“What?”
“I can’t read her. Can’t sense her feelings.” He smiled wryly. “Here am I, a man who can learn the feelings of anyone I choose—except for the one person I’m…curious about. It’s like her feelings are shuttered from me.”
“Perhaps that’s the attraction. She’s a mystery.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps she has no feelings,” Petra joked.
Dye answered this with a wry smile.
Petra was thoughtful. “Do you think…she has Slurian blood? Like us?”
“There’s no reason to think so. I’ve always been able to pick up your feelings.”
“Aye, but I’m different from you. While I have the Westerman night vision and the Slurian ability to physically touch others with my mind, I can’t sense others’ feelings as you can. If she’s like you, she might be able to block her feelings…or read yours for that matter.”
Dye smiled grimly. “I certainly hope she can’t read mine.”
“Oh?”
“Because I’m pretty much thinking only one thing when I’m around her.”
“She wouldn’t have to be Slurian to figure that out, Dye.”
“Nay?” he asked quietly.
“Nay. So why don’t you—”
“I’m wedding Bruthinia.”
Petra’s mouth tightened in irritation. “A political wedding,” she said softly. “That’s a mistake, Dye.”
“A peace accord with Vandaland will save a thousand lives every year. How can you call that a mistake?”
“A year ago, I’d not have argued with you, Dye. As little interest as you’ve ever shown in a woman, I’d have thought Bruthinia would do as well as anyone else. But now…” she sighed. “Give up the throne to one of our cousins and let someone else wed Bruthinia.”
“Can you think of any of them who would have her?”
“Not offhand. Does she…have any sisters? Any sisters a little less unpleasant?”
Dye was silent, his thoughts obviously not on Bruthinia.
“Are you in love with her?”
Dye laughed, frustration edging the sound. “How would I know?”
Petra nodded with a sigh. Although her brother had never lacked for female company, she knew he’d never met a woman who interested him in the least.
Some women might have called her brother ruggedly handsome, but the cliché fell short of describing the man standing before her. Dye could only be described as dangerously handsome. The long line of his body was like a mean whip, corded and wrapped with wiry strength that bunched and stretched as he moved. His hard face lacked anything that could be mistaken for tenderness. He’d left that in a distant past—a past in which their youngest brother had lived…and died. The lines that etched his cheeks, either side of his mouth, were almost cruel when a smile was not present—and he was a man who rarely smiled. The black tattoo slashing through his left eyebrow fixed his expression into a permanent, measuring frown.
“She’s like that river we grew up next to. During the spring rush. She’s wild, unpredictable. It’s breathtaking, overwhelming. She’s…a shock. A shock to my system,” he finally admitted.
“Sounds to me like she’s just what you need. I know you don’t normally fraternize with your troops, Dye, but perhaps you should make an exception in this case.”
Dye straightened with a sigh, and turned his back on his sister. “The wedding contract is signed…” he said with a tone of finality, “signed weeks ago.”
“When is the wedding to take place?” she asked him.
“Upon a resolution in the south. The binding ceremony will take place in the Palace at Amdahl, after we’ve regained it.” Dye blew out a breath. “Until then, Bruthinia will be Thrall’s guest in the Palace at Tharran.”
Petra smiled grimly. “You could always let the Saharat keep Amdahl.”
Dye nodded. “If the contract isn’t honored, the Vandals will take it as an insult. It will mean out and out war.”
And he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t break his promise of wedding and risk what would surely turn into a long, bloody conflict with Vandaland. He wouldn’t risk the lives of his countrymen. He’d give up the throne first.
And it was down to that—either give up the girl or dishonor his contract and walk away from the leadership his grandmother had entrusted to him.
Chapter Ten
“Keep your little mongrel away from my breed.”
Martigay’s head came around as though she’d been slapped.
Dressed in orange silk and mounted on her black mare, the princess snarled down at Martigay and her little stallion. “The mare’s coming into season. This animal is descended from Hoyden. I don’t want your stunted little wretch of a stud fucking things up.” With a flick of its black tail, the princess’s mare put her legs beneath her, and both mare and mistress were away.
Scarface snorted and tossed his head as Martigay leaned forward to pat his neck. “You needn’t act so innocent,” she muttered. “That’s exactly what you had in mind. And don’t bother trying to deny it.” Together they watched the mare’s back end move away, tail provocatively lifting and switching. Scarface neighed at the receding black rump and she laughed at him. “Of course she likes you. You may not be tall, but you more than make up for it with your huge…spots. Mind your manners, Romeo. We have to drop the flag.”
Circling away, she put the inn between herself and the two blacks before approaching them from the other side of the building. The race was to take place on the muddy track outside the inn, from the door of the inn to a point a half league distant.
Dye’s army lined the road to watch, while the king and his royal guests waited at the distant finish point. A word from Martigay halted the paint while she pulled out the red scarf tucked into her jerkin. It fluttered on the breeze for two instants before she let it fall. In the next moments, she was fighting to rein back her pony as the blacks took off.
Dragging the paint’s head around, Martigay forced the pony into a tight circle—but he came out of it like a tightly coiled spring and shot toward the spray of mud that followed the racing horses. Initially fighting for control, she eventually gave in with a laugh and let the pony run, moving her weight forward and hunching over his withers as he streaked forward in an exhilarating burst of speed. Reveling in the ride, in the power of the beast between her legs, Martigay laughed into the wind that rushed at her face and whipped her hair back to dance like a banner on the air.
By now the two royal breeds had what was probably an insurmountable lead on the pony and Martigay couldn’t help but laugh as the paint stretched to catch them, eating up the ground at a courageous pace as he pursued the two black rumps in the distance—his interest centered more on one rump than the other, Martigay had to assume.
At first she teased him. “Never on your best day, Scarface. Never on your best day are you going to catch that royal black ass.” The pony forged forward and Martigay watched the separating distance between them diminish. Leaning over her mount’s neck, she whispered in its ear. “Did you hear what she called you, Scarface? She called you a mongrel.”
The pony leapt a running ditch and carried on.
Now they inched up alongside Warrik’s stallion, the destroyer’s huge lungs bellowing as it labored to keep its place just behind the mare, the mud from the mare’s heels flying back to splatter the pursuing riders.
Within scent of the breeding mare, the little stallion jetted forward. Crouched up against the pony’s neck, Martigay peeked up long enough to catch a glimpse of the mare’s lifted tail. Based on this evidence, she had to conclude the mare’s heart wasn’t so much in winning the race as in losing it—to one of the stallions bearing down on her—and the sooner the better. Frisking and skittering just ahead, the mare maintained her lead for several racing steps, while Martigay saw a short whip appear in Bruthinia’s hand to smack against the mare’s flank.
At that signal, the royal black mare stuttered in its long str
ide, skidding on the muddy road. At the same time, Scarface bolted forward as though the sharp bite of the whip had seared his own flanks.
A burst of phenomenal speed, a blur of black, a flash of brilliant orange silk, and the princess and her royal mount were behind Martigay and her pony. Scarface raced for the finish point, the blacks’ thundering hooves slapping and pounding ineffectually behind the little stallion as the crowd at the finish point blossomed large with a raucous cheer of approval then disappeared behind them.
Easing the cantering pony to a halt, Martigay slid from the horse’s back and tugged to loosen the girth rope, yanking at the saddlebow as the pony walked away from beneath his saddle. “She’s all yours, Scarface. Go get her.”
Dragging the saddle along on her hip, she came up behind the princess, who was engaged in a heated argument with the big Khallic prince.
“But there wasn’t a winner!” the princess maintained as she followed the big man to where his brother stood. Warrik held out his hand and Davik put the two folded agreements into it.
“The paint won the race,” Warrik was telling the princess, opening one of the agreements, and scanning the document with his eyes.
“But the girl didn’t wager!”
Warrik regarded the fragment of parchment and shook his head. “It says here the loser of the race owes a forfeit to the winner.” With that, he handed the two pieces of parchment to the startled soldier.
The princess opened her mouth to protest but Warrik cut her off. “Where I come from, princess, wagers are always met. We Khals never renege on a bet.” Smiling at the young soldier, he winked. “I await your pleasure, Captain Martigay.”
The princess turned away with a scream.
Then screamed again to find the scruffy, unkempt little stallion mounting her royal black. The stallion’s teeth were set in the saddlebow of the black’s fine leather saddle as the mare’s back legs buckled into a crouch and she backed her hindquarters to meet the mottled shaft that sought her entrance. With eyes rolled backward into her head, the mare stilled in shivering acceptance, waiting to take the stallion’s heaving thrust.
* * * * *
“Have you demanded your forfeit from the princess?” Pall asked Martigay later that day.
Martigay shrugged. “The lady doesn’t have anything I want.”
“You could ask her to kiss your ass.”
Martigay winced in the middle of a grin. “Somehow that doesn’t seem very appealing.”
“You could ask her to kiss my ass,” Pall put to her cheerfully as Martigay responded with a crooked smile. “And while you’re at it, you could get her to shag me, as well.”
Martigay grinned suspiciously at him. “You fancy the princess?”
Pall shrugged. “She’s a looker.”
“That’s all she is,” Martigay grunted. “Setting your sights a bit high, aren’t you?”
“Speak for yourself, Martigay. You’re not the only ambitious soldier in this army.”
“I’ll give your suggestion some thought,” she told him. “Right now I’m playing with the idea of telling her to go to Hadi’s.”
“Can you get there from here?” Pall inquired with a lazy, philosophical air.
Martigay nodded. “It’s west of here. Way, way west. Overseas, I think. I’ll draw her a map,” Martigay said lightly. “And she can spend the rest of her life trying to find it.”
Chapter Eleven
“What is it about women and horses?” With these words to Warrik, Dye slid a glance sideways at Martigay.
Just for a chance to get out and ride, he’d joined a unit he was sending north to meet a supply train. Two of his messengers accompanied him, one of whom was Martigay. When Warrik had found Dye saddling his mount, the big blond had insisted on tagging along.
Warrik grinned at his friend as he considered his answer. Turning in his saddle to rest a hand on his destroyer’s rump, he took a good, long look at Dye’s Captain of Messengers—riding about twenty paces distant on their right.
“Your captain is fond of her pony?”
Dye nodded. “Uncommonly fond.”
Warrik grinned. “That little leather saddle of hers fits her like a glove.” Dye frowned at the grinning Khal and Warrik laughed at him. “I have it on good authority that a woman can come while in the saddle—riding.”
Dye turned stunned eyes on his friend. “You’re yanking my chain,” he said flatly.
Warrik shook his head. “When a woman spreads her legs in the saddle, the horse’s girth is enough to part the lips between her legs. Add a nice, well-fitting, smooth leather saddle and—” Warrik shrugged with a grin.
“No.” Dye leaned forward in his saddle to view Martigay and found her returning his gaze. “No,” he repeated uncertainly.
“She’s been watching you all morning,” Warrik pointed out.
Dye frowned at the giant blond. “No,” he repeated. “Without…?”
“…touching herself?” Slowly, slyly, Warrik nodded.
“You’re not serious. You’re messing with me.”
Warrik laughed. “Five gold says we can make her come.”
Dye considered his friend uncertainly. “How would we know? If she did?”
“We’ll know,” Warrik declared with confidence.
Although the morning was brisk, the late winter sun was bright and shone down to warm Warrik’s chest after he pulled off his doeskin jerkin, bundled it into a ball, tossed it at Dye and wrapped his reins loosely around the pommel of his saddle. The sun was almost in the middle of the sky as he leaned back, closed his eyes, and rested his hands just behind his saddle on the black’s rump. The horse’s gait lifted his hips in an undulating motion that was more than suggestive.
Dye watched Martigay while continuing his conversation with his friend. More than once, she glanced their way while the horses plodded on at a steady pace and her pony’s gait rocked her body like a loosely fluttering wave. Dye shook his head with a snort when Warrik tossed his head, shaking out his thick gold mane and then running a big hand back through his hair.
“How am I doing?” he asked Dye with a wink.
“You’re an idiot, man.”
“By now, Northman, you should know better than to insult me.”
They continued on about a half league before Warrik shifted as though he were uncomfortable, stretching his huge tiger-like frame to clasp both his hands behind his neck. Slowly, he turned his upper body—first to the left, then right—before he unwound his arms and reached for the ties at his groin.
Dye snorted. “What are you doing, now?”
“Getting comfortable,” Warrik explained easily. “Is she watching?”
“Aye…no…aye.”
Slowly, lazily, Warrik pulled on his ties to loosen them. “Still watching?”
“Aye.”
Warrik stretched lazily, hooking the top edge of his doeskins with his thumb and dragging the breeks away from his body and down. Despite himself, Dye began to laugh. “Fuck me, Warrik. You’re crazy!”
Warrik returned an easy grin. “She still watching?”
“Aye,” Dye laughed. “Everyone’s watching! You’re making a fucking spectacle of yourself.”
“Good,” he returned. “Now it’s your turn.”
“What!”
“I’m just the warm-up act. You’re the main attraction.”
Reining in his mount, Warrik turned the black’s head to come up behind, then alongside Dye’s mount, to position Dye between himself and the girl. “Get rid of that vest and jerkin,” he told him. “No. Take your time, you ignorant, northern barbarian. Don’t you know anything about women?”
In answer, Dye shot vest and jerkins at the big man’s face as Warrik caught the clothing easily. “Now rub your hands down your thighs,” Warrik suggested, his eyes on the woman across the way.
“What for?”
Warrik pretended a sigh. “Try to work with me, here, Dye. Just do it.”
Shifting in his saddle, Dye d
ragged his hands down the tops of his thighs as he watched Warrik’s eyes on the girl.
“Oh yeah,” Warrik breathed in appreciation, “she likes that.”
“Why? What’s she doing?”
Warrik ignored the King of Thrall. “Now, stand up in the stirrups and adjust your—”
“Aye, man. Aye. I get it. I don’t need to be told everything.” With his weight on his feet in the stirrups, Dye adjusted the doeskin that bunched in his crotch, which, by that time, needed adjusting. Dropping back into the saddle, he tugged at the front of his ties as though making himself comfortable. Wrapping his reins around the pommel on his saddle, he then reached up with both hands to push his long fingers back through the silken fire of his hair.
Warrik chuckled quietly. “You should see this,” he said in a low voice. “She can’t take her eyes off you.” The big blond sighed contentedly. “And all the time, that pony keeps up that steady rocking pace. I’ll bet she’s creaming for you right now. I’ll bet she’s about one inch away from arrival.”
Dye pulled in his bottom lip with his tongue. “She’s not the only one,” he muttered.
“No! Don’t look at her or she’ll be onto us in an instant.”
“What next, then?”
“Just keep it up,” Warrik advised, “while we edge our horses over toward her.”
“And why are we doing that?”
Warrik fought to snuff out his chuckle of amusement. “I want to see her eyes, see if they’re glazing yet.”
Dye glanced back at the fifty mounted men who followed them and got a quick look at Martigay when his eyes were on the way back. Her wide eyes were fixed on his upper body. Without thinking, he flexed his biceps and Warrik laughed outright.
“Okay,” Warrik said, almost strangling on his laughter. “Okay…timing is everything…I count to ten and you turn around and smile at her. You remember how to smile? Ready? On my count.”
It came about just as Warrik had predicted. At the count of ten, Dye turned toward her. Dipping his chin, he lifted his gaze to rest on her at the same time that he let the corners of his mouth kick up in a smile—then breathlessly watched her reaction as the smile unwound on his face. Her eyes were wide on his for an instant, then they half-closed and her mouth opened as her head jerked back and her body wavered and flickered like a flame.
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