words but thoughts and wisdom. ’Tis not the way of an ordinary lass. It makes me wonder if ye are an angel sent to change my warring ways, for ye did appear suddenly in the midst of a battle. Are ye a messenger, a spirit that protects and offers guidance? From whence came ye, mistress?”
She wasn’t certain if he was serious or teasing her. But, she knew she had to change the direction of things quickly. “I am no spirit but a woman born of an earthly father and mother, and mortal enough that I felt the prick of briars when you tossed me on my erse in the bracken.”
That actually produced a chuckle, and she almost swooned with relief. He did not speak of what happened again, but that did not mean he had forgotten it. She did her best to ignore the fact that blood, recently flowing in human veins, was now drying upon her legs. Silence, she decided, wasn’t half-bad, for it gave her time to take in the stark beauty of the hills lined up beneath the fading blue sky and the hidden hollows of the moors.
They had been riding for quite some time when they approached another burn, this one larger and slower flowing than the previous one. Bordering it were spiny clumps of yellow-flowered gorse and weedy fronds of green bracken, as dense as thickets. The nearby hills seemed gaunt and inhospitable, their gorges littered with rocks, reminding her of the place where she had fallen.
Alysandir drew rein and dismounted. He placed his sword on the grassy slope before he turned and pulled her from the saddle and into his arms. He stood looking down at her for a moment and then, without speaking, carried her to a boulder close to the gently flowing water.
He set about unsaddling his mount before he led Gallagher to the burn to drink. Alysandir rubbed the pony down with dry grass and then dropped to his haunches beside the water and washed himself in what had to be freezing water, for the air temperature had to be hovering around 60 degrees.
There was no conversation, and she was beyond thrilled to have this rare opportunity to watch a warrior of old, for this was history in the making, and she was in the midst of it. Speechless, she observed how he ministered according to the code of chivalry and viewed the sequence of his priorities: first the damsel, then his horse, and his own needs last.
He rinsed his sword and used sand and grass to clean the dried blood from the blade. She observed the beauty of the motions as he performed each task. She had a feeling those hands would stroke a woman’s body with the same practiced ease and mesmerizing skill, and the thought made her mouth dry. By the time he replaced the sword in his scabbard, his horse was grazing nearby.
She watched him walk to the edge of the burn, where he removed his bandolier and dropped it to the ground. Then he removed the chain byrnie and washed as much blood from it as possible before he placed it on the grass to dry in the sunlight. He pulled the shirt he wore beneath the byrnie over his head and she swallowed hard. She admired the finely hewn muscles of his back and the powerful forearms. The next moment, she was shocked into stupefied silence when he removed his boots and started to unhitch his chausses. She should have looked away.
It was an intensely sensual moment, and she felt lost in it. She wanted to touch him, to know the scent and texture of his skin, to feel the muscles of his warrior’s body, to discover if he was real. She had not realized he was watching her. Their gazes locked, and he made no move to break the visual connection—waiting for her to do what any lady would do and look away, but she was frozen in place and her body did not seem to speak the same language as her mind.
She thought she saw the faintest hint of a conquering smile, just before he gave her his back and peeled the tight trews away from his body. And there he was, naked as a needle, and she was forced to stare at his bare backside with the driest mouth and wickedest
She wasn’t certain if he was serious or teasing her. But, she knew she had to change the direction of things quickly. “I am no spirit but a woman born of an earthly father and mother, and mortal enough that I felt the prick of briars when you tossed me on my erse in the bracken.”
That actually produced a chuckle, and she almost swooned with relief. He did not speak of what happened again, but that did not mean he had forgotten it. She did her best to ignore the fact that blood, recently flowing in human veins, was now drying upon her legs. Silence, she decided, wasn’t half-bad, for it gave her time to take in the stark beauty of the hills lined up beneath the fading blue sky and the hidden hollows of the moors.
They had been riding for quite some time when they approached another burn, this one larger and slower flowing than the previous one. Bordering it were spiny clumps of yellow-flowered gorse and weedy fronds of green bracken, as dense as thickets. The nearby hills seemed gaunt and inhospitable, their gorges littered with rocks, reminding her of the place where she had fallen.
Alysandir drew rein and dismounted. He placed his sword on the grassy slope before he turned and pulled her from the saddle and into his arms. He stood looking down at her for a moment and then, without speaking, carried her to a boulder close to the gently flowing water.
He set about unsaddling his mount before he led Gallagher to the burn to drink. Alysandir rubbed the pony down with dry grass and then dropped to his haunches beside the water and washed himself in what had to be freezing water, for the air temperature had to be hovering around 60 degrees.
There was no conversation, and she was beyond thrilled to have this rare opportunity to watch a warrior of old, for this was history in the making, and she was in the midst of it. Speechless, she observed how he ministered according to the code of chivalry and viewed the sequence of his priorities: first the damsel, then his horse, and his own needs last.
He rinsed his sword and used sand and grass to clean the dried blood from the blade. She observed the beauty of the motions as he performed each task. She had a feeling those hands would stroke a woman’s body with the same practiced ease and mesmerizing skill, and the thought made her mouth dry. By the time he replaced the sword in his scabbard, his horse was grazing nearby.
She watched him walk to the edge of the burn, where he removed his bandolier and dropped it to the ground. Then he removed the chain byrnie and washed as much blood from it as possible before he placed it on the grass to dry in the sunlight. He pulled the shirt he wore beneath the byrnie over his head and she swallowed hard. She admired the finely hewn muscles of his back and the powerful forearms. The next moment, she was shocked into stupefied silence when he removed his boots and started to unhitch his chausses. She should have looked away.
It was an intensely sensual moment, and she felt lost in it. She wanted to touch him, to know the scent and texture of his skin, to feel the muscles of his warrior’s body, to discover if he was real. She had not realized he was watching her. Their gazes locked, and he made no move to break the visual connection—waiting for her to do what any lady would do and look away, but she was frozen in place and her body did not seem to speak the same language as her mind.
She thought she saw the faintest hint of a conquering smile, just before he gave her his back and peeled the tight trews away from his body. And there he was, naked as a needle, and she was forced to stare at his bare backside with the driest mouth and wickedest
Similar Books
