Her Warrior Slave. Michelle Willingham
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The initial outline was good, but he hadn’t captured her spirit yet. ‘Was that all you wanted?’
Maybe she would leave. But no. She sat down upon one of the tree stumps. Crossing her wrists over one knee, she added, ‘I don’t like being here. But I suppose you’ll need to finish your drawings.’
The honesty did not bother him. He preferred a forthright conversation and a woman who spoke her mind. ‘I can’t say as I like being here either.’
She stared at him, as if questioning whether he was trying to be funny. Then she dismissed it, asking, ‘Did you remember to eat? Or was that too much of an inconvenience?’
‘I have the supplies Davin sent.’ They were of the lowest quality, the bread heavy and coarse. Nevertheless, he’d eaten the food in solitude.
Picking up the board he’d used the other day, he began sketching her eyes. A deep sea blue, they held such sadness. Haunted, they were. ‘I saw you weeping this morn.’
‘It’s none of your affair.’
True enough. Though women cried often, it wasn’t something he liked to see. His sisters often used it to their advantage, weeping whenever they wanted something. They’d known he would relent to their demands.
Seeing Iseult weep was another matter. He sensed that her grief went beyond anything Davin could fix. Or perhaps it was because of Davin.
‘We all have our secrets,’he answered in turn. ‘Keep yours, if you will.’
Changing to another piece of the board, he drew her mouth. It was symmetric, rather ordinary. Never had he seen it smile, not even around her betrothed.
She straightened, looking even more uncomfortable. ‘Will this take very long?’
He set down the charcoal. ‘You are free to leave, any time you wish.’
‘Unlike you. I know.’ She crossed her arms. ‘Don’t think I haven’t considered leaving. But the sooner I get this over with, the less time I have to spend here.’
He kept his attention focused on her mouth, though he gripped the piece of charcoal harder. As he drew and time passed, her lips began to soften.
He’d been wrong. This was not an ordinary mouth. Full and sensual, when she let herself relax, this was a woman any man would want to kiss. Would she taste as good as she smelled?
The piece of charcoal slipped from his fingers. Stop thinking about her.
Iseult rested her chin in her palm, her attention upon the glowing hearth, pensive and quiet. He liked the way she felt no need to fill up the silence with chatter.
He sketched more angles of her face and eyes, continually switching the angle of the charcoal to gain a sharper corner. At last, she spoke again.
‘Did you truly carve the figure of that boy? Or was that a lie?’ Without waiting for a response, she continued, ‘I suppose you’d say anything to Davin to get your freedom.’
‘I don’t lie.’ He tossed the charcoal aside, reaching for a different piece. There was no need to argue his skill. The wood itself would offer the evidence.
He heard the sound of liquid pouring, and Iseult brought him a cup of mead, crossing the room to stand beside him. He didn’t have time to hide the drawing.
She drank from her own wooden cup, tilting her head to look at it. ‘You haven’t drawn my face at all.’
He’d sketched four different expressions for her eyes. On another part of the board, he’d drawn her mouth. He wasn’t satisfied with the drawing yet, for it had not captured her.
‘No. It isn’t necessary to draw a complete face.’ He accepted the cup and set it down beside him.
‘Why not?’
Because he had already memorised it. Because a woman with her beauty would not be easily forgotten.
He drank of the mead, savouring its sweetness. ‘Because I’m good at what I do.’ Setting the cup aside, he picked up the charcoal again. This time he focused on the curve of her cheek, the softness of her ear.
She leaned in, watching him, and her scent tantalised him again. Sweet with a hint of wildness.
‘Show me what you’ve carved so far.’ Her quiet request slid over him like a caress. He knew she meant nothing by it, but the nearness of her made him react.
Críost, he wasn’t dead. She would make any man desire her. Her eyes looked upon him with doubts.
‘No.’He rarely showed his work to anyone, not until it was finished. They wouldn’t understand the patterns and gouges, nor the intricacy, until the end. ‘It’s only an outline with the background removed.’
‘I don’t believe you carved that figure.’
She was so close now. He could reach out and touch her, thread his hands through the silk of her hair. See if it looked as soft as he suspected.
‘And I don’t care what you believe.’He didn’t temper his tone. She was trying to provoke him into revealing what he’d carved. He’d not fall into that snare.
‘If you’re so eager to admire yourself, you’ll just have to wait a few days.’
Her lower lip dropped in disbelief. ‘You’re unbearable.’
He tossed the board aside. It clattered against the side of the hut, startling her with the sudden movement. Unbearable, was he? She had no idea.
He captured her wrist, drawing her forward until she stood before him. ‘That’s right, a mhuirnín. And you’d do well to stay away from me.’
He gave into his desires, tilting her head back to face him. And learned that her hair truly was as soft as he thought it would be.
She stared at him with shock, her mouth drawing his full attention. A few inches further, and he’d have a taste of her forbidden fruit.
He held her there, waiting for her to strike out at him. Cry out for help to the guard she’d brought. But she didn’t say a word, just stood there watching him. Only the faint trembling in her hands revealed what she truly felt.
He released her, and Iseult stumbled away from him, pushing her way past the door.
Only after she’d gone, did he realise he was also trembling.
Chapter Five
Iseult hardly spoke during the evening meal. She was still shaken by the slave’s sudden move. Her skin had blazed with unwanted heat when he’d cupped her cheek. It had been a warning, not an act of desire. So why had she found it difficult to breathe? Possibly it was just humiliation. She could have Kieran whipped for touching her, if she confessed it.
But she didn’t want to be the cause of another’s suffering. The slave hadn’t truly done any harm, only embarrassed her.
She reached out to her cup, but found it empty. She knew better than to ask Davin’s mother Neasa for more wine. Though Iseult was their guest at dinner, Neasa made no secret of her displeasure about the forthcoming marriage. A beautiful older woman, her shining black hair showed no signs of greying, and her figure was the size of a young girl’s, despite the three children she’d borne. She smiled up at her son, nodding for a slave to refill his cup.
Davin poured half of his drink into her empty one. Iseult sent him a grateful look. Leaning in, he whispered, ‘You look lovely this night.’
Her skin reddened, but she murmured, ‘Thank you.’ With her eyes, she sent him a silent plea: Let me leave. I want to go home.
But he didn’t seem to see it.
‘Will you hunt on the morrow, Davin?’Neasa inquired.
‘I will, yes. I intend to take