Read Online Warrior's Song by Catherine Coulter - Free Book Online
Authors: Catherine Coulter
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riding, Jerval," she said, turning back to face him. "If you wish to come with me, I will show you our beautiful countryside."
    "I don't suppose you will challenge me to a race?"
    If she hadn't thought of it yet, he could tell by the quick lighting of her eyes that she was thinking it now. Excitement, anticipation, both were there, and he wondered, not for the first time in the two days since he'd first seen her dressed as a bride in this Great Hall, what this damned girl had done to him.
    They did race, of course, and Wicket beat out Jerval's destrier, Pith, by the length of his shadow, showing bright and stark against the black rocks that lined the hills above the beach. Oddly, she only crowed for a moment; then she frowned at him, even waved her fist under his nose. She was wearing a tunic and breeches, a belt around her waist and a knife in its sheath fastened to that belt, her boots cross-gartered to her knees. To have to untie cross garters, then to pull down breeches so he could make love to a womanâ he'd never before done that, never even considered such a thing. The thought made him hard, something he was growing used to, then made him smile. Her hair was windblown, nearly pulled out of its thick braid. Her lips were chapped by the harsh winds and he said, "Have you cream for your mouth?"
    "What?" She touched her fingers to her lips. "Oh, I don't know. Does it matter?"
    He wanted to kiss her chapped lips, he wanted to lift her off Wicket's back and lay her on her back, over on that soft bed of green spread beneath those pine trees. He could see himself now pulling those breeches off her, could see how she would lift her hips as he did it, could see himself coming over her. Oh, God. He reached out his hand and lightly touched his fingertips to her mouth. She cocked her head to the side, staring at him. "It matters. Your lips are dry. Have your servant give you cream."
    "Surely it isn't that important." She gave him a strange look, her own fingertip now rubbing against her mouth. What did he care about her mouth? Her lips were chapped, just that, nothing more.
    "When you are given something perfect, something beautiful, then you should take care to keep it that way."
    "You are saying that I must take special care of my mouth because it is perfect and beautiful?" There was absolute astonishment in her voice.
    "Yes, see to it."
    Then she remembered and said, waving a new fist, "You let me win. I saw you pull Pith back at that last turn."
    "I didn't want to knock you off your horse," he said easily. "Had I continued, I would have hit you andâ"
    "The chances are that I would have sent you flying into the dirt. I do not like it that you tried to play the chivalrous knight. Don't do it again."
    Jerval wasn't stupid. He knew she was serious, and he knew he couldn't let it pass with simple silence, a jest, or a smile of amusement. He had to apply the spurs, but gently, slowly. Beginning now. He said, perfectly serious, "Or what will you do?"
    Without hesitation, she said, "I will wrestle with you and bend your arm behind your back until you howl."
    Wrestle with her? As in the way men wrestled? He simply shook his head at her as he saw himself pulling her beneath him, flattening her with his body. No, he couldn't imagine a girl wrestling like a man. In bed, surely, but in jest and in pleasure, not the way men wrestled in the practice field, sweating and grunting and trying to maim the opponent. No, surelyâ he couldn't help himself. He forgot about beginning to apply some limits to her, for he was equally amused and excited, and said with utter seriousness, "I will rub your nose in the mud before you manage to do that."
    She laughed and laughed. He watched her
    "I don't suppose you will challenge me to a race?"
    If she hadn't thought of it yet, he could tell by the quick lighting of her eyes that she was thinking it now. Excitement, anticipation, both were there, and he wondered, not for the first time in the two days since he'd first seen her dressed as a bride in this Great Hall, what this damned girl had done to him.
    They did race, of course, and Wicket beat out Jerval's destrier, Pith, by the length of his shadow, showing bright and stark against the black rocks that lined the hills above the beach. Oddly, she only crowed for a moment; then she frowned at him, even waved her fist under his nose. She was wearing a tunic and breeches, a belt around her waist and a knife in its sheath fastened to that belt, her boots cross-gartered to her knees. To have to untie cross garters, then to pull down breeches so he could make love to a womanâ he'd never before done that, never even considered such a thing. The thought made him hard, something he was growing used to, then made him smile. Her hair was windblown, nearly pulled out of its thick braid. Her lips were chapped by the harsh winds and he said, "Have you cream for your mouth?"
    "What?" She touched her fingers to her lips. "Oh, I don't know. Does it matter?"
    He wanted to kiss her chapped lips, he wanted to lift her off Wicket's back and lay her on her back, over on that soft bed of green spread beneath those pine trees. He could see himself now pulling those breeches off her, could see how she would lift her hips as he did it, could see himself coming over her. Oh, God. He reached out his hand and lightly touched his fingertips to her mouth. She cocked her head to the side, staring at him. "It matters. Your lips are dry. Have your servant give you cream."
    "Surely it isn't that important." She gave him a strange look, her own fingertip now rubbing against her mouth. What did he care about her mouth? Her lips were chapped, just that, nothing more.
    "When you are given something perfect, something beautiful, then you should take care to keep it that way."
    "You are saying that I must take special care of my mouth because it is perfect and beautiful?" There was absolute astonishment in her voice.
    "Yes, see to it."
    Then she remembered and said, waving a new fist, "You let me win. I saw you pull Pith back at that last turn."
    "I didn't want to knock you off your horse," he said easily. "Had I continued, I would have hit you andâ"
    "The chances are that I would have sent you flying into the dirt. I do not like it that you tried to play the chivalrous knight. Don't do it again."
    Jerval wasn't stupid. He knew she was serious, and he knew he couldn't let it pass with simple silence, a jest, or a smile of amusement. He had to apply the spurs, but gently, slowly. Beginning now. He said, perfectly serious, "Or what will you do?"
    Without hesitation, she said, "I will wrestle with you and bend your arm behind your back until you howl."
    Wrestle with her? As in the way men wrestled? He simply shook his head at her as he saw himself pulling her beneath him, flattening her with his body. No, he couldn't imagine a girl wrestling like a man. In bed, surely, but in jest and in pleasure, not the way men wrestled in the practice field, sweating and grunting and trying to maim the opponent. No, surelyâ he couldn't help himself. He forgot about beginning to apply some limits to her, for he was equally amused and excited, and said with utter seriousness, "I will rub your nose in the mud before you manage to do that."
    She laughed and laughed. He watched her
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