He wrapped the dagger and sheath in the velvet and returned it to the chest. When winter warmed to spring, he’d send her home weighted down with gold; enough that she could buy her own personal cannon, but he hoped she would treasure this token of his respect and remember him.
For the first time in nearly a week, she rejoined the rest of his household in the solar that evening and took a place among the women to create charms for weaving through the greenery hanging in the great hall. The table Cinnia usually shared with Ambrose as they worked to bind his spells and potions recipes into books was littered with heaps of what looked like refuse raked from the forest floor—dried rue, artemisia and rowan berries, birch bark carved with runes and ribbons strung with oak galls. The women laughed and chatted as they worked, their soft voices accompanying the comforting snap of the fire in the hearth.
Ballard observed them for a while, his gaze resting on Louvaen longest as he admired the way her dark hair shimmered in the firelight. Gavin sat next to him and Ambrose near the fire. All three nursed goblets of ale and discussed what tasks they had before them the next day. For an hour or two, he could fool himself into thinking this was how it had always been, how it would be for years to come—his small household sharing camaraderie. Here he spent time with his son, his trusted friends and a generous, if prickly-tempered lover. As a young man, he would have rebelled against such peaceful domesticity, eager to wage war and prove his prowess to his peers. Time and malediction had mellowed him; he appreciated the quieter moments, especially transitory ones like these.
When the hour grew late and the fire burned low, their little gathering broke up. Ambrose escorted Magda, Joan and Clarimond out of the solar. Ballard suffered a sinking disappointment in his gut as Gavin offered an arm to each sister and was taken by both. Louvaen had not accepted his invitation to spend the night in his bed. She hadn’t declined either, and after their time in the buttery earlier in the day, he’d been almost sure she’d agree. He was wrong.
Both women curtsied and bid him goodnight. Ballard searched Louvaen’s face but saw nothing in her expression that hinted at her thoughts. He nodded, offered an abrupt “goodnight” of his own and turned his attention back to the fire. He was still brooding in his chair a half hour later when a soft knock interrupted his meditations. The door opened, and Louvaen stepped inside wrapped in a heavy robe with her hair loose and brushed into sleek waves. Her bare toes curled against the cold floor, and she gave him a knowing grin.
“Still wish to share that comfortable bed you keep boasting about?”
He was out of the chair and across the room before she could take another breath. She squeaked in protest when he crushed her in his embrace. “You will grant me mercy, mistress?”
She pushed against his chest until he loosened his hold on her. “More than you’re showing me.” She dragged in a deep breath “If you hold me like that in your sleep, I’ll not last until morning.”
He kissed her; a slow, deep welcoming punctuated by soft growls that made her sag in his arms and moan in his mouth. His hands journeyed across her back and thighs, rising to grip her buttock as his hips thrust against her
When they broke apart, she stared at him with hooded eyes. “Bed? Or are you going to let my feet freeze to the floor?”
He swung her into his arms and pushed open the door connecting his bedchamber to the solar. The fire in the hearth had almost guttered, smothering the chamber in shadows. At Louvaen’s impatient squirming, he reluctantly set her down to tour his retreat. She halted before the bed and glanced over her shoulder at him. “Not a mere boast when you said your bed was big. I think you’d need a map to find a person in this thing.”
He came up behind her and slid his arms around her waist. She leaned back and tilted her head so he could nuzzle her neck. “I’ll not let you far enough from me to need a map,” he whispered in her ear.
He turned her to face him and removed her robe. She wore a linen shift that highlighted the shadows of her tightened nipples beneath the cloth. Ballard paused in undressing her to admire her body’s outline; the slender waist and long legs, the fragile ridge of her collarbones and elegant slope of her shoulders. Light from the hearth fluttered over her skin, burnishing it a pale golden color. Statuesque, with the bearing of a queen and the grace of a sylph, she made him burn.
Her shudder snapped him out of his reverie. He divested her of the shift and paused at the linen loincloth banded around her hips and between her legs. Louvaen swatted his hand when his fingers slipped beneath the waist edge. He grinned, kissed her and palmed one of her small breasts. “I can be a patient man.”
With no such obstacles stopping him, he stripped bare, carried Louvaen to the bed and dove under the mountain of covers and furs with her. He almost shot right back out to grab the closest weapon when Louvaen screeched and leapt on top of him.
“Sweet goddess,” she exclaimed. “The sheets are like ice.”
Ballard knocked his head against the bolster and exhaled hard enough to lift strands of her hair. His arms closed over her back to hold her still while his heart did its best to slam through his rib cage.
For one horrifying moment he thought Isabeau’s roses had slithered through the window and coiled under his bedclothes, waiting for his return and the chance to trench his flesh bloody with their barbs. The image of them ripping away at Louvaen sent the bile surging up his throat. He glared at her and beat his terror into submission with a lie. “Are you trying to kill me? With all that carrying-on, I thought someone had stuffed a hungry dragon under the blankets.”
“I might ask you the same thing.” She gave an affronted huff of her own. “At least a dragon would have kept the blankets warm. I didn’t expect a dip in your bed would feel the same as the dip I took in your frozen pond.” She settled her weight harder on him, melding her body to his from shoulder to knee. Her fingers followed the angle of his jaw and curve of his nose. “Do you have a hatred for warming pans or a nice toasty brick?”
Ballard trailed his hands down her spine to her buttocks, sketching lazy circles over her smooth skin. “I do now if this is what happens when I don’t have the sheets warmed.” He kissed the fingertip wandering across his lower lip. “Forgive me. I didn’t think of that small comfort. I’m not bothered by the cold.”
“Obviously not.” She flashed him a grin and shifted until his erection nestled between her cloth-wrapped thighs.
The curse offered one or two unexpected boons, and his altered eyesight had its benefits. Even in the bed’s curtained darkness, he saw every detail of her features—long eyes with heavy eyelids, the prominent nose and angular cheekbones, full mouth and sharp jaw. She was beautiful in a way Isabeau had never been—that regal inner strength carved into the very bones of her face. Ballard thought her breathtaking. “Kiss me,” he ordered.
She complied instantly, still smiling as her lips met his. They spent several moments like that, buried under the covers and exchanging kisses that were, by turns, languid and passionate. When they paused to breathe, Louvaen did an odd thing. She covered his eyes with one hand, took it away and repeated the action.
Ballard frowned. “What are you doing?”
She shrugged. “Black as a demon’s heart in this bed. I can’t see my hand in front of my face, but I can see your eyes; like an owl’s, all glowing and round and lit from inside.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “I never thought I’d bed a giant bird. What do you see with those eyes?”
He flipped her on her back so quickly, she gasped. Ballard rested his weight on his elbows so as not to crush her. “You mock me,” he said in his most threatening voice: a difficult task when her thighs parted and she raised her long legs to grip his hips.
Her fingers kneaded the muscles in his neck. “Only in the kindest way,” she teased. “And I very much like your gold-coin eyes.”
“Owls eat mice.”
She snorted. “Didn’t you call me a wolf earlier? I’ve yet to witness an owl eat a wolf.”
“This owl does.” He lunged at her and buried his face in her neck. She shrieked with laughter as he growled and snuffled at her throat, trailing soft nips from her jaw to the top of her shoulder. She twisted in his arms when his fingers scuttled up and down her ribs, jabbing a knee into his side as she tried to avoid his tickling. Their play turned serious when Ballard nipped a line down her chest. He paused and blew a stream of warm air over one nipple. Louvaen moaned and grew still except for her hands. They gripped his shoulders, nails digging hard into his flesh. He took her breast into his mouth and suckled, his weight holding her down as she arched and whispered encouragements.
