would’ve gladly let a horrse kick me, if it meant he paid attention to me.”
“Is that true, Sara?” Lance’s voice sounded softer. “Do you want my attention?”
“Yes.”
Liquid sheened the surface of Lance’s eyeballs. “You don’t need to hurt yourself to get my attention, Sara.” More face wrinkling. “Not anymore. I promise.”
* * *
“You sound hoarrrse,” Rhiain remarked at camp that evening after they’d eaten and gathered around the bright, crackling fire.
Lance cleared his throat. It was true. He’d spent the afternoon talking to Sara while they walked up and down hills. She’d soaked up every word—but still only responded when asked a direct question. Lance was determined not to feel disappointed. Her desire for his attention was a step forward, and his plan was working: she hadn’t hurt herself again.
“You should grrroom her.” Rhiain licked her own shoulder.
Lance blinked at the mental picture that conjured up. While both he and Sara could probably stand a bath, he didn’t want Sara stripping down to wash up in the stream with Bertramus about. The merchant had been uncharacteristically silent all afternoon, as if offended by something Lance had said or done.
Lance couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Baths will have to wait until tomorrow when we reach Gatetown,” he told Rhiain.
“Bathe in waterrr?” Rhiain flattened her ears. “I meant, you should brush her furrr.”
Rhiain’s cat-like reaction to the idea of a bath amused Lance. “Well, Sara? Shall I brush your hair?”
“I don’t know.”
Across the fire, Bertramus sniffed, no doubt outraged by the idea of a man waiting on a woman. That made up Lance’s mind. He fetched the brush from the bottom of his pack and had Sara sit while he knelt behind her. After a day toiling up and down hills, wispy straggles of hair had escaped her braid.
First he removed the tie, then unplaited the braid with his hands. Freed, it fell to her mid-back. The hair felt thick and healthy, but some of the inevitable road dust had dulled the rich brown.
From habit he began to brush it with brisk efficiency, but slowed when his strokes hit a tangle. He couldn’t trust Sara to tell him if it hurt, so he had to be very careful not to pull. And there was no reason to rush, was there? He took his time, being thorough, admiring the way the firelight cast shifting flickers of gold among the wavy strands.
And then Sara leaned back into his touch. Lance suddenly became aware that she was sitting between his spread thighs, close enough that he could feel her warmth.
An answering heat rose in return. He wanted to pull her closer, flush against his hardening body. Kiss the nape of her neck and cup her breasts, while she moaned and arched her back—
But they weren’t alone, and Sara was more likely to ask him why he was kissing her neck than do any of that. Because she wasn’t herself yet.
Her soul is disconnected from her body .
What had Cadwallader meant? Frustrated, Lance eased his aroused body away from Sara’s tempting one—only to have her scoot right back up against him. He swallowed. “Sara?”
She turned her head. “Yes?” Her eyes were calm blue pools, echoing none of the desire thrumming through him. But then she hadn’t screamed when she stuck her hand in boiling water either.
Disconnected.
His pulse jumped. Maybe his task was to connect body and soul.
“What do you feel when I brush your hair?” What had made her lean back against him, seeking his touch?
“My scalp tingles.”
“Does it hurt?”
She shook her head.
Do you like it ? But that was the wrong question. “Does it feel pleasant?”
“Yes.”
Triumph surged through Lance, but he had to be sure. “And is pleasure as interesting as pain?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
Praise Loma. Lance closed his eyes, feeling a rush of hope. He resumed brushing her hair even though his arm muscles protested.
He had a way to reach her now, a bridge
“Is that true, Sara?” Lance’s voice sounded softer. “Do you want my attention?”
“Yes.”
Liquid sheened the surface of Lance’s eyeballs. “You don’t need to hurt yourself to get my attention, Sara.” More face wrinkling. “Not anymore. I promise.”
* * *
“You sound hoarrrse,” Rhiain remarked at camp that evening after they’d eaten and gathered around the bright, crackling fire.
Lance cleared his throat. It was true. He’d spent the afternoon talking to Sara while they walked up and down hills. She’d soaked up every word—but still only responded when asked a direct question. Lance was determined not to feel disappointed. Her desire for his attention was a step forward, and his plan was working: she hadn’t hurt herself again.
“You should grrroom her.” Rhiain licked her own shoulder.
Lance blinked at the mental picture that conjured up. While both he and Sara could probably stand a bath, he didn’t want Sara stripping down to wash up in the stream with Bertramus about. The merchant had been uncharacteristically silent all afternoon, as if offended by something Lance had said or done.
Lance couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Baths will have to wait until tomorrow when we reach Gatetown,” he told Rhiain.
“Bathe in waterrr?” Rhiain flattened her ears. “I meant, you should brush her furrr.”
Rhiain’s cat-like reaction to the idea of a bath amused Lance. “Well, Sara? Shall I brush your hair?”
“I don’t know.”
Across the fire, Bertramus sniffed, no doubt outraged by the idea of a man waiting on a woman. That made up Lance’s mind. He fetched the brush from the bottom of his pack and had Sara sit while he knelt behind her. After a day toiling up and down hills, wispy straggles of hair had escaped her braid.
First he removed the tie, then unplaited the braid with his hands. Freed, it fell to her mid-back. The hair felt thick and healthy, but some of the inevitable road dust had dulled the rich brown.
From habit he began to brush it with brisk efficiency, but slowed when his strokes hit a tangle. He couldn’t trust Sara to tell him if it hurt, so he had to be very careful not to pull. And there was no reason to rush, was there? He took his time, being thorough, admiring the way the firelight cast shifting flickers of gold among the wavy strands.
And then Sara leaned back into his touch. Lance suddenly became aware that she was sitting between his spread thighs, close enough that he could feel her warmth.
An answering heat rose in return. He wanted to pull her closer, flush against his hardening body. Kiss the nape of her neck and cup her breasts, while she moaned and arched her back—
But they weren’t alone, and Sara was more likely to ask him why he was kissing her neck than do any of that. Because she wasn’t herself yet.
Her soul is disconnected from her body .
What had Cadwallader meant? Frustrated, Lance eased his aroused body away from Sara’s tempting one—only to have her scoot right back up against him. He swallowed. “Sara?”
She turned her head. “Yes?” Her eyes were calm blue pools, echoing none of the desire thrumming through him. But then she hadn’t screamed when she stuck her hand in boiling water either.
Disconnected.
His pulse jumped. Maybe his task was to connect body and soul.
“What do you feel when I brush your hair?” What had made her lean back against him, seeking his touch?
“My scalp tingles.”
“Does it hurt?”
She shook her head.
Do you like it ? But that was the wrong question. “Does it feel pleasant?”
“Yes.”
Triumph surged through Lance, but he had to be sure. “And is pleasure as interesting as pain?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
Praise Loma. Lance closed his eyes, feeling a rush of hope. He resumed brushing her hair even though his arm muscles protested.
He had a way to reach her now, a bridge
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