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Authors: Charlotte Boyett-Compo
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smiling as the expression on her face slid from contempt-filled triumph at the annoyance she had caused him to one of hurt. He felt a thrill of victory go through him that he had managed to score a direct hit on her pride. The bitch didn’t like her weight being commented upon. A nasty smile twitched at his lips as he added, “Or are you the exception?”
Catherine blinked, understanding the gleam of revenge that had flitted through the man’s dark eyes. He had gone for blood, and upon finding it, he plunged the dagger deeper, aiming for a mortal wound. Her chin came up, her face shut down.
“It’s too bad you didn’t break your neck when you fell,” she said in a thick, seething voice. “I would have had the pleasure of attending your funereal. I have a black gown I have yet to wear.”
His eyes, despite the massive pain stabbing into them with every breath he took, slid over her from head to waist to back again, before finally settling into a squint.
“Do they make gowns that big or did they cut a tent down to fit you?” he asked in a pleasant, cooing tone.
She dug her nails into the palms of her hand and just stared at him, not wanting him to see WINDBELIEVER
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Page 32
how much pain his callous words were causing her. She was very conscious of her weight, even though several of her suitors, mostly men from the northern climes of her land, insisted they much admired her excess of body fat.
“You are as uncouth as you are ugly,” she replied. Her stare moved to the twin scars etched down his left cheek. “It must be difficult for a woman to let you touch her looking the way you do, but I suppose there are those women who will do anything for enough gold.”
A shaft of hurt stabbed through Conar’s heart at her words and his left hand lifted automatically to cover the ravages of his cheek. As her lips twitched at his motion, he knew she realized she’d managed to make a lethal jab at his pride. He jerked his hand down.
“Why don’t you go pull the wings off some flies?” he snapped.
Her lips twitched again then slowly slid into a smirking smile. “Any such pastime would be preferable to conversing with you.”
“Then, go do it!” he snarled.
Catherine cocked her head to one side. “You’re very aware of your disfigurement, aren’t you?”
“Get the fuck out of my room!” he shouted, his lids flickering with the agony such an action caused.
Her lips puckered into a pout. “My, my, my, my, my!,” she purred. “You are such an uncouth lout.”
“Get
out!|
Turning on her heel, Catherine sashayed from the bed. Her laughter was like a goad that stoked the fire of Conar’s fury and the raging repeat of his order caused her to fan the flames even higher as she stopped with her hand on the door’s handle.
“I’d rather be overweight than have my face all gouged up. At least I can LOSE the weight!”
A roar of fury swept through Conar and the bellow that pushed out of his mouth nearly ruptured his vocal chords. As it was, the pain the shout caused pitched him back into the light-swallowing darkness.
“Marie Catherine!” her mother, the Tzarina, sighed with displeasure. “Your conduct is not acceptable. Not acceptable, at all.”
“Not acceptable,” her father, the Tzar echoed. “At all.”
“Whatever were you thinking to do such a thing?” her mother asked. There was a stern expression, admonishment on her pretty ivory face.
“Such a thing,” her father said on a long, drawn out sigh, shaking his head as he did so.
“Prince Conar could have been seriously hurt,” the Tzarina reminded her.
“Seriously hurt,” the Tzar stressed.
“His head’s so thick it took a chip out of the step when he fell,” Catherine murmured. At her mother’s stony silence, she dared to glance up. “Honestly!” she said. “It did!”
“It did,” her father said, nodding.
A prim pursing of the Tzarina’s lips was all the answer Catherine received for her
Catherine blinked, understanding the gleam of revenge that had flitted through the man’s dark eyes. He had gone for blood, and upon finding it, he plunged the dagger deeper, aiming for a mortal wound. Her chin came up, her face shut down.
“It’s too bad you didn’t break your neck when you fell,” she said in a thick, seething voice. “I would have had the pleasure of attending your funereal. I have a black gown I have yet to wear.”
His eyes, despite the massive pain stabbing into them with every breath he took, slid over her from head to waist to back again, before finally settling into a squint.
“Do they make gowns that big or did they cut a tent down to fit you?” he asked in a pleasant, cooing tone.
She dug her nails into the palms of her hand and just stared at him, not wanting him to see WINDBELIEVER
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Page 32
how much pain his callous words were causing her. She was very conscious of her weight, even though several of her suitors, mostly men from the northern climes of her land, insisted they much admired her excess of body fat.
“You are as uncouth as you are ugly,” she replied. Her stare moved to the twin scars etched down his left cheek. “It must be difficult for a woman to let you touch her looking the way you do, but I suppose there are those women who will do anything for enough gold.”
A shaft of hurt stabbed through Conar’s heart at her words and his left hand lifted automatically to cover the ravages of his cheek. As her lips twitched at his motion, he knew she realized she’d managed to make a lethal jab at his pride. He jerked his hand down.
“Why don’t you go pull the wings off some flies?” he snapped.
Her lips twitched again then slowly slid into a smirking smile. “Any such pastime would be preferable to conversing with you.”
“Then, go do it!” he snarled.
Catherine cocked her head to one side. “You’re very aware of your disfigurement, aren’t you?”
“Get the fuck out of my room!” he shouted, his lids flickering with the agony such an action caused.
Her lips puckered into a pout. “My, my, my, my, my!,” she purred. “You are such an uncouth lout.”
“Get
out!|
Turning on her heel, Catherine sashayed from the bed. Her laughter was like a goad that stoked the fire of Conar’s fury and the raging repeat of his order caused her to fan the flames even higher as she stopped with her hand on the door’s handle.
“I’d rather be overweight than have my face all gouged up. At least I can LOSE the weight!”
A roar of fury swept through Conar and the bellow that pushed out of his mouth nearly ruptured his vocal chords. As it was, the pain the shout caused pitched him back into the light-swallowing darkness.
“Marie Catherine!” her mother, the Tzarina, sighed with displeasure. “Your conduct is not acceptable. Not acceptable, at all.”
“Not acceptable,” her father, the Tzar echoed. “At all.”
“Whatever were you thinking to do such a thing?” her mother asked. There was a stern expression, admonishment on her pretty ivory face.
“Such a thing,” her father said on a long, drawn out sigh, shaking his head as he did so.
“Prince Conar could have been seriously hurt,” the Tzarina reminded her.
“Seriously hurt,” the Tzar stressed.
“His head’s so thick it took a chip out of the step when he fell,” Catherine murmured. At her mother’s stony silence, she dared to glance up. “Honestly!” she said. “It did!”
“It did,” her father said, nodding.
A prim pursing of the Tzarina’s lips was all the answer Catherine received for her
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