Free Lords Of The Dark Fall - Fabian by C A Nicks

sucked in a breath, rather too theatrically. She might have imagined the slight gentling of his finger as he dabbed on the salve, but she straightened her spine and endured it. Fabian wasn’t wallowing in self-pity and neither would she.
    The lost, confused air he’d arrived with was fast being replaced by a formidable focus. Like a man who was slowly remembering his strength. A man already ruthlessly assessing where he might fit into this world.
    “It’s a time of opportunity. The new leader will be at his most vulnerable now. It is a good time to strike.” Fabian regarded her for a moment, lingering on her lip with perhaps a little regret. “How strong is he?”
    “Pretty strong, I guess. What is this? Plan B? In case you can’t get home?”
    Warlord material, if ever she saw it. More in Fabian’s bearing and attitude than in the size and the shape of him. A man who went into battle assuming, not hoping, he would win the day.
    “I will more easily return home from a position of power than weakness. This Warrington will no doubt attract the best of the mages?”
    “Flawless logic,” she replied, oddly disappointed that Fabian already had his future neatly planned. One that didn’t seem to involve her. But then, why should it? She set about clearing the table of breakfast. Fabian made no effort to help, still obviously wrapped in his plans for world domination.
    “There are two flour sacks to bring inside. I'd appreciate some help.”
    Fabian raised his eyebrows, pulled from his musing by her sharp tone. “You’re angry with me because I struck you?”
    “Not at all,” she said, wiping crumbs from the table. “I asked you to do it.” She barged past him to snatch up the sweeping brush.
    “Then you are angry because I have not had you yet?”
    A brave man, to say that to her while she was holding the corn-broom. He stepped nimbly out of her way as she advanced, sweeping crumbs before her. “Believe it or not, my every waking thought doesn’t revolve around you and your manly physique, Fabio. I have much more important things to worry about, like staying alive. And avoiding a life of servitude with creepy Hal. If you have any suggestions as to how I get out of that one, they’ll be gratefully received.”
    Fabian disappeared and then reappeared with the flour sacks, one under his arm, the other clutched with his good hand. He dropped them onto the table.
    “When a woman does not want to marry a man, she generally marries another.”
    “Oh, I’ve read this book.” Tig leaned on the broom. “This is the part where you very nobly offer to marry me to save me from the marriage from hell.”
    “You would be a fool to refuse if I did.” Fabian disappeared again. Came in with the oil-bottle.
    “And what happens to me when you’re killed challenging Warrington? Hal won’t want me. I’ll be spoils of war and given to the troops for amusement. I’ll lose everything.”
    “I will not be beaten.”
    “You were before. Why is this different?”
    Fabian placed the oil bottle onto the table. “Because this time, for the first time, I will be fighting for my life.”
    * * * *
    And yours
. He should have added that sentiment but couldn’t do so now without sounding insincere. Tig was at the door, briskly sweeping the crumbs into the yard. Disappointed in him, no doubt. One moment direct as an arrow, the next wanting him to play the troubadour. Over the years and many conquests, he’d learned to read a woman’s moods and knew he would bear the brunt of Tig’s built-up frustrations and anger simply by being there. He also knew that the best way to be rid of this all too-human angst was to build it up and then release it in one glorious, explosive blaze. Whether on the battlefield, or in bed, the end-result was the same.
    “We should lie together. The need is hanging too heavy between us. Clouding the issue when we require clear heads to think of the next move. It will help.”
    Tig made a choking sound,