Strings Attached a There and Back Again StoryChapter 9 Nathaniel
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Nathaniel watched the bard surreptitiously through half-closed eyes, forcing himself to focus on her face, and not the long expanse of pale skin on perfectly formed legs that he’d been unable to avoid noticing in the night. It was clear from her frenzied movements and her quick, shallow breaths that she was anxious, and he couldn’t blame her – when he’d asked to have Leliana directed to his tent once she’d arrived, he hadn’t expected to find her undressed and dead to the world in his own bedroll. He’d tracked down the scout who’d spoken to her, and come to realise that she’d probably believed the tent to be meant for her – and had clearly fallen asleep before even finishing getting ready for bed.
She’d been shivering, and her face had been pale and gaunt; he’d chosen to wrap her in his blankets rather than wake her. He’d known the messengers were being run ragged, which was why he’d asked to take over organising them; he’d planned to allow her to sleep in his tent for the night anyway, though he’d rather expected she’d have her own bedroll. But he’d been delayed in his meeting with the king, and by the time he’d found her, she was fast asleep and his bedroll had been occupied. Conscious of how waking half-naked in the tent with a virtual stranger would seem to her, he’d decided to stay as non-threatening as he could – so he’d stayed dressed, planning to sit, awake, as far away as he could and keep an eye on her through the night. But he hadn’t slept well since ... well, his father, if he was truthful, and he’d been spending long days training with his men and meeting with Cailan and the other leaders, and his fatigue had caught up with him.
But now she was awake and dressed – and he owed her an apology. Several apologies.
“Leliana,” he almost whispered; it still seemed loud, in the quiet of the tent, and she jumped like someone had goosed her. He held up his hands with a smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Her face was red right to the tips of her ears, and she hesitated for a moment before meeting his eyes. “My Lord.” She nodded, and he winced, still not entirely comfortable with the title – especially from someone who’d seen him murder his own father to obtain it. “I apologise. It’s obvious this morning, but I didn’t realise—”
He cut her off with a gesture. “No, no. It was a reasonable assumption to make. I should have made better preparations.” She raised a bemused eyebrow, and he shrugged. “I’ve taken over managing the scouts and messengers. There wasn’t anyone really in charge, and you were all being pushed to the point of exhaustion. I’d planned to give you the opportunity to catch up on rest this morning, but I was delayed getting here and didn’t get the chance to explain before you fell asleep.”
He blushed, an image popping unbidden into his mind’s eye – the beautiful bard asleep in his bed, her hair fanned out around her like fire, her mouth soft and slightly open, her long legs on display and the curve of her ass just visible where the chemise had ridden up. He shook his head to clear it, but his expression must have shown more than he intended, because she laughed, her melodious voice appealing even despite her evident embarrassment.
He cleared his throat. “So, the new rider schedule has you making scheduled deliveries between camps, and you’ll return here to sleep every night. Each messenger will be assigned a home base and a pre-determined route, so you can leave your things, knowing you’ll be coming back to them at the end of the day.” He blushed again, making a split-second decision. “This tent will be yours.”
She objected, as he predicted she would; she was intelligent enough to have guessed that the tent was his, he knew, but he really meant it. “Consider it ... an apology.” They both blushed, but he elaborated, “I know you’ve been run off your feet, with no oversight on the Commies. There was no reason that message had to be delivered last night, for example. And this damp bedroll,” he gestured to where she’d dropped hers near the tent flap, “is practically a guarantee of some sort of illness. I can get another tent, but I can’t replace...” he trailed off, suddenly lost in the azure of her eyes, before forcibly tearing his gaze away and coughing awkwardly, “a messenger who becomes ill.”
They both lapsed into silence for a moment, but somehow instead of uncomfortable, it felt strangely peaceful. He glanced back at her and she smiled shyly at him. “Thank you, my Lord.”
He winced again. “Nathaniel. Please?”
She nodded, and on an impulse, shuffled over on her knees to lean down and press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Nathaniel.”
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