Ronan's Bride by Gayle Eden

arms at the elbow.
    He let go and murmured, “Hurt?”
    “Aye.” She laughed and winced. “All the way to the shoulder.”
    “Come to the yard—bring Isola if you wish, and watch the men train. Find something equal to it, but not at the weight, to get muscle flexible and to strengthen again. Every movement of the fight can be agony if your body and arms are not used to it.”
    She nodded and flexed her fingers.
    Looking at him. Sefare said softly, “Lord John had means to do that. Before he let us have blades at all, we used sticks. However, Illara and I had to run, to jump and flip, and carry burdens half the day. He would laugh at times and shake his head, because Illara would push herself too hard.”
    “And you?” Ronan searched her face, taken by how it changed when she reflected on a good memory. God’s truth, beyond beauty, she was a fascinating woman. For a man who had never allowed himself to be close to one—until Illara, and still that was not like…this…
    “He would call me, little star, only in another tongue.” Sefare was saying, “He bragged to my father, who though he loved me, thought the thing an indulgence only. I was an apt student, but lacked aggressiveness. In those days, I had no anger in me. He said I was bright and quick.”
    His gaze captured hers. “I would say a cool head conquers in battle. And ‘tis true. But anger can fuel beyond what the body can endure.”
    She nodded.
    He went to the swords, unwrapped, and looked through them, then wrapped them again. “Take these back, and return.”
    She did, and whist she was gone, Ronan sat against the wall, in the cool space. He wondered how to train her without touching her. How to touch her, look at her, without being stirred. He could not summon his anger at it—because it made no difference. He could feel the anger, and still feel his body and senses stir when around her.
    She entered again, and for the first few steps, he saw the outline of her torso, thanks to sunlight behind her. The slack in the linen shirt allowed him to see her tapered waist. The trousers fit snug, laced in front. She had slim hips, a rounded backside. Too well, he noted, as she drew close, she had shallow breasts that though the linen covered, did not prevent the nipples from prodding.
    He stood and for a moment forgot why he had her return—forgot all—save that she was Sefare and lovely and his body was tight, blood warmer, heart beating deep and fast.
    “Is something amiss?”
    He blinked and realized she was staring at him, searching his face behind the mask.
    “Nay,” he answered gruff. Then, telling himself he was mad, he said, “Go through the exercise Lord John showed you, without a weapon.”
    She nodded and he sat down again, more because he felt off balance, but also to seriously observe. He was attending as she began movements similar to Illara’s. It was the same, making a small target, using litheness and speed, more graceful than lethal, though it served the same purpose.
    Somewhere in watching, he again recognized her as a woman, female…his eyes wondering to the curve of her jaw, the small of her back, the glisten on her throat when she turned his way. Those were things he had never observed up close, never realized were stirring.
    Focused, she ignored when her hair grew damp on her nape and brow.
    Ronan could not.
    When she stopped, breathing hard, and facing him, a race of hunger shot through him hard and fast enough to evoke another mental image; moist skin, parted lips, breathing hard…it was easy for him to equate it with sex.
    Just when Sefare noticed the intensity, he did not know, but she did, and he knew it. For a moment, Ronan did not, or rather could not, mask it, and it doubtless was showing in his eyes.
    Sefare wet her dry lips and suddenly turned from him, keeping her back that way while she drank from the wine skin.
    Eyeing that slim back, the shirt damp, clinging to her skin, Ronan saw something more—something