And that was when the flap lifted on a golden head.
Framed in the entry, Laurent had also been washed and dried and dressed. His skin was fresh, and he was wrapped in a Vaskian cloak of fur, like the one Halvik had worn. In the lamplight, it looked like a rich garment that a prince might swathe himself in, on a throne.
Damen pushed himself up on an elbow, and propped his head on his hand, his fingers in his hair. He saw that Laurent was looking at him. Not watching him, as he did sometimes, but looking at him, as a man might look at a carving that has caught his attention.
Meeting Damen’s eyes eventually, Laurent said, ‘Here’s to Vaskian hospitality.’
‘It’s a traditional garment. All the men wear them,’ Damen said, eyeing Laurent’s fur cloak with curiosity.
Laurent dropped the cloak from his shoulders. Beneath it he wore some kind of Vaskian bedclothes, a tunic and pants of very fine white linen, with a series of loose ties in front.
‘Mine has a little more fabric. Are you disappointed?’
‘I would be,’ said Damen, rearranging his legs again, ‘if the lamp weren’t behind you.’
It arrested Laurent’s motion, in a pose with one knee on the furs and a palm too, just for a moment, before he stretched his body out alongside Damen’s.
Unlike Damen, he did not fully lie himself down on the furs, but sat, leaning his weight on his hands.
Damen said: ‘Thank you for—’ There was no delicate way of saying it, so he gestured generally to the inside of the tent.
‘Asserting droit de seigneur? . . . How inflamed are you?’
‘Stop it. I didn’t drink the hakesh.’
‘I’m not sure that’s quite what I asked,’ said Laurent. His voice had the same quality as his gaze. ‘This is close quarters.’
‘Close enough to see your eyelashes,’ said Damen. ‘It’s lucky you do not have the size to breed great warriors.’ And then he stopped himself. This was the wrong mood. This was the mood if he were here with a warm, amenable partner, someone he could tease and pull in towards himself, not Laurent, chaste as an icicle.
‘My size,’ said Laurent, ‘is the usual. I am not made in miniature. It’s a problem of scale, standing next to you.’
It was like being pleased by a thorn bush, feeling fond of every prickle. Another second and he was going to say something ridiculous like that.
The soft fur had warmed with his skin, and he gazed up at Laurent feeling languorous and comfortable. He knew that the corners of his mouth were curved up a little.
After a slight pause, Laurent said, almost carefully, ‘I realise that in my service you do not have a great deal of opportunity to pursue the usual—avenues for release. If you need to avail yourself of the coupling fire—’
‘No,’ said Damen. ‘I don’t want a woman.’
The drums outside were a low, continuous throb.
Laurent said, ‘Sit up.’
Sitting up meant taking up all of the extra space in the tent. He found himself looking down at Laurent, his eyes passing slowly over the delicate skin, the lamp-darkened blue eyes, the elegant curve of cheekbone, interrupted by a stray strand of blond hair.
He almost didn’t notice when Laurent drew a cloth from his cloak, except that Laurent was holding it bunched in his hand like a poultic
e, and was looking at Damen’s body as though he was planning to apply it with his own hands.
‘What are you—’ he said.
‘Hold still,’ said Laurent, and lifted the cloth.
A shock of cold, as something wet and freezing was pressed to his ribcage, just below his pectoral muscle. His abdominal muscles flinched at the contact.
‘Were you expecting a salve?’ said Laurent. ‘They brought it for you from further up the slope.’
Ice. It was ice wrapped in cloth, pressed steadily to the bruising on his left side. His ribcage rose and fell with his breath. Laurent held it firm. After the initial discomfort, Damen felt the ice start to draw out the heat of the bruising, spreading cool numbness, so that the tense muscles around it began to relax as the ice melted.