Page 73 of Bride of Mist
Dougal didn’t bother correcting her about “your wife.” Nor did he argue that they’d be doing nothing to make noise. He simply gave her a nod, wondering how perilous it was to be sleeping one thin wall away from the King of Scotland, and then closed the door.
Already Feiyan was cooing excitedly over the steaming water and weaving as she walked toward the bed, stripping off her clothes.
Before he could hang up his cloak, she’d tossed hers onto the pallet.
As he placed his sheathed dagger on a table by the hearth, she kicked off her boots and peeled off her hose.
By the time he eased the satchel from his shoulder, she was down to her shift.
And when she pulled that last thin linen garment off over her head, the satchel fell from his fingers with a loud thump.
Chapter 19
Feiyan couldn’t wait to get into the warm water. She was accustomed to bathing in the cool loch at home, and after the last few days of trudging through the mud, climbing through branches, and shivering in a hailstorm, a hot bath sounded heavenly.
As for disrobing in front of mac Darragh, perhaps owing to the strong ale she’d imbibed at supper, she didn’t even think twice about it. She’d never been ashamed of what she possessed. Besides, to most people, she was generally invisible.
So when she glanced up as she was pouring hot water into the cold and saw the stunned Westlander staring at her with his mouth agape, she didn’t understand at first.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Naught’s wrong,” he croaked.
But she’d glimpsed a different answer in his smoldering eyes, his flaring nostrils, his tense jaw. She might be invisible to others. But Dougal saw her. Saw her and desired her. No one looked at her like he did.
That was more intoxicating than the ale. She felt his gaze like a caress over her body, gliding over her shoulders, grazing her breasts, sliding down her legs, drifting back up to linger in the curls at the crux of her thighs, and then locking once again on her eyes.
He broke away then with a sharp cough, going to the hearth, stabbing at the fire as if it were a snake that needed killing.
But the effects of his brief perusal lingered, making every inch of her skin tingle. When she finally eased into the water, the prickling melted into a lovely warm glow, as comforting as the flame of a candle.
“This is heavenly,” she sighed.
He frowned. “Take care with that gash.”
“What gash? This?” She held up her arm for him to see. “’Tis a scratch.”
He grunted in disapproval.
“You remind me of my cousin Gellir,” she mused, drizzling water over her knees with the linen rag. “So serious.”
“I’m on serious business.”
“Oh aye,” she said with a wink. “I keep forgetting I’m a hostage.” She sighed, resting her shoulders back against the linen-padded edge of the tub and closing her eyes. “Though I doubt ’twill come to that.”
“What do ye mean?”
She opened her eyes. She hadn’t meant to let that slip. She had to be more careful. Her security depended upon him believing that Rivenloch was bearing down on Castle Darragh.
“I mean…after that scuffle in the woods with outlaws, we’re allies now, aye? As Sung Li says, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“Sung Li?”
“My teacher. The one who taught me how to use those weapons.” She nodded to the satchel.
“Ye must have had an interestin’ childhood,” he said, settling onto a chair by the fire and trying to keep his eyes averted.
“Oh aye. Sung Li was my mother’s teacher as well, a great master of fighting. ’Twas Sung Li who said I was destined to be as swift and elusive as a bird. I was named after an empress of China, Zhou Feiyan, the ‘flying swallow.’”
