Page 22 of Prize for the King
I shake my head once. “It’s… unseemly for a princess to ride astride. I… I learned how to ride with both legs on one side. Without… spreading them.”
My face heats as I explain. It all feels dirty and indecent, but when I glance at Magnar, bracing for another taunt, his face looks painedrather than gleeful about my misery.
“I won’t let you ride alone,” he says with a sigh. “Besides, that side-saddle technique sounds unsuitable for long-distance travel. How long was your longest ride?”
I hate to admit he’s right, but there’s no point in lying. “Two hours, give or take.”
He nods, then suddenly, he’s on his knees at my feet, his large palms circling my ankle under the hem of my dress.
I gasp, forgetting my tongue as he swiftly runs his hands up my calf, over my knee, and higher. They stop and linger where the ribbon tying my stocking around my thigh presses into my flesh. For a shocking, indecent moment, he caresses the bare skin of my inner thigh; then he’s up faster than lightning as my dress drops back around my feet.
I’m dizzy and a thousand times hotter than before.
“That won’t do,” Magnar says, his voice neutral, face wiped of emotion. “Come with me.”
VII Hard
I stumble when he leads me toward a large tent, his steps so much faster than before. He stops with a thwarted growl when I can’t keep up, supporting me so I don’t fall. When we set off again, he moves more slowly, but his shoulders are tense.
He pulls back the flap of the tent and motions me inside. It’s almost empty, a few bags gathered in the middle. It smells of leather and beeswax, scents I associate with men, and I look around with trepidation.
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask, hugging myself.
“If you leave your thighs bare like this, they will be rubbed raw by noon,” he says calmly, searching for something in one of the bags. “Here.”
I stare at a garment made of thick linen, dark blue and clean. I don’t understand what it is until Magnar sighs and stretches it between his hands, still crouching.
It’s a pair of short trousers of sorts with an opening in the front. My face burns when I realize it’s some kind of male underclothing. Very indecent for him to show me, even if he’s my husband.
“Well, come here,” he says with impatience when I stand still, scared and offended. “We need to be off already. I want to reach our nearest castle before dark.”
“I… But whatisit?”
He closes his eyes briefly, running a hand over his face. I squirm, feeling like an imposition, even though he’s taking me away against my will and I don’t even want to be here.
“Oh, darling,” he sighs with pity. “This is my underwear. It’s clean. I want you to wear it so the skin on your thighs is protected. You will still hurt in the evening, don’t get me wrong, but at least you won’t bleed. Please come here and put them on.”
“And… and that?” I ask, pointing at the opening.
“That’s for when I want to piss,” he snaps. “I’m not going to hurt you for fuck’s sake. I only want to help.”
I flinch at the ugly word but step closer, hesitating. Magnar doesn’t stand up from his crouch, a position that doesn’t bring his face lower than mine, anyway. When I’m within the reach of his long arms, he fists the skirt of my dress and pulls me closer.
“Put them on and let’s be off,” he grits out, angry and impatient.
I swallow my dignity and do as he says. I don’t want to hurt or bleed.
Magnar holds the underthings stretched open over the ground, and I step into them easily. The trouser legs are wide, and when he pulls the fabric up, I realize they hang as low as my knees. I’ll be well and truly covered.
“I can do it,” I hiss when Magnar fumbles with the string around my waist, both his arms buried under my skirts until the underclothes are securely fastened.
“No need. It’s done.”
He stands up and marches out of the tent, releasing a long, angry breath, his fists clenched. I glare after him, forgetting decorum for a moment. This man is utterly insufferable, and I hate him today even more than yesterday.
Trying not to think about the fact I’m wearinghis underthings, Ileave the stifling heat of the tent and go over to Magnar’s horse. Khay, who’s already mounted his, gives me a cheerful wave I don’t return. The way he towers above me, so high on the enormous horse, gives me vertigo.
“Khay, Arvi, Raduna, all good? Ready, princess?” an angry voice barks right above my ear.
