The Winter King
Page 55
But at what price?
Without warning, the tent flaps parted. Cold air swirled in. Khamsin gasped and slapped her hands over her br**sts just as Wynter ducked into the tent, a steaming kettle in one hand and a cloth-covered pot of something that smelled delicious in the other.
All worry over what she might have done evaporated in an instant. Her mind went blank. Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t have moved if her life depended on it.
He was nearly naked. Bare-armed, bare-chested, with shoulders so broad and arms so powerful, he looked like he could bear the weight of the world. Over seven feet of impressive golden muscle, clad in nothing but a grayish white, animal-pelt loincloth and a pair of furred boots strapped to rock-hard calves. Silvery white hair spilled down his back and over his shoulders like a snowfall. The air outside was frigid, but he seemed not to notice it at all. His vivid eyes, pale and piercing, fixed on her with breathtaking intensity.
“You’re awake.” The look in those eyes made Khamsin shiver and squirm. She’d always thought herself immune to the intense sensual passions that afflicted most Summerlanders. Until now. Just the sight of him made her body melt as if she’d eaten arras straight from the tree.
The flare of his nostrils and the faint, satisfied curve that lifted one corner of his mouth told her he knew it.
Damn him for finding it so amusing. And damn her for not being able to look away.
“Where are we?” she asked, forcing a coolness she was far from feeling.
“About two hundred miles south of the Rill. We set up camp here when you fell ill.”
The Rill was the border river that separated Wintercraig from Summerlea. If they were still two hundred miles away, they’d barely traveled ninety miles north of Vera Sola. “How long have we been here?”
“This is the fifth day. The night before last, your fever came to a head. You’ve been sleeping ever since.”
He walked towards her. She stared, fascinated, at the ripple of muscle in his legs and the hard, carved definition of his chest and flat abdomen. The front of his loincloth bore a very distinctive, very large bulge. She licked her suddenly dry lips. The bulge twitched and grew visibly more pronounced. Oh. My.
“Have a care, woman.” His voice was a low, throbbing growl. It vibrated across her skin and raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck. “If you didn’t need food more than I need a good f**king, I’d flip you over right now and fill you ’til you scream and beg for mercy.”
She should have been shocked by his raw coarseness. Spring and Summer would have gasped in outrage. Autumn would have slapped his face. But she, wild, mannerless heathen that she was, only shuddered with helpless lust. Images from her wedding night flashed across her mind on a hazy rush. Silken skin, unexpectedly soft and fragrant, sliding against hers. Broad hands skimming across her, touching her in ways that made her gasp and quake. A burning mouth, raining fire upon her flesh.
She wrenched her thoughts to the present and her eyes away from all that dangerous, seductive skin and that impressive jut of flesh straining against his loincloth. She forced her gaze back up to his face.
Then wished she hadn’t. The look in his eyes was stark and stunning, as powerful and elemental as any storm she’d ever conjured from the skies.
His gaze dropped lower, and she could have sworn blue flames leaped to life in the center of his eyes. She glanced down and realized her hands had slipped from their protective clasps over her br**sts. The burnished bronze of one nipple was peeking out between her fingers.
She gasped and snatched a fur, bringing it up to cover herself.
“Don’t.”
The simple command made her freeze. Then scowl. She cast him a defiant glance and pulled the fur higher.
“We both know I’m only going to take it from you before you leave this tent.”
She’d never backed down from a challenge in her life. Not even when retreat served her best interests. Her fingers tightened around the pelt, and she arched one dark brow in return. “You can try, Winterman.”
“I’ll do more than that, Summerlass.” He drew closer and sank to his knees beside her in a single, fluid motion, setting pot and kettle on the ground before him. The long, thick muscles in his thighs bunched and flexed as they absorbed his weight. He smelled of wind and snow, fresh and clean and brisk. Power, a mix of magic and male, swirled around him with dark mystery, deepening his scent with an underlying core of danger. Even without his magic, he would be a formidable man. One to be wary of.
“Here.” The rounded top of the kettle was a removable bowl. He plucked it free and poured a stream of steaming liquid into it, then offered it to her. “Drink. You’ve been too long without food. And be careful. It’s hot.”
The liquid was a rich brown broth of some kind, and the scent of it made Khamsin’s stomach growl. Suddenly, she realized how famished she truly was. Securing the pelt beneath her armpits, she reached for the bowl and brought it to her lips. The first sip nearly scalded her, but pride wouldn’t let her gasp and fan her mouth to cool the sting.
He removed a cloth from the pot to reveal a deliciously scented, stewed meat of some kind. “This is borgan,” he said. “A mix of venison, wild boar, and fowl, flavored with basil, wild onion, and sweetberry and stewed until the flesh falls apart.” A small spoon hung from the edge of the pot. He freed it and handed it to her. “It’s flavorful, but easy to digest. Try a bite.”
She was too hungry to refuse. She dipped the spoon into the borgan and brought it to her mouth. The meat was meltingly tender and slightly sweet. “It’s delicious,” she said, dipping her spoon a second time.
Without warning, the tent flaps parted. Cold air swirled in. Khamsin gasped and slapped her hands over her br**sts just as Wynter ducked into the tent, a steaming kettle in one hand and a cloth-covered pot of something that smelled delicious in the other.
All worry over what she might have done evaporated in an instant. Her mind went blank. Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t have moved if her life depended on it.
He was nearly naked. Bare-armed, bare-chested, with shoulders so broad and arms so powerful, he looked like he could bear the weight of the world. Over seven feet of impressive golden muscle, clad in nothing but a grayish white, animal-pelt loincloth and a pair of furred boots strapped to rock-hard calves. Silvery white hair spilled down his back and over his shoulders like a snowfall. The air outside was frigid, but he seemed not to notice it at all. His vivid eyes, pale and piercing, fixed on her with breathtaking intensity.
“You’re awake.” The look in those eyes made Khamsin shiver and squirm. She’d always thought herself immune to the intense sensual passions that afflicted most Summerlanders. Until now. Just the sight of him made her body melt as if she’d eaten arras straight from the tree.
The flare of his nostrils and the faint, satisfied curve that lifted one corner of his mouth told her he knew it.
Damn him for finding it so amusing. And damn her for not being able to look away.
“Where are we?” she asked, forcing a coolness she was far from feeling.
“About two hundred miles south of the Rill. We set up camp here when you fell ill.”
The Rill was the border river that separated Wintercraig from Summerlea. If they were still two hundred miles away, they’d barely traveled ninety miles north of Vera Sola. “How long have we been here?”
“This is the fifth day. The night before last, your fever came to a head. You’ve been sleeping ever since.”
He walked towards her. She stared, fascinated, at the ripple of muscle in his legs and the hard, carved definition of his chest and flat abdomen. The front of his loincloth bore a very distinctive, very large bulge. She licked her suddenly dry lips. The bulge twitched and grew visibly more pronounced. Oh. My.
“Have a care, woman.” His voice was a low, throbbing growl. It vibrated across her skin and raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck. “If you didn’t need food more than I need a good f**king, I’d flip you over right now and fill you ’til you scream and beg for mercy.”
She should have been shocked by his raw coarseness. Spring and Summer would have gasped in outrage. Autumn would have slapped his face. But she, wild, mannerless heathen that she was, only shuddered with helpless lust. Images from her wedding night flashed across her mind on a hazy rush. Silken skin, unexpectedly soft and fragrant, sliding against hers. Broad hands skimming across her, touching her in ways that made her gasp and quake. A burning mouth, raining fire upon her flesh.
She wrenched her thoughts to the present and her eyes away from all that dangerous, seductive skin and that impressive jut of flesh straining against his loincloth. She forced her gaze back up to his face.
Then wished she hadn’t. The look in his eyes was stark and stunning, as powerful and elemental as any storm she’d ever conjured from the skies.
His gaze dropped lower, and she could have sworn blue flames leaped to life in the center of his eyes. She glanced down and realized her hands had slipped from their protective clasps over her br**sts. The burnished bronze of one nipple was peeking out between her fingers.
She gasped and snatched a fur, bringing it up to cover herself.
“Don’t.”
The simple command made her freeze. Then scowl. She cast him a defiant glance and pulled the fur higher.
“We both know I’m only going to take it from you before you leave this tent.”
She’d never backed down from a challenge in her life. Not even when retreat served her best interests. Her fingers tightened around the pelt, and she arched one dark brow in return. “You can try, Winterman.”
“I’ll do more than that, Summerlass.” He drew closer and sank to his knees beside her in a single, fluid motion, setting pot and kettle on the ground before him. The long, thick muscles in his thighs bunched and flexed as they absorbed his weight. He smelled of wind and snow, fresh and clean and brisk. Power, a mix of magic and male, swirled around him with dark mystery, deepening his scent with an underlying core of danger. Even without his magic, he would be a formidable man. One to be wary of.
“Here.” The rounded top of the kettle was a removable bowl. He plucked it free and poured a stream of steaming liquid into it, then offered it to her. “Drink. You’ve been too long without food. And be careful. It’s hot.”
The liquid was a rich brown broth of some kind, and the scent of it made Khamsin’s stomach growl. Suddenly, she realized how famished she truly was. Securing the pelt beneath her armpits, she reached for the bowl and brought it to her lips. The first sip nearly scalded her, but pride wouldn’t let her gasp and fan her mouth to cool the sting.
He removed a cloth from the pot to reveal a deliciously scented, stewed meat of some kind. “This is borgan,” he said. “A mix of venison, wild boar, and fowl, flavored with basil, wild onion, and sweetberry and stewed until the flesh falls apart.” A small spoon hung from the edge of the pot. He freed it and handed it to her. “It’s flavorful, but easy to digest. Try a bite.”
She was too hungry to refuse. She dipped the spoon into the borgan and brought it to her mouth. The meat was meltingly tender and slightly sweet. “It’s delicious,” she said, dipping her spoon a second time.
