Page 58 of Bride of Mist
That did sound lovely.
She grunted in approval.
The offer was in the Westlander’s own best interests, of course. He was no fool. Now that he knew she was a warrior maid of Rivenloch, he would do all he could to stay in the clan’s good graces, including treating her like royalty.
Now that he’d promised her a few luxuries—luxuries that were sounding better and better with each passing moment—she was in no hurry to confess that the Rivenloch clan was not actually headed for Castle Darragh. Perhaps she would tell him the truthaftershe got that bath.
She made hasty ablutions at a spring that fed into the river while he packed up their things. She had just one request before they embarked on their journey. Something that would make her feel less vulnerable in his presence. Something that would make her feel like the empowered, competent, capable warrior maid she was.
“I’d like myshoudaoback.”
“Your what?”
“My sword.”
“This?” he said, placing his hand atop the hilt of her weapon, already fastened around his hips. “After ye tried to kill me last night?”
She lowered her gaze. “I won’t try again.”
“Ye’re a warrior maid” he scoffed. “Killin’ is in your blood.”
It sounded brutal when he said it that way. She wasn’t a killer. Not really. The Rivenloch warriors only killed when there was no other choice.
She sighed. “I swear I won’t harm you.”
“Ye can swear all ye want. But ’twill be easier to keep your oath without the temptation of a blade.” He turned to head down the trail.
She bristled and scurried up behind him. “Are you questioning my honor?”
“’Tisn’t a matter of honor. ’Tis a matter o’ sense.”
“Sense?” She shoved past him, planting herself in the middle of the trail to block his way.
“Aye,” he said, stopping inches from her. “I’ve got the sense not to arm a lass keen to slay me.”
“Youwantedme to slay you.”
“Not anymore.”
She scowled. “Bloody hell. I could have killed you last night. But I didn’t.”
The cocky grin that bloomed on his face was infuriating. “Och aye. But then ye couldn’t very well snuggle in the crook o’ my arm all night if I were cold and dead, could ye?”
Her cheeks flamed, and she couldn’t sputter out a reply.
“Now,” he said, “shall we go? ’Tis a long journey to The Stag’s Head.”
She stamped her foot. “Damn you! Not until you give me my blade.”
He lifted his brows in disbelief. “Did ye just stamp your foot at me?”
“So what if I did?” she said, crossing her arms. “Your attitude is bloody vexing.”
He clucked his tongue.“Myattitude? If I return your blade, how can I trust ye won’t thrust me through the next time ye lose your temper, foot-stamper?”
She could think of no response that wouldn’t prove he was right. Which was doubly aggravating. Because he was wrong. Feiyan wasn’t short-tempered. At least not under normal circumstances.
Now, however, his high-handed dismissal of her request had sparked something in her. A fiery fury bubbling under the surface. One that could rival that of her cousin Jenefer.
