Read Online Master of Crows by Grace Draven - Free Book Online Page B

the leather straps that held the gloves in place at her wrists.  His motions slowed when Martise ran the tip of her tongue over dry lips.  She blushed at his arrested expression, one which turned calculating.
    “I make you nervous.”  The rasping voice was quiet, almost caressing.
    She had no reason to lie save pride, and that was a poor reason indeed.  “Yes, Master.”  She lowered her gaze to stare at his scar.  “It’s said you are a dangerous and powerful mage.”
    A faint huff of laughter whispered above her.  “It’s also said I raise the dead, talk to the dead and eat the dead.”  He tilted her chin with a fingertip so she must look at him.  He was so close she saw the fine lines fanning out from his black eyes and the hollows beneath his cheeks.  His sensual mouth curved into a mocking smile.  “What do you believe?”
    “I believe in learning for myself instead of relying on the hearsay of others.”
    A glimmer of approval darted through his eyes before he lowered his hand and stepped away from her.  Martise sighed, relieved.  The Master of Crows was an overwhelming presence, frightening, annoying and fascinating.  Being so close to him, with her senses inundated by the force of his Gift and his very maleness, made thinking difficult.
    She stiffened at his touch on her elbow, then followed him to the ladder and her assigned tree.  The spark of warmth from moments earlier was gone.  His voice was dispassionate, instructive—that of the teacher imparting the lesson to the student.
    Silhara cupped one of the oranges hanging in clusters from a low branch and reached into an outside pocket on his satchel.  He withdrew a pair of small clippers.  “Clip the fruit gently.  If you prefer to use your hands instead of the clippers, pick like this.”  He demonstrated by carefully twisting and pulling the orange from the limb, leaving a scrap of stem and the button of the fruit.  “You still need to use the clippers to cut the stems down or they’ll pierce the fruit you’ve left and cause them to spoil.”  He snapped the remaining stem off with the clippers.  “Now you.”
    The oranges were cool to the touch, and she did as instructed, twisting and pulling one orange off with a careful tug.
    He gave her the shears.  “You can use these.  I’ve an extra pair.”
    When she demonstrated her competency to his satisfaction, he moved onto her next lesson, lifting her satchel so she could see the drawstring ties at the bottom.  “When your bag gets too heavy, release this cord.  The bottom will open, and your fruit will roll out.  I’d prefer you take them to the crates to drop them, but you’ll lose a lot of time walking the rows, so just come down the ladder and make a pile by the tree.”  His eyes narrowed.  “Don’t open the bag when you’re high on the ladder.  You’ll bruise the fruit if you let them drop that far.”
    “Where should I start on the tree?”
    Once more that derisive smile graced his mouth.  “As close to the top as you can reach.  Are you certain you aren’t afraid of heights?”
    He was goading her again.  His morning lessons had given her gray hairs, but even if they had instilled a sudden fear of heights in her, Martise wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him see it.  There were some things her pride commanded she do, slave or not.
    She gripped the clippers with tense fingers.  “Very certain.”
    “Good.  Then there’s no reason to delay.  Get up the ladder—that is if you can climb in those skirts.”
    She wordlessly handed him the clippers and dropped her orange into her bag.  In moments she had her skirts twisted around her legs like makeshift breeches, with the ends tucked securely into her cyrtel.
    This time his small smile was genuine.  “I admire a practical woman.”  He returned the clippers to her and walked away.  “Remember my instructions,” he said over one shoulder.  “Twist and pull carefully; cut the