Page 41 of Prize of the Warlord
Wait—the Warlord’s arms?
He told me not to touch him. But apparently he didn’t have the same rule in place for himself, because he’s draped over me.
The floor creaks faintly, and I shove his big heavy arm away so I can sit up. Kaja has prowled into the room, her white fur shining in the crack of light between the shutters.
The Warlord’s room looks rather like the front hall of the lodge, only much smaller. It’s furnished with a solid wooden bed frame, its posts stenciled with runes and simple patterns. On the ceiling above is a crude painting of a woman, legs spread while a man thrusts between them. Around the pair is a wreath of mountains that resemble breasts and trees that look rather phallic.
“It’s intended to promote fertility,” rumbles the Warlord, and I jump, startled. “Gods!” I gasp. “Warn a person before you wake up.”
He laughs then, a rich masculine ripple of humor.
I grin at him. “I love your laugh.”
Side by side in the bed, we smile at each other, the air between us rosy with quiet longing. His gaze settles on my mouth, and as his lips drift nearer, I lean in to meet him in that magical place where the sunlight beams into the room, where dust floats like diamond flecks and everything is golden and possible…
And then someone clears their throat from the doorway of the bedroom.
Zeha. And she doesn’t look pleased. Neither does the chestnut-haired woman, who stands behind her.
“Tell me you didn’t rut with her,” says Zeha sharply. “If you did, we’re ruined.”
“He didn’t,” I say, and he snarls, “I didn’t,” at the same moment.
“Good. I’ve had another message from her people.” Zeha holds up a scrap of paper. “This time it’s good news.”
“Another message?” The Warlord throws back the covers and I whimper as heat escapes and cold rushes in, bathing my legs.
He’s bare-chested, clad only in trousers, and he tugs on a loose shirt, to my great regret. I love his body more than I can express—I don’t think I will ever get tired of looking at it. I only wish he’d let me touch it freely.
But the message—the message means I might be going home—maybe even today. It means another harrowing journey through perilous lands, back across the Bloodsalt, and through the mountains. It means returning to my parents’ fortress where I’ll stay under guard until my wedding to Prince Havil, after which I’ll live at his family’s castle in Cheimhold for the rest of my life, secure and protected, coddled and cared for to my heart’s content.
Except my heart won’t be content—can’t be, now that I know how big the world is, and how many people are suffering in it.
The Warlord steps over to Zeha, taking the note from her, but the woman with the chestnut hair advances, catching his arm. “Why is she in here? I chained her in the storage room, yet I find her in your bed? What does this mean, Cronan? You and I had an arrangement.”
“An arrangement, not a vow, Olsa,” he says.
“What has she done to you?” Olsa lays a palm along his cheek, inspecting his face. “Do youcarefor this scrawny little whore?”
He jerks away from her and unrolls the missive.
As he’s reading, Kaja coils her massive body and leaps onto the bed with me, settling in at my side with her rump on the Warlord’s pillow, facing her master and the two women. The tiger’s weight presses warm against my leg. I can’t deny the feeling of savage victory that rises in me, because I have two magnificent predators under my spell—the white tiger and the Warlord himself. I stroke Kaja’s head and risk a tiny triumphant glance at the chestnut-haired woman, Olsa. She’s glaring at me. If eyes were spears, I’d be dead.
47
The more of the message the Warlord reads, the deeper his frown grows.
“Don’t be angry, Cronan,” Zeha says. “I contacted the Prince myself during our trip back, to save you from having to make an unsuitable marriage. The terms of the bargain are different from what you wanted, but still good for our people.”
“This is all wrong,” says the Warlord, in a tone of utter exasperation. “We need land below the mountains, not in them. I wanted good flat land for farming, with a town nearby for trade.”
“They won’t yield that to us unless we take it by force,” Zeha protests. “Or unless we do what the other warlords suggested—kill this girl as a warning, and take more valuable hostages. We either invade, or we broaden our campaign of terror, kidnapping more of their noble children and killing them if the ransoms aren’t paid. Or you can accept this bargain as the best we are going to get.”
The Warlord crumples the thin paper and shoves it back at her. “I don’t like this deal.”
“Money and land. It’s what you wanted.”
“Not enough money, and the wrong land.”
