“Lovely. Tattoos and snatching unwilling women. Is this what I should expect, how you rule your country, my lord? Something you condone?”
“Blood here runs thick and deep,” Blainor said, “as do memories. I won’t refuse my people or their customs.” He tilted his head, that infuriating amusement making a comeback. “Though I’d rather avoid it in this particular instance.”
“I’m flattered, my lord.”
“Indeed?” he murmured. “You don’t wish to be whisked away, Trisha? To become a warrior’s bride?”
“Not particularly,” she said, adding tartly, “although you have already done so in some respects,persuadingme to follow you from Normark.”
Blainor’s teeth flashed as the shadows of the dying day waned over his face. A slight movement, just a fraction, moved the air, making the distance between them seem thinner. She swallowed.
“Trust me, Trisha an Tilia. You will know when I’ve abducted you.”
Her breath caught, words refusing to form on her tongue. As though invited by her stillness, the atmosphere changed—an almost tangible tension twisted her toes.
The wind swept through the courtyard, rustling the sand, and the scent of wildflowers strengthened. The crickets’ droning grew louder.
Blainor’s gaze darkened, slowly tracing her face. “Or perhapsthatis what you wish.”
Furiously, she tried to come up with something to break the charged silence, but her tongue, always so ready to supply scathing remarks, seemed to have abandoned her.
His hand raised, the back of his index finger charting the line of her jaw—soft, fleeting, and warm. She shivered.
“Tell me, Trisha an Tilia,” he breathed out, moving closer still, the heat of his body stroking her skin. “Do you wish me to abduct you?”
The words fractured whatever spell she’d been under. She stepped hastily back, breaking the contact. Blainor’s hand lowered, but its heat lingered.
Despite her racing heart, Trisha forced herself to meet his stare. “Not this time, my lord.”
He sighed. “Shame.”
Trisha spun around, pressing her palms on the fence. Its coarse, splintered surface scratched. Even then, the memory of his touch burned stronger.
Furious at herself, she fought against the impulse to speak again. Not now. Not when he’d unsettled her so much. If she did, every word she said might invite him to push back, to force her to stare into those silvery eyes, their lapping hues. Hadn’t she already learned? Wade in those pupils for too long and she’d drown.
Facing the fencing yard, Trisha said, “Is that what you came to say? To keep my door locked?”
“Starling, is that an invitation I hear?”
“Don’t press your luck. Or I’ll show you how hard I bite.”
“Your teeth are not sharp enough. Better to keep that door locked.”
“You’re expected in the hall. Don’t let your people wait for their Warlord.”
He inclined his head with a mock bow. “As my lady wishes.”
Only after his steps retreated did Trisha release her hold on the fence. From the pressure of her grip, the grains had left shallow imprints on her palm. She surveyed the imprinted lines, battle scars from grounding herself against his teasing. And still, Trisha’s pulse kept drumming in her ears.
Blainor never told her why he came.
6
Moorhafen was exactlywhat she’d expected, and yet not entirely. A hulking stone fortress rising on top of a hillside, its turrets and walls built to guard and watch. Overlooking the moors, the fields, and the sprawling town beneath, it seemed sentient, watching. The wet wind from the west brought salt. Trisha’s lips tasted its tang, her nose recognizing its scent.
“The sea?” she asked Fjorten, who had ridden next to her while Blainor exchanged quiet words with Kaiden behind them. She pointed to the swell on their left where the tall grass swayed. “It’s beyond those hills?”
“Aye, Bard,” Fjorten said, scratching his beard. “Takes less than half an hour to walk to the shore.”
