at it again.
"'Tis eager for your touch," he assured her throatily.
"Stop doing
that," she murmured.
"Doing what,
my lady?"
"Making it
... move ... and grow."
He opened his eyes
fully. "I do not make it happen. My cock has a mind of its own. 'Tis
curious about your pretty virgin pussy and wishes to make friends, Lady Amias.
You and I may be at odds. They need not."
"You are too
coarse," she exclaimed, looking over at the screen that shielded them from
other folk in the cookhouse.
"The kitten
and the cockerel want to play," he whispered.
Despite her verbal
protests, she was plainly fascinated by his erection. Her hand continued to
move the wash rag around it. Venturing a little closer each time.
Was that a
slightly sinister smile pulling on her reluctant lips? No, she would not give
it to him. He'd have to pry it out of her.
"Tell me
something about Amias of York," he said. "Something I do not already
know."
"That is a
broad subject. The things you do not know are many."
Cocky wench! She
thought she was clever, had sneered at him for not being able to read or write.
In her eyes he was uncivilized. Compared to other men she'd known he probably
was. But however rough his manners, Stryker was not stupid. His wisdom was
merely of a different kind to the sort she recognized. "I know this, my
lady—you are one and twenty and have been rejected four times by other men.
Why?"
She blinked, paled
a little. There was a tense movement she made when she tightened her lips. He'd
noticed it earlier when she spoke of chores. Stryker knew he must have shocked
her with such a direct question.
Eventually she
said, "They found me lacking in tenderness."
It took her so
long to come up with her answer that he doubted the veracity of it. "What
else should I know of you then, Amias?"
She considered for
a while, drawing the washrag back and forth through the water. "There is
nothing of import to tell."
"Tell me
unimportant things then."
"No."
She shook her head and sat back on her heels again. Withdrawing to a safer
distance. She was skittish and wild as a fox, he mused, and probably just as
dangerous when cornered.
"If it will
put you at ease, I can tell you something about myself. Something that will
make you laugh."
Her eyelashes
lifted; her wary, quizzical gaze sought his face. "I won't laugh."
Stryker cradled
the back of his head with both hands and propped his knees over the other end
of the tub. "I fell out of a hayloft once and cracked my head open."
She frowned.
"It
mended." He tapped a fist to his temple. "But I saw double for a
time." He grinned. "And walked sideways like a crab."
No response. Just
a mystified expression.
Well, he thought
it was funny.
"And I fell
off a horse when I was fourteen, trying to impress a girl by leaping a hedge. I
landed face first in a cowpat."
The woman turned
her face away and then fumbled in her rolled up sleeve for a kerchief.
"When I was
sixteen I proposed marriage to a glassblower's pretty daughter in Marazion. But
when I sobered up I discovered that slender beauty was six foot tall with
shoulders fit to pull a plow and his name was Ned."
Amias held the
kerchief to her face as if suddenly overtaken with another sneeze. One that did
not fully materialize and sounded more like a hiccup.
"Your
turn," he prompted.
She wiped her nose
and sniffed. "I can shoot the eye of a target from two hundred
paces."
Impressed, he
smiled. "What else?"
"I had a pet
toad when I was twelve. My favorite color is black. I once ate an entire pigeon
pie on a dare."
He arched an
eyebrow. "What else?"
She sighed, took a
breath, wound her kerchief in a knot. "A soothsayer told my mother that I
would be a boy and so she chose the name Armand. I was a great disappointment,
naturally. I cried so much as a babe that the nurse put me out in a basket one
night, hoping a wolf would take me."
He'd expected a
rehearsed list of accomplishments along the lines of embroidery and cooking,
but this was far more
"'Tis eager for your touch," he assured her throatily.
"Stop doing
that," she murmured.
"Doing what,
my lady?"
"Making it
... move ... and grow."
He opened his eyes
fully. "I do not make it happen. My cock has a mind of its own. 'Tis
curious about your pretty virgin pussy and wishes to make friends, Lady Amias.
You and I may be at odds. They need not."
"You are too
coarse," she exclaimed, looking over at the screen that shielded them from
other folk in the cookhouse.
"The kitten
and the cockerel want to play," he whispered.
Despite her verbal
protests, she was plainly fascinated by his erection. Her hand continued to
move the wash rag around it. Venturing a little closer each time.
Was that a
slightly sinister smile pulling on her reluctant lips? No, she would not give
it to him. He'd have to pry it out of her.
"Tell me
something about Amias of York," he said. "Something I do not already
know."
"That is a
broad subject. The things you do not know are many."
Cocky wench! She
thought she was clever, had sneered at him for not being able to read or write.
In her eyes he was uncivilized. Compared to other men she'd known he probably
was. But however rough his manners, Stryker was not stupid. His wisdom was
merely of a different kind to the sort she recognized. "I know this, my
lady—you are one and twenty and have been rejected four times by other men.
Why?"
She blinked, paled
a little. There was a tense movement she made when she tightened her lips. He'd
noticed it earlier when she spoke of chores. Stryker knew he must have shocked
her with such a direct question.
Eventually she
said, "They found me lacking in tenderness."
It took her so
long to come up with her answer that he doubted the veracity of it. "What
else should I know of you then, Amias?"
She considered for
a while, drawing the washrag back and forth through the water. "There is
nothing of import to tell."
"Tell me
unimportant things then."
"No."
She shook her head and sat back on her heels again. Withdrawing to a safer
distance. She was skittish and wild as a fox, he mused, and probably just as
dangerous when cornered.
"If it will
put you at ease, I can tell you something about myself. Something that will
make you laugh."
Her eyelashes
lifted; her wary, quizzical gaze sought his face. "I won't laugh."
Stryker cradled
the back of his head with both hands and propped his knees over the other end
of the tub. "I fell out of a hayloft once and cracked my head open."
She frowned.
"It
mended." He tapped a fist to his temple. "But I saw double for a
time." He grinned. "And walked sideways like a crab."
No response. Just
a mystified expression.
Well, he thought
it was funny.
"And I fell
off a horse when I was fourteen, trying to impress a girl by leaping a hedge. I
landed face first in a cowpat."
The woman turned
her face away and then fumbled in her rolled up sleeve for a kerchief.
"When I was
sixteen I proposed marriage to a glassblower's pretty daughter in Marazion. But
when I sobered up I discovered that slender beauty was six foot tall with
shoulders fit to pull a plow and his name was Ned."
Amias held the
kerchief to her face as if suddenly overtaken with another sneeze. One that did
not fully materialize and sounded more like a hiccup.
"Your
turn," he prompted.
She wiped her nose
and sniffed. "I can shoot the eye of a target from two hundred
paces."
Impressed, he
smiled. "What else?"
"I had a pet
toad when I was twelve. My favorite color is black. I once ate an entire pigeon
pie on a dare."
He arched an
eyebrow. "What else?"
She sighed, took a
breath, wound her kerchief in a knot. "A soothsayer told my mother that I
would be a boy and so she chose the name Armand. I was a great disappointment,
naturally. I cried so much as a babe that the nurse put me out in a basket one
night, hoping a wolf would take me."
He'd expected a
rehearsed list of accomplishments along the lines of embroidery and cooking,
but this was far more
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