things as he went: the edge of her dressing table; the long oak table that dominated the side of the room, the post at the corner of the bed. He touched everything he passed, brushing it with his fingertips as if testing its quality.
Or laying claim.
“They are reluctant to surrender.” He ran his hand gently over a small beveled glass perfume bottle on her table. It rocked slightly but did not fall. “It seems they await a word from you on the matter.”
“Fools,” she said aloud, but inside, she smiled. Loyal, wonderful fools.
“Aren’t they?” His gaze slid to her. “I do not need their allegiance, of course. But neither can they stay at Rardove in their condition.”
Their rebellious condition.
“No, of course not,” she agreed.
His red-and-black tube tunic, belted at the waist, stretched taut across the flat plane of his stomach as he reached across the table. She saw a thin tendril of paint curling up the back of his neck, like a vine, a lick of dark flame.
She felt breathless.
Good God, was he painted everywhere ?
The corded muscles in his neck flexed as he looked over his shoulder at her. She ripped her gaze up.
“And you are their fire. More wine?”
She stared stupidly at the cup in his hand. “I am their…what?”
“Fire. The thing they kindle themselves on.”
This was a shocking observation. “Me?”
“Aye. You.”
“You are mistaken,” she said, intensely startled. “I assure you, I am as baffled as you why my men would be so reckless in such a lost cause.”
He gave a soft laugh. “I did not say I was baffled.”
Something about the low, slow way he said the words sent a trail of heat flaring through her body.
He set down the refilled cup of wine on the table next to her. She regarded it grimly, then looked away, not without effort, because it truly was exceptional wine. She peered up at him suspiciously. He was toying with her. Dragging out whatever punishment or unpleasant consequences he had plann—
“Have you been treated well?” he said.
“I have been locked in the solar, and have not yet had the opportunity to learn how your men take to their role as conquerors, nor how they treat their plunder.”
His gaze held hers, pale blue and piercing. “You mean rape.”
She hesitated, then nodded.
He watched her a moment more, then turned and dropped into the carved lord’s chair at the end of the huge oak table. Meetings of lords and princes had taken place around this table for hundreds of years, secret councils plotting coups and rebellions and marriage alliances. Aodh sprawled back, his fire-ice eyes unreadable beneath dark brows, hard fingers interlaced on his lap, his body in the pose of ease, but Katarina could feel him from across the room. His entire being was barely leashed power, like a bow drawn back, taut and ready.
He said nothing.
She desperately wanted him to say something. Anything. She also wanted more wine. She wanted something to throw at his head. Anything to break the tension.
“Where do we begin?” she asked.
“We have begun.”
The simple, ominous reply occasioned a host of chills across her chest. She swallowed. “You’ll want to see the ledgers.”
“No.”
She blinked, then curled her fingers into the wool of her skirts and tugged free the castle keys. Armory, storerooms, castle door and coffers, they held access to everything of value in Rardove. She gave them a silvery-iron jingle and held them up.
He shook his head.
“They open all the doors and coffers,” she told him, unnecessarily. Surely he knew what keys did. “You will find the account rolls. The ledgers. The coin.”
He shook his head again.
She reversed step to examine the padlocks of the nearest chest, sitting under the edge of the table. Perhaps they’d already been broken open. No, they were intact, as flat black and foreboding as ever. She turned back, feeling oddly and unaccountably embarrassed.
Their
Or laying claim.
“They are reluctant to surrender.” He ran his hand gently over a small beveled glass perfume bottle on her table. It rocked slightly but did not fall. “It seems they await a word from you on the matter.”
“Fools,” she said aloud, but inside, she smiled. Loyal, wonderful fools.
“Aren’t they?” His gaze slid to her. “I do not need their allegiance, of course. But neither can they stay at Rardove in their condition.”
Their rebellious condition.
“No, of course not,” she agreed.
His red-and-black tube tunic, belted at the waist, stretched taut across the flat plane of his stomach as he reached across the table. She saw a thin tendril of paint curling up the back of his neck, like a vine, a lick of dark flame.
She felt breathless.
Good God, was he painted everywhere ?
The corded muscles in his neck flexed as he looked over his shoulder at her. She ripped her gaze up.
“And you are their fire. More wine?”
She stared stupidly at the cup in his hand. “I am their…what?”
“Fire. The thing they kindle themselves on.”
This was a shocking observation. “Me?”
“Aye. You.”
“You are mistaken,” she said, intensely startled. “I assure you, I am as baffled as you why my men would be so reckless in such a lost cause.”
He gave a soft laugh. “I did not say I was baffled.”
Something about the low, slow way he said the words sent a trail of heat flaring through her body.
He set down the refilled cup of wine on the table next to her. She regarded it grimly, then looked away, not without effort, because it truly was exceptional wine. She peered up at him suspiciously. He was toying with her. Dragging out whatever punishment or unpleasant consequences he had plann—
“Have you been treated well?” he said.
“I have been locked in the solar, and have not yet had the opportunity to learn how your men take to their role as conquerors, nor how they treat their plunder.”
His gaze held hers, pale blue and piercing. “You mean rape.”
She hesitated, then nodded.
He watched her a moment more, then turned and dropped into the carved lord’s chair at the end of the huge oak table. Meetings of lords and princes had taken place around this table for hundreds of years, secret councils plotting coups and rebellions and marriage alliances. Aodh sprawled back, his fire-ice eyes unreadable beneath dark brows, hard fingers interlaced on his lap, his body in the pose of ease, but Katarina could feel him from across the room. His entire being was barely leashed power, like a bow drawn back, taut and ready.
He said nothing.
She desperately wanted him to say something. Anything. She also wanted more wine. She wanted something to throw at his head. Anything to break the tension.
“Where do we begin?” she asked.
“We have begun.”
The simple, ominous reply occasioned a host of chills across her chest. She swallowed. “You’ll want to see the ledgers.”
“No.”
She blinked, then curled her fingers into the wool of her skirts and tugged free the castle keys. Armory, storerooms, castle door and coffers, they held access to everything of value in Rardove. She gave them a silvery-iron jingle and held them up.
He shook his head.
“They open all the doors and coffers,” she told him, unnecessarily. Surely he knew what keys did. “You will find the account rolls. The ledgers. The coin.”
He shook his head again.
She reversed step to examine the padlocks of the nearest chest, sitting under the edge of the table. Perhaps they’d already been broken open. No, they were intact, as flat black and foreboding as ever. She turned back, feeling oddly and unaccountably embarrassed.
Their
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