Her Warrior Slave. Michelle WillinghamЧитать онлайн книгу.
could he think that? This wasn’t her idea at all. It was the last thing she desired.
‘It was Davin’s wish,’she corrected. ‘I had nothing to do with this.’She wanted so badly to turn around and run.
But then, from the gleam in his eye, she wondered if Kieran was provoking her on purpose. His black hair hung unkempt about his shoulders, his demon eyes as dark as his soul. His tunic hung upon him, still bloodstained from the marks upon his back.
‘You won’t have to stay long,’ he said. There was a hint of resentment beneath his tone, as if he hated anyone commanding him. He set down the knife, wrapping it carefully in leather before picking up a gouge.
Iseult looked around at Seamus’s hut. She’d visited a time or two, and although the space was by no means built for a family, it was large enough for two people. A pallet stood at one end, a work bench at the other. It was no wider than thirteen feet in diameter, made of wattle and daub. The roof often leaked, as she recalled. ‘You’re staying here?’
‘For now. Until he commands otherwise.’Again, she sensed the rebellion within his voice.
Iseult studied the work bench. Kieran had spent the afternoon preparing the tools, it seemed. Rows of knives and gouges were spread out upon the table, along with wooden mallets and chisels. The air smelled of wood shavings, and he’d built a fire in the hearth.
She sniffed suspiciously, then turned to him. ‘What did you eat this evening for your meal?’
Kieran said nothing, lifting a block of yew. He sat upon a wooden stump, opposite her. His hands moved over the wood, studying it. He was so intent upon it, he didn’t answer her question.
She already knew the answer. He hadn’t eaten at all. And from his pride, this was not a man who would ask for help. She didn’t know what kind of food or drink he’d had during his confinement, but it couldn’t have been much of anything.
It pricked her conscience, to see a man suffering. Even this one, as harsh as he was, did not deserve to starve. If she offered to prepare food, he’d never touch it.
No. Better to appear that she was angry with him. Then he would eat, if for no other reason than to defy her.
‘For the love of Saint Brigid, how do you think you’ll ever finish this carving if you don’t eat?’ Indignant, Iseult grasped one of the iron cauldrons from near the hearth and strode outside. She filled the pot with water and hauled it back in.
The slave blocked her path. His eyes studied hers a moment, and the intense darkness of them caught her attention. Bruises and cuts lined his cheeks, and his jaw held a dark swelling. Beneath the unkempt appearance was a startlingly handsome man. Not the noble looks of Davin, but features more brutal and arresting.
‘I don’t take things that do not belong to me.’ His hands curled over the iron handle, brushing against her as he took the pot from her. Iseult nearly jerked backwards at the contact.
What in the name of heaven was the matter with her? Her cheeks warmed as he set the cauldron over the fire. She busied herself with peeling vegetables from the supplies she’d brought. It kept her from having to meet his gaze.
‘I promised Davin I’d stay for an hour,’ she said, ‘but that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit and stare. You’ll have to start carving now. After I’ve finished cooking, I’m leaving.’
She found a cloth-wrapped package of mutton inside her bag and chopped the meat, adding it to the water. A lock of hair fell forwards, and she brushed it aside.
All of her frustration and fury seemed to pour out of her. It had been another wasted day, with no news of her son. She wanted to curl up on her pallet and indulge herself in a fit of weeping. Instead, she had to endure the company of this man.
‘You aren’t flattered that your betrothed wants this carving?’ he asked.
A slight scratching noise sounded from behind her.
‘No. I’ve better things to do.’ She rather be with Muirne and the children, helping to tell the boys stories. Anything to occupy herself and keep her from thinking about Aidan.
When she’d finished setting the ingredients in the stew, she turned back. He hadn’t touched the block of wood. Instead, he was using a piece of charcoal to sketch a drawing onto a flat board.
‘What are you doing?’
‘As you’ve said, you have better things to do. I’ll capture your image on the board and carve it later.’ His hands moved rapidly, and Iseult drew nearer to see what he’d done.
He lifted the board away, hiding it from her view. ‘Not yet,’ was all he said.
‘You’ve probably drawn me with two noses and three chins,’ she remarked.
A flicker of amusement tilted at his mouth. ‘No. But I thought of drawing horns and a forked tongue.’
Iseult sobered, stirring the pot of stew. She wasn’t at all that sort of woman. Sweet-natured, Davin had called her.
But around this man, she was transforming into a shrew.
Instead of trying to come up with a swift retort, she stared at the pot of stew and imagined adding henbane to it. Then she realised that she’d forgotten any seasonings. And she’d put the vegetables in too soon.
As time crept onward, the peas grew mushy, and the meat tougher. She bit her tongue, knowing she was a miserable cook. Part of her thought it served him right, while the other part was ashamed at her lack of skills. What kind of a wife would she make for Davin?
Finally, she ladled a wooden bowl full of the stew and found a spoon for him to use. Kieran eyed the pitiful mashed vegetables and the meat boiled to death.
‘Eat,’ she ordered. ‘I won’t have you dropping dead when I’ve gone to this trouble.’
It was growing more difficult to uphold her bravado. She’d done a terrible job of cooking, but he made no remark on its lack of flavour, eating it slowly.
‘What will you do next?’ she asked when he’d finished the meal and set the bowl aside.
‘I’ll draw your face onto the wood and do a stop cut with this knife.’ He held up a short blade, and the way he held it struck Iseult like a man ready for battle. With the cuts and bruises upon his face, she could imagine him riding from the field, battle cries resounding from his lips.
After Kieran set down the blade, he picked up the charcoal and board again. His gaze travelled over her face and down her body. He drew more slowly, watching her as though he could see deep within her.
Her heart pulsed beneath her skin. She considered calling the guard inside. Being alone with the slave made her wary.
Abruptly, Kieran shifted the rhythm. His hands moved rapidly with smooth strokes, as though he were capturing her without even thinking. She noticed several scars along his hands, like blade marks from battle.
‘You were not a slave before this, were you?’she predicted.
He shrugged, casting a brief glance at her before turning back to the drawing.
‘You’re too confident to be a slave,’ she continued, ‘and too arrogant for a woodcarver.’ She doubted if he were a king, but possibly a warrior or a chieftain’s son.
‘It doesn’t matter what I was before,’ he said, setting the board aside. The formidable expression on his face warned her not to ask any more questions. ‘Only what I am now.’
She reached out to take the bowl and spoon, and a glint of trouble sparked in his eyes. Without realising it, she found herself studying the lean angles of his face, the harsh jaw that cut lines down to a tight mouth.
He disconcerted her, and yet she could not stop staring at him. Her body shivered, growing cold as he answered the gaze with soulless eyes. Quickly, Iseult changed the subject. ‘Do