Page 2 of A Heaven to Reach For (Infinite Grace #1)

Owin took one. He was ravenous, but had wanted to rest more before seeking out a meal.

“The trip to see the King,” Aubrey began, and Steph groaned.

So did Denys, not asleep after all. “Not on the day of the festival,” he complained. “Tomorrow.”

Aubrey gave in with a sigh, as though he wasn’t still thinking over their assignments. “Tomorrow.”

Owin made a face, not objecting to the journey, only that it came so soon after the last one, and he had yet to rest or even bathe. He took another cake.

“Stops for my cakes but does not even come in to greet me.” A light smack on his shoulder drew Owin’s attention up to Beau, the daughter of the pub’s owner, who loomed over him only because he was seated.

Her lips were smeared blue and she was smiling, so Owin raised himself up enough to kiss her cheek, and shook his head at all the calls and whistles he received for it.

For a moment, Beau’s gaze was somewhere else, and Owin followed it to Margaret, who was interested solely in her wine, it seemed.

“I think Beau was aiming for more, Owin,” Steph chided, leading Owin to sigh.

“Of that, I have no doubt,” remarked Aubrey, in a particular way, and briefly met Owin’s stare.

It was, of course, wise to be careful. The ways of the Church were ever-changing, and often twisted to suit the desires of clergymen Owin would never meet, much like the laws handed down by rulers Owin had never heard of.

But there were many sins that did not seem especially sinful, and this country had never completely given way to the Church, and the Duke was as reasonable a man as a noble could be.

Steph was simply oblivious to what would have been obvious to others, even though many of the other guardsmen were far less discreet.

Owin looked up to Beau again and winked. “The lady has her sights on something far prettier than my ugly face.”

Steph scoffed.

Denys raised his head, then his hat, to peer at them both. “That face has rested on plenty of pillows, as I recall—including mine.”

Steph jerked back in surprise and nearly fell from the bench. A laugh slipped out of Beau, who hurried away in the next moment, sliding up to the next table to place some cakes in front of Margaret.

Aubrey took a long drink, then put down his cup with a decided air.

“It’s not a terrible face to wake up to,” he announced, drawing a shocked gasp from Steph and a giddy sort of cackle from someone at the other table.

“Although, I must be honest and say that we were not often face-to-face the night before.”

“Mary’s tits,” somebody swore from somewhere around them, disapproving or perhaps disgusted.

Owin gazed at Aubrey for another moment, his eyebrows likely up to his hairline, before Denys made a noise of outrage.

“I thought I was the only one. Owin, you stealer-of-hearts.” He grinned for it, and Owin fixed him with a look that was only mildly disgruntled.

Dahl had a hand to his throat like a startled and virtuous maiden, though he was anything but. “Don’t tell me—you were sharing a blanket for warmth.”

“No, that was me,” Bartlemeo offered, “though that really is all we did. Well, mostly.” He paused. “The nights were very cold, and he has very big hands.”

Owin straightened up. “And you’ve a sweet mouth, but that’s neither here nor there.”

Dahl clapped his hands together in excitement, ignoring the wrinkled nose of the server passing near him. “Isn’t it though?” he asked Owin. “I have often thought so.”

“Often?” Wolfe wondered, the quiet question nearly drowned out by Beau’s giggles as she left.

“The lot of you,” Margaret despaired, though in truth, there was much fondness in her voice as well.

“A guard’s life is often lonely, with few opportunities to marry, or partner,” Dahl responded breezily. “Who wouldn’t occasionally turn to a friend who is built like a tree?”

“A twice-broken nose, an ear swollen from too many punches, and countless scars are all easily overlooked if you’re after a companion for one night and your only requirements are friendly and large.” Owin smiled despite his words.

Wolfe broke the resulting silence. “Now I feel cheated. I’ve only ever known Owin’s kisses, though friendly is not how I would describe them.”

His smile grew when Dahl turned to gape at him. Maschi, between them, had also let his mouth fall open.

“Hear, hear,” added Aubrey playfully, drawing Owin’s attention back. “We should all pity those who have never experienced Owin’s kisses.”

If Owin had been eating, he would have choked. He coughed regardless, thinking of his dull brown hair, now matted with sweat, and the bashed-in bridge of his nose, and the misshapen shell of his ear, and his hands, big, certainly, but not elegant as Aubrey’s were.

“Perhaps today is the day someone else will discover them,” Denys suggested, gently enough to remind Owin of their younger years, and past, easy intimacies.

“From the sound of it, it’s far too late for anyone here.

” Margaret could not conceal her smile this time.

She did not mention herself, although she could have.

Though, then Owin supposed the two of them had done their share of drunken cuddling, which may have counted in the tally it seemed the others were making, but not kissing, which may not have.

Margaret looked sly. “Except possibly Steph.”

Owin pursed his lips but pointedly said nothing. Steph sputtered, and that was all it took to have Bartlemeo and Dahl roaring with laughter.

“Was it a very cold night for you too, Steph?” Bartlemeo asked.

“I was drunk, and I—” Steph, wisely, cut himself off, only to hiss at Bartlemeo. “It was no more than I did with you.”

Dahl laughed harder, pausing only to wipe a tear from his eye. “This is the best Ara in the history of them.”

“Am I the target of the day?” Owin wondered idly. “These were hardly secrets. I highly doubt that all of you are surprised.” He was a little surprised. None of them seemed that deep into their cups. “This is—mostly—far in the past.”

“There must be someone,” Bartlemeo mused, ignoring him, “aside from Maschi, I mean.”

Owin’s gaze went to Maschi without his conscious direction.

Maschi was still, his hands flat on the table, his head tilted as though he had been glancing back and forth between Dahl and Wolfe.

His cheeks were dark. His lips remained parted, perhaps the softest Owin had ever seen them.

But it was only for one more moment. Then he shut his mouth and scowled down at the table, and nothing short of divine magic could have taken the tension from his shoulders.

It was a joke at Owin’s expense, not his, and it was not done maliciously, but Owin was too far away to explain it and doubted Maschi would listen to him if he tried. He and Maschi were not close in the way Maschi was with Dahl or Wolfe.

Wolfe must have had the same realization about Maschi’s discomfort because he said something to him in a voice too low to be heard at the distance and patted his hand.

Or perhaps Maschi’s discomfort was not about that at all, and Maschi was a young man, near to be a priest, who was shocked at what he’d heard.

Or perhaps Maschi could not believe so many people would seek out Owin for a bedpartner.

Owin did not make a dashing figure like Aubrey or Wolfe.

“No chance for you there, Owin,” Steph remarked, with sympathy but also lightly, because it was only a joke among them.

“I did not expect there to be,” Owin answered and doubted Steph would bother to read his tone.

Maschi looked up. He was still and severe and sharp, like an unhappy priest, after all… or a young man furiously embarrassed with nowhere to hide.

For that, Owin looked away first, to his ale and the last pair of Steph’s cakes. He took one, merely to annoy his friend, and kept his eyes on that for some time.

HE could not be comfortable. Owin did not like think someone was angry with him if he had done nothing to deserve their anger, and liked even less feeling that one of his friends was upset with him.

But this was a different sensation altogether, something akin to guilt, although he would not have called it shame.

He had nothing to be ashamed of. It had not been his choice to start publicly discussing his past affairs—if they could even be called that.

And he refused to feel sorry for acts done with mutual comfort and pleasure in mind.

And yet, Owin was not at ease. He generally avoided priests, and his ability to read was limited and slow, so he wasn’t knowledgeable of their Book or their rules about such things.

The little mage might not be a priest in his heart, but his education would have remained the same, and there was no telling if he knew or suspected that two of the priests tasked with teaching him were often found in each other’s beds.

But if he condemned either the acts between men or the casual nature and number of those acts, then his friendship with Wolfe, to say nothing of Dahl, was odd.

Dahl was, at the moment, sitting at the opposite end of Owin’s table, rather loudly flirting with nearly everyone who passed by. Aubrey had vanished with some bold creature, and Steph had left some time ago, seeking out trouble, if Owin had to guess.

Wolfe had gotten up the moment Dahl had left his table, off to parts unknown, leaving Maschi alone and still obviously unhappy at the center of a half-circle of empty cups.

Perhaps it was a different matter to know for certain that one’s friends sometimes engaged in sinful behavior.

Maschi was a sheltered thing. He did not venture out into the world unless it was at the Duke’s command, and even then, he stayed among the priests or the guards.

He did not go to inns or wine shops, or even to the places in the village where, on days like today, there would be dancing.