Page 57 of Bride of Mist
Now, however, he was the one held captive. Fearful of disturbing her peaceful slumber, he was compelled to stay immobile, despite the numbness in his arm.
In the gaps of the pines, the ground was patchy white with residual hail. But the first fingers of sunlight were already melting any lingering evidence of the storm. Where golden beams appeared through the branches, wisps of mist escaped the mulch of the forest floor and steamed off the black trunks of oak and ash to vanish into the air, like faeries of the night fleeing the sun.
He half expected his fey hostage to vanish as well. She was certainly as beautiful and enchanting as a creature of the faerie realm. As he gazed down at her sweet face, he found it difficult to imagine she’d come to kill him.
Dark tendrils of her hair curled across her pale cheek. Her delicate nostrils fluttered subtly as she breathed. Her lush brows arched over tender eyelids fringed by thick, long lashes. And her supple pink mouth, like a budding rose blossom, opened as if in invitation.
In another time and place, he might have stolen a kiss from such delicate lips. If she were a coy maiden like the servant Merraid, who flushed pink and giggled in his presence, he might have availed himself of her unspoken request.
But Feiyan was no blushing servant.
She was a warrior maid.
He gazed down again at her lovely face. To be honest, she looked nothing like any warrior maid he’d imagined. But he didn’t dare underestimate her. She’d proved a formidable opponent before. If her impressive mastery of various weapons was any indication, she was a force to be reckoned with, despite her small size.
It was by sheer luck that she hadn’t made good on her assassination attempts.
He doubted he would be so lucky when it came to her clan, which even now was bearing down on Darragh.
Whatever happened, he had to make sure he delivered Feiyan to her clan in unspoiled condition. Unmarked by blade, sickness, or even a stolen kiss.
Already he’d failed. She was soaked to the skin. Filthy with mud. And he’d be surprised if she didn’t fall ill from exposure to the elements.
He dared not make that mistake again. She was probably the most treasured jewel in the Rivenloch clan. He had to treat her with the utmost care. Making her sleep in wet wool in the middle of the woods in a hailstorm was not acceptable.
He needed to find better accommodations, even if they came at a cost. There were more gemstones left in his dagger. Enough to afford dry lodgings and hearty fare. It would be wealth well spent.
He was calculating how many days until they reached the castle when she began to stir.
Feiyan snuggled closer to the warm body, absorbing its delicious heat. The sun filtered through her eyelids, beckoning her to rise. But she was comfortable as she was, dozing in a dreamy fog, only half aware of the waking world.
It was the soft breath on her face that finally roused her. When she blinked her eyes open in alarm, she realized three things at once.
One, she’d let down her guard to the man she’d targeted for assassination.
Two, she’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, practically on top of him.
And three, she’d be content to stay there a while longer.
The last thought was the most distressing.
With as much dignity as she could muster, she mumbled, “Good morn,” and extricated herself from his embrace.
Immediately, the world felt colder and more hostile. The damp wool of her clothing clung to her like moss to a tree. The ground beneath her was spongy with rain. And in the gap left between them, the sudden rush of chill air made her shiver.
“Did ye sleep well?” he asked.
Was that a hint of amusement she heard? It was probably uproarious to him that the woman meant to murder him had slept in his arms all night.
She glanced up at him just as a shaft of newborn sunlight hit his eyes. Had they been so blue before? This morn, they were as vivid as a robin’s egg.
“Aye,” she croaked.
“Good.” He swept his fingers through his black locks, trying to give them a semblance of order. “If we get an early start, we can reach The Stag’s Head Inn by nightfall. Get a proper meal, a hot bath, a decent bed.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to protest. She was a warrior maid after all. Viking blood flowed in her veins. She was no delicate flower requiring soft puddings, feather pallets, and…
A hot bath?
