Page 4 of Prize of the Warlord
“I can’t with everyone watching,” I whisper.
“You’re not pissing yourself on my horse. Take care of it now.” He braces both hands on his hips, which makes his heavy cloak spread wider—almost like a curtain between me and his men. He’s still facing me, but their view is mostly blocked.
Turning my back to him, I shimmy off my wet useless underwear and hold my nightdress so that I’m sort of covered while I do my business. Somehow I avoid splashing my soft shoes and my skirts, but the lacy underwear is muddy now, so I leave it behind.
Without being told, I walk around my captor toward the horse. He lingers for a moment, maybe to relieve himself as well—and his men are already beginning to move forward along the passage.
I have another opportunity to escape.
My captor’s words echo in my mind…Next time make it a challenge.
5
I want to flee, and I have a bare instant in which to make the attempt.
My entire body is practically convulsing with cold. I can’t feel my fingers or my nose.
But if I wait until later to run, I’ll be even farther from home.
Desperately I lunge for the big black horse, gripping the saddle and trying to pull myself up. But I’m too short, too frail—I can’t make it. I don’t have the strength to steal my captor’s horse and ride to freedom.
With my foot stuck in the stirrup, I hang there, a breathless sob escaping my throat.
“Stealing my horse would not end well for you,” says Deep-Voice, pulling my foot free and placing me bodily onto the saddle again. “He is loyal to me. He would toss you and trample you.”
With numb fingers I try to pull the fur covering around myself. “I’m so cold,” I whisper.
For a second Deep-Voice hesitates. Then he unclasps his hooded cloak and flings it over the horse’s rump.
I dare not look too openly at him, so I only catch a glimpse of strong features and a mane of hair the color of ripening wheat. Many of the northern raiders are blond, so his hair color doesn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is the bold straight line of his nose, the granite slash of his jaw, and the swell of his cheekbones. His face has a fierce, unexpected beauty.
He unbuckles his breastplate and cinches it to a loop at the back of the saddle. Beneath the breastplate, he’s wearing a big, loose, fur-lined tunic, folded over his chest and secured by a belt. He picks the knot of the belt free before putting on his cloak and mounting the horse again.
Divested of his chest armor, his body at my back feels different—still hard, but less metallic.
And then—he opens the flaps of his tunic and pulls me straight against his bare chest.
He wraps the tunic around both our bodies and pulls his cloak over us both as well, followed by the fur covering he gave me.
Now I’m flush against the hard, hot planes of his torso—and I’m too stunned and petrified to protest.
We pick up the pace again, riding on through the secret pass. Against my will, against my desire, the heat from my captor’s body begins to seep into me, softening the knots of freezing pain in my chest and gut.
My bare legs are still nearly frozen though, half-draped as they are by my damp nightdress and the edge of the fur. My head bobs with weariness as we ride on, and on, and on…
…
A jolt, and the back of my skull slams against the gigantic collarbone of my captor. My eyes fly open—and I nearly scream.
It’s morning, misty and gray, but clear enough for me to see that we’re picking our way down a steep mountainside. The trail is a series of switchbacks, bordered on one side by a pebbled slope that looks as if it might avalanche at any moment, and on the other side by steep drops, sheer cliffs of rock plunging down to the plain below.
“Just kill me now,” I gasp.
“And waste all the time I spent fetching you?” My captor’s voice reverberates through my spine, my ribs, my lungs. His skin is so deliciously hot against my back—I wish I could curl up my cold legs and press them into the heat as well.
“How much farther?” The words leak through my clenched teeth.
He doesn’t answer.
