MILDRED AND J.B. TOOK fourth and fifth places.
The Armorer, still surrounded by wisps of steam, knocked on Ryan’s bedroom door. He had a towel around his middle, with the Uzi slung over his naked shoulder, his misted spectacles gripped tightly in his left hand.
“Good,” he said, grinning. “Your turn.”
“Thanks.”
“How’s the time?”
Ryan checked the chron on his left wrist. “Just after four in the afternoon.”
“Think this place is safe, Ryan?”
“Guess so. I remember Clinkerscales. Nice to find someone who doesn’t spit in your face at the news that you once rode the war wags with Trader.”
“True enough. Heard him mention a baron in the region. Didn’t catch the name.”
Ryan sniffed. “You hear the name of the baron, Krysty?” he called.
“Sharpe, he said.”
“Find out more about him while we eat,” J.B. stated. “Better go get dressed.”
The door opposite opened, and Mildred appeared, still only wearing a towel. “Hurry up, John. Come and get dry, then we can get ready for supper.”
“Two hours to wait, Mildred,” Ryan called as the skinny figure of the Armorer scuttled back into his room.
“I know it, Ryan. We’ll just have to find something to do for a couple of hours.” She giggled as she closed the door.
Krysty was close to Ryan, laying her hand on his shoulder and gently squeezing the back of his neck. “We have to find something to do to pass the time as well, lover.”
“Like having a sleep?”
Her hand dropped lower, down his back, stroking his firm, muscular buttocks. He automatically tensed them at her touch. “Like rocks in a sack, lover,” she whispered.
“I’ll go take that bath and be back real quick.”
“No, lover. You and I’ll go down and take a bath and be back real slow.”
THERE WAS A STOUT BOLT on the inside of the door and only a narrow, curtained slit window, insuring complete privacy for them. Ryan had the SIG-Sauer inside his towel, and Krysty was carrying her own Smith & Wesson five-shot blaster.
Krysty leaned over and turned on the large brass tap, marked with the symbol H, smiling with pleasure as hot water gushed out.
“Looking good, lover.”
There was a bar of red carbolic soap on a shelf near the window, and a pile of fluffy towels on a bench in the corner of the bathroom.
Steam began to rise from the foaming water, and Krysty added some cold, stirring it with her hand.
“Smell the chemicals,” Ryan said. “Sort of sulfur like the hot springs we saw back.” The words trailed away as his mind snatched at the memory of Trader and Abe standing together in the stinking mists.
“Why didn’t you tell Clinkerscales about Trader?”
“Meaning he’s dead?”
“From what you said, it’s likely, lover.”
Ryan bit his lip and sighed. “Guess so. I just figured that it’s best to allow the legend to survive.”
“Probably right.” She turned off both taps. “There. Looks like enough water. Don’t want it swilling all over the floor. The door bolted?”
He checked. “Yeah.”
“Then let’s get clean.”
Krysty peeled off her clothes fastest, throwing them on a marble-topped table. “Come on,” she teased.
Ryan had unlaced the steel-tipped combat boots, tucking his socks neatly inside them. He unbuttoned the heavy-duty dark blue pants and pulled them off, adding the blue denim shirt, leaving him standing in his shorts.
Krysty put her arms tight around him, her breasts pressed against his chest. She stood only three inches below his six feet two. Her fingers traced the complex network of scars that seamed Ryan’s back.
“Every one of these could tell its own story, couldn’t it, lover?”
He kissed her on the side of the neck, her fire-bright hair seeming to caress his face. “Guess they could,” he said. “Not pretty stories.”
As her fingers roamed lower, they encountered his most recent wound, from the arrow. He instinctively winced at the touch, and Krysty moved her hand.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “Want me to try to kiss it better for you?”
Now her right hand had insinuated itself between their bodies, easing inside his shorts, finding him hard and ready.