden hair aside and gazed upon his face with an expression of wonder. “You have the most beautiful blue eyes,” she murmured, “Anyone ever told you that?” He shook his head, unable to speak. An unwelcome surge of prickly heat seethed within him. The feel of her fingertips along the edge of his jaw was electric. He wanted her even as cynical loner in him screamed at him to stop. “I’m going to take a nap. Hopefully my stomach will settle,” she murmured, smiling wanly at him and closing her eyes. His heart hammered in his chest as her departing hand brushed his shoulders with the softness of a whisper. He had chosen precisely the wrong moment to profess his desire for her. Of all the miserable luck.
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