Work Text:
“Kurt,” Vasco starts, “You’ve known De Sardet a long time.”
“Yes…?” The warrior answers slowly. They have been tramping in circles for what feels like hours outside of Hikmet, looking for murdered merchants and scraps of who knows what their illustrious leader seems so intent to find. “Since she was a wee lady; fifteen, maybe.”
The Naut nods enthusiastically. “Yeah. So what’s her name?”
Kurt cuts a quick glance at where the woman in question is standing, outside of hearing range, studying a fleshy piece of fungi with an intense look on her face. “She doesn’t like to give that information out very much.” He snickers. “It’s ‘too frilly,’ she’ll have you believe.”
“Frilly,” Vasco echoes. “Really.”
“She ain’t wrong,” he continues. “Back before her mother was sick and she was a little thing, they wanted to train her up as Constantin’s advisor. Pretty dresses, fancy dinners, all the politicking you can imagine. Then the Malicor hit and, well…” Kurt’s face settles into a more severe frown than normal, and Vasco watches his grey eyes follow De Sardet’s careful hands as she takes her notes. “We all knew it was a matter of time before all this,” he gestures widely around them, at the vibrant leaves and blue skies and clean air, “Had to happen. Then it became a practicality. She’s sharp, though; she knew what she was about at court by the time her family hired me on. Just needed some sharpening in some… less delicate places.”
“And you took on a soft little noble girl with a frilly name?”
“Exactly.” Kurt’s smile is predatory. “She had other teachers for her manners and magic, but that gun at cutlass are all me.”
Vasco hums, letting his own gaze fall to her. De Sardet is… an enigma. He’d spent several months at sea with her, cooped up on his ship in tight quarters, and several more now following her around at the behest of his Admiral. Absently, he rubs at his cheek, tracing the lines of his newest tattoo across his face.
She is kind. Frighteningly astute, quick-witted, observant, and unfailingly diplomatic. The woman could talk circles around the most verbose of bureaucrats. Her tongue is sharp when it needs to be, quiet whenever else, and magic clings so tightly to her it is almost like a second skin. She always wants to know everything; hence their traipsing about the hills looking for some poor dead bastard’s notes on the local fauna. Vasco snorts.
She walks with the sort of confidence that cannot be faked, as she should. De Sardet is nothing short of excellent at her job, and she carries herself with the air of someone who knows it. She is tall for a woman, slim, with a sharp jaw and aquiline nose. He cannot think of a single person who could ever describe her as anything other than utterly striking. Black hair on skin tanned from months of living outdoors and at sea, and the bluest eyes he has ever seen. She smiles often, and he has noticed on more than one occasion that she has dimples.
And he has no idea what her name is.
“Why won’t she tell anyone?” Vasco asks. “It can’t be that bad. And it’s not as if others don’t already know.”
Kurt shrugs, entirely unhelpful. He folds his burly arms across his chest and regards the other man with a sharp eye, one that makes Vasco stomp on the urge to squirm. “That’s her business, not mine.”
“Well, then what is it?”
“Ask her. She might tell you.”
Vasco fights the impulse to groan. “But it would be much more satisfying to spring it on her when she least expects it.”
“Kid likes to think she’s mysterious. I dunno what to tell you,” Kurt chuckles. “I’ve known her too long to put up with her bullshit.”
Vasco narrows his eyes. He’s nothing if not honest with himself; he knows he’s utterly besotted with the Legate, much as he might wish otherwise (because holy hell, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to leave the island without her anymore), and he hasn’t missed the subtle twitch in the corners of the guard Captain’s mouth whenever she turns her witty laugh in his direction. And there is nothing he hates more than feeling like he’s at a disadvantage.
Vasco opens his mouth to say something more, likely to the effect of just how much, exactly, of Lady De Sardet Kurt’s “put up” with, when the woman herself comes gliding their way. Her hat is tilted at a jaunty angle on her head and her blue Merchant cape swishes by her ankles. Oh, but her legs are long. He swallows against the sudden dryness in his mouth.
“Well!” De Sardet declares, snapping her journal shut and cocking a hip. “That villager’s information was, in fact, completely useless.”
“Losing the trail, are you?”
“I don’t know why I always expect these things to be easy,” she sniffs as she puts the book back in her bag. “People tell me to go just over the way and I’ll find precisely what I need. More likely the bugger is chewed to bits in a Nádaig den, and his writings scattered all over the whole island. I should have told that man to hire a company of mercenaries and saved myself the trouble.”
“But then how would you have collected all this iron?” Vasco deadpans. He hefts his own pack, and the contents crack and clang tellingly. Her grin is entirely unapologetic. “It’s fine, really; I prefer my spine curved, after all.” Kurt snorts.
“Oh, hush,” De Sardet laughs, flashing her dimples at him. “I’ll have it sent back to my chest in Hikmet with our merchant. I like your shoulders precisely the way they are.”
“Something we have in common, then.”
The Lady snickers again before gesturing for the two to follow. The feather in her hat bobs with every step and Vasco fixes his eyes on her black braid, swishing between her narrow shoulders as he and Kurt dutifully follow her to wherever she has in mind next. He stopped trying to keep track of her to-do list ages ago.
He is so focused on watching her walk that he doesn’t notice Kurt sidle up next to him until he is thwacked solidly on the arm. “It ain’t polite to stare,” the Captain says sternly, “And pull your tongue back in your mouth, while you’re at it.”
“Excuse me?” Vasco has never been particularly good at playing dumb - mostly because he isn’t - and Kurt’s withering glare is starkly unimpressed. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”
“Oh, come off it,” the warrior snaps. “You’re practically drooling on your own boots. You fancy her.”
Vasco doesn’t miss the steel bite in the accusation. He narrows his own brown eyes at Kurt’s snarl, hackles rising, and cuts a quick glance at De Sardet’s oblivious back before he answers, “Is that a problem, Captain?”
“Yeah, it is, Captain,” Kurt shoots back. “I know you’re type. You Nauts roll in to port and do nothing but drink and play about with the women until it’s time to set sail again. I may like you well enough, but not enough for that.”
“Is that jealousy, Kurt?” Vasco prods, letting the barb roll off him because the man has a rather unfortunate point, “Because it certainly seems like more than concern for your charge.”
“Watch it, kid,” Kurt snarls, and Vasco cocks a brow and grins. “Wouldn’t want to accidentally let slip who drank all her expensive brandy in San Matheus.”
The sea Captain narrows his eyes. “You’re bluffing.”
“Try me.”
“Is that why you won’t tell me her name? Because you want a leg up? That’s awfully childish of you, Kurt.”
The Coin Guard halts in his tracks and yanks Vasco to a stop with him, the grip on his arm like iron. His craggy face is thunderous, grey eyes like lightning, and if he were a lesser man Vasco would have shrank away from the fury he sees there. Instead, he straightens his own spine and meets the glower head on, feeling his lip curl to bare his teeth. He does not like to be bullied. “You listen here. Her business is her business, and I ain’t gonna go behind her back like that. But I’ve seen this before with her, and it’s my job to keep her safe. Even if it is from blackguard Nauts.”
Vasco, ever the sharp one, immediately catches the insinuation. “She’s got a history with a Naut?”
Kurt continues to glare, and Vasco cannot help but look away at De Sardet’s retreating back. Any moment now, she will turn to look back and realize they are not following and come trotting over. “I’m only telling ya ‘cause I don’t want you messing with her. But yeah. Came in one day couple years back. Lots of pretty promises, handsome fellow. She was smitten, which doesn’t happen much.”
Vasco has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knows exactly where this is going; plenty of enraged fathers had come barreling into his port offices in the past because of one of his deck hands. “He left?”
“Worse. She found him with a whore in the tavern.”
Vasco cringes. That, too, is a familiar story. “My apologies. It’s an unfortunately… common occurrence with the younger men.”
“Like yourself?” Kurt sneers, and Vasco flushes angrily. “You don’t fool me, kid. You may be good at what you do, and a rare talent with a sabre, but you’re just the same as the rest.”
“Just the same as what?”
Both men nearly jump out of their skin at De Sardet’s sudden appearance, and Vasco clamps his teeth around a vulgar curse. “Blast, woman, you need a bell around that neck of yours.”
Her blue eyes glitter with mirth, and the smile that curls across her face is wide and honest. “Apologies, Captain Vasco. I didn’t mean to upset your delicate sensibilities, but your conversation looked very intriguing indeed.” The brow she quirks at him is nothing short of eloquent. “Especially when it’s so quiet and intense! I do love to gossip, you know. I’m quite put out I wasn’t included.”
She rounds on Kurt, and Vasco heaves a sigh of relief when her piercing eyes pin the other man in place. “Unless, of course, I was the subject of your whispering?” Kurt has the good grace to look contrite, and he folds his arms in front of himself as he stares at his feet. De Sardet tuts good naturedly. “I thought so. Come now, I don’t bite, gentlemen. There’s no need for secrecy.”
“I was asking what your name was,” Vasco blurts, mentally berating himself. He cannot remember the last time he was so tongue-tied or clumsy, but when Kurt flashes him a thankful look and the Legate turns back to him with a bemused grin, he thinks there are worse things. “He didn’t want to tell me.”
“You know my name,” she says as she turns back around, and the two slowly begin to plod after her. “The only one of import, in any case.”
“While the ‘Do you know who I am?!’ spiel is always entertaining,” he drawls, relief making his shoulders sag, “I want to know your first name.”
De Sardet flaps a hand, snorting indelicately. “It’s very frilly. Not at all flattering.”
Kurt’s ‘I told you so’ smirk is galling. “Let me be the judge of that.”
De Sardet’s tinkling laughter never ceases to brighten his mood. Oh, but he’s got it bad. “Very well. It’s only fair, after all.” She pauses, turning toward him with a wicked glint in her eye. “Wouldn’t you say, Leandre d’Arcy?”
“Talk about frilly,” Kurt grunts, and Vasco shoots him a sharp warning glare, hating the heat crawling up the back of his neck. “I’d say he’s got you beat.”
“I don’t know. I quite like it; it’s very noble.” The Legate’s smile turns soft, and she reaches out to touch his arm as she says, “My given name is Sylvania.”
Vasco meets her blue stare evenly, willing the flush to stay out of his face. “Sylvania De Sardet, Legate of the Merchant Congregation, cousin of Governor Constantin d’Orsay of New Serene.” He pauses, smirking. “What a mouthful.”
She throws back her head and guffaws, sliding her hand down his arm to brush his fingers before she steps away. The small touch is entirely too enticing, and he squashes the urge to snatch her hand back. “Right you are, Vasco.”
Sylvania, he muses as they continue onward, rolling it around in his mind and mouth. Beautiful, poetic, lined with steel. Unusual, to be sure, but he supposes the mysterious mark on her face is more than enough cause for it. Smooth and lilting, just like her voice, and a right proper noble sound to it. It suits her very well.
He casts a wary glance at the sky as they continue to trod along, frowning. Whatever they’re looking for, they’re running out of daylight to find it in. He voices this aloud, and De Sardet’s head snaps upward from where her nose had been buried in her map. “You’re right,” she sighs, frowning, and rolls the weathered oilskin back up before stuffing it in her bag. “We’d better head back to camp. Maybe the others have had more success finding the professor’s notes.”
Kurt falls alongside him as they turn and begin winding their way back through the densely packed trees. His severe face is drawn, brow lowered, and he mutters under his breath, “I’ve never seen her give it up so easy before.”
Vasco knows good and well what he’s getting at, but he still asks, “Give up what?”
“Don’t insult me.” The guard Captain may be brusque, but he is far from stupid. “Her name. I’ve never seen her share it so readily.” Grey eyes search his tattooed face, shuttered and dark. “She’s taken a shine to you, it seems.”
“Well, maybe she has a type.”
Kurt snorts, shaking his head. “Bad taste, more like.”
“I’ll overlook your insult and pretend I don’t know it’s because you fancy her, too.”
The warrior doesn’t even try to defend himself. Instead, he viciously kicks a pebble underfoot, sending it skittering forward and bouncing off of Sylvania’s ankle. She throws a half-hearted glare at them over her shoulder before turning back around. Vasco grins, smug. “I thought so.”
“It ain’t anything personal, Vasco,” Kurt growls, ignoring him completely. “But you’re a Naut. History aside, one day, the sea will call to you more strongly than she does, and it’ll be her feelings hurt again.” He cuts a glance at the blonde man out of the corner of his eye, and Vasco makes sure to keep his face carefully neutral. “It wasn’t pretty the first time and will be worse the second, I’m sure.”
The sea Captain says, slowly as he chooses his words with care, “I will not leave this place without her.”
“So you’ve said before. As have many others.”
“I don’t think you understand me,” Vasco snaps, a bit too loudly. His next words are quick and hushed. “I’ve been pardoned by the Admiral, yes. I could have reclaimed my ship and left right then, as many expected, even her. But I didn’t. Because I will not set sail from these shores while she remains on them.”
“And what if she never wants to? You gonna just sit on your arse in the port and watch everyone you’ve ever known get on with their lives?”
Vasco grinds his teeth and tries to answer, but finds his tongue wooden and useless in his mouth. He hadn’t thought that far ahead yet and he hates that Kurt has, that not only has the man known her since she was a girl, but he has something else Vasco has never experienced: stability.
The Naut clenches his jaw and looks away, glaring angrily at De Sardet’s swishing blue cape, the shadows lengthening around them as they make their way back to camp. Kurt, harsh though he is, is not wrong. Vasco was raised on the waves, took his first steps upon the rolling sea, no land in sight. He’d gotten his sea legs before his land ones, spent his youth high in the crow’s nests or swimming at the ports, learned his knots before his letters and astronomy before arithmetic. The deep blue is his home, and even now he finds himself dreaming of the dolphins playing in their wake, the gentle rock and groan of the hull around him, the briny air and fresh fish for supper. It is a part of him, just as the Congregation is a part of Sylvania, and he has a terrible feeling the two are mutually exclusive.
“You can feel whichever way you want about her,” Kurt continues mercilessly. “But you are a Seaman. And you will ask too much from her to ensure her happiness.”
Vasco looks at him, looks at the hard line of his mouth and the resolute grey stare fixed on De Sardet’s black braid, the straight back and clenched fists and muscle twitching in his cheek, and knows Kurt wants the same thing he does. And he won’t leave her on the edge of a dock somewhere one day.
He feels his shoulders bow, and Vasco rubs at his temples, a headache brewing. “You’re right. Bastard.”
Kurt shrugs, and that is the last they say on the matter.
Petrus and the others have already returned by the time the three draw near the flames, and Vasco sees Aphra poring over a weather-beaten, mouldy leather journal. “You found something!” De Sardet exclaims once they are within earshot. “What does it say?”
“Another discourse on the Nádaig glendemen,” Aphra answers without looking up. “On their resistance to light magic.”
Sylvania darts over and the two begin whispering amongst themselves, flipping pages back and forth and utterly butchering pronunciation. Vasco catches Síora’s bemused eye and shrugs, dumping his pack on the ground and arching his back. It pops alarmingly.
“I take it you were less successful?” Petrus says as he approaches from the cooking pot. He passes out two bowls of stew to both of them, piping hot. “Judging by her enthusiasm for our findings.”
“Not a bloody thing,” Kurt rumbles around a mouthful. Vasco nods his agreement, dropping down onto one of the logs surrounding the fire with a groan of relief. “Just rocks and trees.”
“And those awful bat-things,” Vasco adds with a shudder. Siora pipes up “They are dosantats!” from across the camp, and he waves her off. He perks up as he says, “But I did make an interesting discovery.”
“Oh?” The missionary crosses his arms over his chest, arching a brow.
“Mhm. She told me her name.”
Petrus’s baritone laugh is only just shy of mocking. “I wasn’t aware such information was a secret!”
“Then why hasn’t anyone ever called her by it?” He retorts with a huff, petulant. “It’s always ‘Legate this’ or ‘De Sardet that.’” He points his spoon at the man in accusation. “I even heard one man say ‘baby blues’ when he thought she wouldn’t hear him.”
Petrus looks positively riveted. “And how did that end?”
“She dumped an ale in his lap and froze him to a chair,” Kurt deadpans. Vasco bobs his head happily in agreement. It had been glorious.
The woman in question looks up at them across the fire with a twinkle in her eye at Petrus’s booming guffaw. “I didn’t appreciate his tone,” she sniffs with an air of dramatic haughtiness. Vasco smiles around the rim of his bowl. “And it’s no secret. I happen to prefer my surname when addressed by those I don’t know.”
“You are so reserved, my child,” Petrus says, his smile gentle. “Such a rare trait in nobility these days. They all do enjoy hearing their own voices too much.”
De Sardet rolls her eyes and stands, brushing off the bottoms of her breeches and she moves closer to the warmth of the fire. She settles on Vasco’s log, extending her hands toward the flames, and he notices the dirt under her fingernails and the pistol calluses on her right thumb. Her hands are slim, just like the rest of her, with long and delicate fingers. He wonders if they are always cold. “Truer words have never been spoken, Father.”
Vasco tries to give her a bit more room on the makeshift bench by scooting over, but she catches his elbow and asks, “Where do you think you’re going? I’m freezing, and you’re quite warm.”
Well, he thinks to himself, that answers that question. He flashes her a smirk as he moves back over, bumping her knee with his own, and tries to ignore the feeling of Kurt’s steely gaze boring into the back of his head. Who was he to deny their illustrious leader such comforts as shared warmth around a campfire? Criminal.
It isn’t long before the individual members of their party begin to peel off to bed. Aphra is the first to go, her jaw cracking with the force of his yawn. Petrus soon follows her, and when Síora’s pretty eyes begin to flutter during her and De Sardet’s customary language swap, the Legate sends her off to bed with a chiming laugh.
Soon, it is just he, Kurt, and Sylvania.
Vasco knows the warrior is only staying up to watch him. He can feel it, sense the distrust and poorly-concealed agitation rolling off of him in waves. It is a wonder De Sardet doesn’t call attention to it at all. She has wrapped her cloak entirely around herself as she huddles around the fire, curled at his side and sketching in her journal. She is a night owl, and will likely not retire for several more hours. A habit he shares. And one Kurt certainly doesn’t.
Vasco stares at him in challenge through the flames. The warrior meets his gaze with no expression, and Vasco makes a point of removing his hair from its horsetail and shaking it out. He knows he shouldn’t provoke the man, knows damn well everything he had said - every barbed insult, every accusation, every hissed concern - is fair and, worst of all, correct. He has no idea if he could let the ocean go for the remainder of his life. All his hopes are built upon the shaky assumption she would follow him. To expect such a sacrifice from her, when he cannot promise the same, is the most selfish thing he has ever wanted.
And yet.
Sylvania’s solid weight against his side as they recline against the log is so wonderfully steady, her profile severe in the firelight and casting shadows across her sharp cheekbones. The woman can be unbelievably frightening when she chooses to, and her magic is a veritable force of nature. He’s seen the snarl she directs at the scum they so often find themselves dealing with, and it is enough to make the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. She reminds him strongly of the black, terrifying ocean tempests that have swallowed whole ships alive. Her irises are even the same hue of the sky after it’s short life is over. The kind of beauty that makes the wind and the rain and the fear worth it.
She shifts, and her hair falls over his shoulder and tangles with his own, bleached white by the fire. “Is there something on my face?” She murmurs without looking up from her drawing. It is of Constantin, with his famous lopsided grin. “You’re staring.”
Vasco flushes, clearing his throat as he looks away. “Your mark,” he answers, and it isn’t precisely a lie. He watches Kurt tilt his head back against his own log out of the corner of his eye. “Does it pain you?”
Sylvania pins him with her sharp blue eyes. He can feel the weight of it as he stares at his hands, crossed over his bent knees. “No,” she says. “It itches on the rare occasion, and I find that it spreads not long after. I know what you’re thinking,” she says quickly when he opens his mouth to voice his concern. “I’ve been assured by a bona-fide slew of physicians that it is not harming me. In fact, I’ve been told it likely contributes to my magical talent.”
“And no one knows what it is?”
She sighs, gently closing the book and tying it with a thin piece of string. “The natives, Síora… they all say it is from the island. That I am bound by the land here. But…”
“Neither you nor your parents have ever set foot on its soil.”
“Precisely.” She frowns, dark eyebrows drawing together. “And yet the resemblance is striking, you must admit.”
It is true. She and Síora could easily be mistaken for sisters, right down to the angle of their jawlines. “It is unusual,” he agrees quietly. Kurt is very near sleep. “Perhaps one of the village chiefs will be able to shed some light on it for you one day.”
“Maybe,” she breathes, and then she is looking directly into his face, full lips pulled into a soft smile. “Even my name sounds like one of theirs.”
Vasco has to chuckle. “I wasn’t going to be the one to say it, since apparently you’re quite sensitive about it.”
“More of the fact I grew out of it, truly,” she replies. Her fingers fiddle with the edge of her cloak as she continues, “My family and their advisors would call me ‘Little Sylvie.’ I hated it more than anything. Constantin would run down the halls chanting it to get on my nerves as I chased him.” Her gaze turns tender as she thinks of her boyish cousin. “He has always been a bit on the feral side.”
An uncomfortable prick of jealousy stabs at his chest as he remembers the sniveling shrew that is his own brother. “You are very close.”
“Yes,” she says fondly. “He has been a brother to me. I could not do half the things I have if not for him. He is very dear to me.” The glance she throws him is sly, and he feels his face begin to heat. He swallows back his mortification. “As are my friends, and… others.”
Her whole gaze is suddenly on him, her body turning so she is fully angled in his direction, and Vasco feels his heartbeat kick up a glorious rhythm in his chest. Some part of him - the better part, even - is screaming for him to withdraw, to not let this go any further, that the potential for regret is far too high, but he finds he cannot give it any credence when her delicate hands extend toward his face. She pauses just shy of his cheek. “May I?”
Not trusting his voice, he nods, and she brushes her fingers across the sweeping lines on his face. “You’ve told me what they mean before,” she whispers. “But never which ones.” He feels the pad of her thumb brush across the newest tattoo. “This is for the glendemen we killed, I assume?”
“Yes,” he croaks. Her eyes burn. He cannot look away.
“And this one?” The three curved lines in the corner of his eye.
“The years I’ve served as Captain.”
A gentle brush across his bottom lip, a ghost of a touch upon his chin. “These? I like them best.”
“Sea-Given,” he gasps. And as if his hands are not his own, he snatches her wrists in both his fists and clamps them to his chest. His skin feels as though it is on fire, attuned to her every shift and breath. His blood is singing. “You’re killing me, Sylvania.”
Her blue eyes darken, and she eases forward, hair tumbling over her neck. He can feel his pulse pounding in his ears. “Good.”
He doesn’t know who leans in first. One moment he feels as though he is about to explode with heady want, and the next she is astride him, hands in his unbound hair, lips moving in tandem with his own. Her kiss is electric, confident, demanding. Her nails scrape across his scalp and he groans quietly into her mouth, yanking her ever forward until her chest is against his, knees buried in the dirt on either side of his hips. She is hot, her lips warm and slightly chapped, skin taut and twitching under his hands as he draws them down her waist. She is all fiery, caged energy as he fights her for control, wriggling in his lap, and he doesn’t think anyone has ever kissed him so perfectly before.
Her hands slide down his neck, gently scraping the lines of his tattoos, and settle on his shoulders. He feels his own slide under her loose shirt at her belly as he shifts them, moving his weight so he can bear down on her —
Kurt snorts in his sleep.
Vasco breaks away with a gasp, and it is like someone has thrown a bucket of icy cold water over him. He freezes entirely, eyes fixed on her face, swollen lips and dark eyes, and he grunts “Wait —” before she is on him again.
It takes a Herculean effort to draw away, to not lose himself in her warm mouth and just shove his tongue down her throat, and he thinks he deserves some kind of medal when he breaks free. “Wait, Sylvania.” His voice doesn’t even sound like his own.
“Hmm?” She pants, and he’s infinitely glad he’s not the only one who is completely breathless.
“Kurt,” is all he manages, and then suddenly reality crashes down upon him, and he cannot believe his own stupidity. Nothing good can come of this, he’s sure; at least, not in the long run. “I… we shouldn’t.”
Her brow pinches, and she stiffens against him. She makes no move to get out of his embrace. His palm is still flat against her stomach, and he feels more than hears the small hitch in her breath. “Do you not want me? I’d never… oh, Vasco, I’m so sorry —”
“No!” He bursts, flinching as Kurt lurches in his sleep. “No,” he says again, whispering. “Perish the thought. The exact opposite, truly. I…” and he drops his forehead to her shoulder, encircling her slim hips with his arms as she cards her hands through his hair. “I won’t be fair to you, in the future.”
“How do you mean?”
It takes all his strength to meet her gaze. She deserves that much. “When this is over, I… will want to retake my ship. I cannot ask you to accompany me.”
De Sardet rolls her eyes at him, and he has to smile sheepishly when she thumps his chest with her knuckle. “Whyever not? I did tell you I’d like to sail with you again one day.”
“It’s not that simple,” he insists. “My calling is the sea. I do not spend time on land, and you are not a Naut. You have family, responsibilities to the Congregation that are not inconsequential. I cannot demand such a sacrifice from you, not when I cannot do the same.”
“Vasco,” she says tenderly, “You are a good man. I appreciate the thought you have given this, more than I can say.”
“Kurt gave me a proper talking-to.” At her quirked brow, he chuckles. “He mentioned you had a history with one of my brothers, and warned me away. Give him the credit.”
“I see you’ve taken his advice to heart,” she drawls, arching in his lap. He barely suppresses a pleased hiss. “In any case, yes. I did. I was… young. Foolish. It is the past. I do not dwell on it much these days.” She looks over her shoulder at the man in question, who is still slumped against his own log, legs outstretched. “Kurt is a dear friend, but I will always be a little girl to him. I shall never be rid of the name ‘Green Blood,’ I think.”
Vasco isn’t able to hold the derisive snort in at her words. “I can guarantee he certainly sees you as a grown woman and not a girl.”
De Sardet stares at him long and hard, the corners of her mouth twitching. Vasco does everything he can to meet her gaze with a straight face, but he can feel his eye twitching with the effort to keep from smirking. He is not a jealous man by nature, and De Sardet’s complete and utter lack of awareness when it comes to her feminine charms is shocking. For a woman who spends most of her time reading the smallest facial cues and convoluted subtext of international politics, she sure doesn’t seem to know that half of Teer Fradee is falling-over-themselves in love with her. The other half dreams of her head on a spike, he’s sure.
“I think you’re pulling my leg,” she whispers to him after a moment. “And in the unlikely event you’re not…” she brings her face so close to his he can see flecks of silver in her blue eyes. Her lips brush his just so as she says “...He doesn’t have a chance.”
Vasco hums, sliding his hands down her hips, unabashedly feeling her up with a sharp grin. “Well. I can’t say that’s not good to hear.”
She leans into his touch, drawing her own hands down until they are flat upon his chest. He wants to kiss her again so badly it pains him, and if the look on her face is any indication, she can tell. “We can worry about the future later.”
“Later is good,” he agrees hoarsely, and when she finally lets him pull her mouth down to his, he thinks he can live with that.