Chapter Six
“Your father mustcommand a powerful army of men for Bennett to be so afraid to lose them,” Sir Torin remarked on their way out of the bailey.
They rode their horses, she upon her stallion, Archer, and he upon Avalon.
“We can gather a thousand men,” Braya told him, and then flicked her horse’s reins and galloped away, not caring about armies or Bennett or fighting. She’d sparred with Torin and had nearly beaten him, and he hadn’t scorned her. He’d complimented her!
She hadn’t beaten him though. If it had been a real fight, he would have killed her. She wasn’t big and muscular like the men. Strength was not her weapon. Speed was. She was as quick as lightning. He was quicker, stopping her from getting her blade close to his neck. And then…then he’d turned her around and…she thought of his strong body trapped within her legs and felt some kind of primeval desire she hadn’t known she possessed. She hadn’t wanted to release him. She’d wanted to kiss him. Millie would have cheered if she’d done it. Lucy would have turned every shade of red until she needed a fan.
Braya had felt his muscles tighten as she dismounted him. He was hard all over. He’d wanted to touch her. She had felt it in the heat of his gaze, his shallow breath against her face.
He hadn’t. She was glad. He wasn’t like the others.
If that weren’t enough, he’d easily agreed to apologize to her father and had promised to try to get Mr. Adams to do so. Everything would be well—because of Sir Torin.
They thought the sun would remain, but the skies grew overcast as soon as they left the walls of the castle. They didn’t turn back but let their horses fly across the moors.
They rode southeast, toward Carleton, staying clear of Hetherington territory in the northwest.
One of the things every reiver prized was a fast horse. Many times, the ability to escape quickly meant life over death. Avalon was mesmerizing to watch. She appeared and sounded surprisingly light on her hairy hooves; poor Archer couldn’t keep up, though he gave her a good run. They reached a tavern with a stable hand just before Braya would have had to stop for Archer’s sake.
Her family knew most of the families in Carleton, like the Bells, who owned the tavern, so Braya felt confident to rest for a bit and eat.
“You do not worry that a thief will try to steal Avalon?” she asked and sat with him at a small, stained table beside a great hearth that offered too much heat for so warm a day.
“No,” he told her and glanced up at Yda, the serving girl approaching the table. “She will not allow herself to be taken. Any thief who touched her would not be a thief for long. Not a good one without any fingers.” He smiled and Yda giggled above them.
“Greetin’s, Braya.” The serving girl’s cheeks were so red Braya thought she had rubbed some kind of flower on them to make them so. But it was just Torin and his large, soulful eyes and shapely mouth. “Who is your companion?” she asked, feigning coyness behind hooded lids.
“Sir Torin Gray,” Braya told her, wishing proper decorum didn’t dictate that she had to answer.
He flicked his gaze to Yda then graced Braya with a slanted grin that made her catch her breath. “I’m hungry, so bring me plenty of whatever Miss Hetherington is having.”
“What if she were havin’ frog legs and pig innards?” Yda asked, resting one hand on her hip.
Torin rubbed his flat belly. “I would say, double my portion.”
Braya laughed and Yda stomped away, having failed at her attempt to seduce him.
“You are not having frog legs and pig innards, are you?” Torin asked her, leaning in with the slightest sign of a more genuine smile seen first in his eyes.
She shook her head. “Porridge and dates.”
His full mouth relaxed and curled. A shaft of light came through a nearby window and fell on his silvery-green eyes. He dipped his head to shield his eyes beneath the soft curls of burnished bronze and gold that had come loose from a tie behind his head.
Braya did not blame Yda for fawning over him. He was perfectly crafted, but Braya wanted to know what kind of man had grown from being orphaned at five. He smiled easily, though she had caught sight of something he was hiding—something that lurked in the fathoms of his eyes and darkened his soul.
What was it? She saw it in him while he was practicing. He’d moved like a wild beast, tearing and killing in a mad lust for blood. Why had she allowed him to attract her, touch her, tempt her to spend more time with him than she should? Who was he? A mild-tempered man who was good with his sword? Or someone far more dangerous? What was she doing here with him, wanting to know more about him? Who taught him to fight? Had he loved? Did he have a wife now?
“You are very kind to offer your apology to my family,” she said, feeling as if the room and the other four tables in it were spinning slowly.
He turned from looking out the window at the darkening skies and studied her. She wanted to ask him what he had been thinking about.
“Do not compliment me for something I do solely to please you, Miss Hetherington.”
Why would he do something solely to please her? It didn’t please her to think his apology wasn’t sincere, but her insides still went warm over it.
“Whatever the reason, you have my thanks,” she said. “And you have my thanks also for stopping me from stabbing the warden earlier. I’m trying to avoid a war, not start one.”
