Stolen (Royally Hot 1)

I stared, and he stared back, unmoved by my scrutiny as I watched the muscles of his other arm rippling with every step, smoothing his horse’s mane. His face was marked, here and there, old wounds that had healed badly, small scars around his cheeks and a longer one, irregular and thick, that ran from the bridge of his nose, across and beneath his left eye, so close that it could have only been a miracle that saved his sight.

He brought the stallion to a whinnying stop, just short of the well, and dismounted in one fluid motion -- something unusual for a man of his size -- his eyes still fixed on me as he patted his horse’s flank mumbling something calming to the snorting, frothing animal.

His burly frame was surprisingly lithe, thick thighs shifting as he turned back to the well, and finally I was released from that heady stare. He stripped his mud-spattered suede jacket and white shirt, right down to his snug britches, and with his tough skin bare I saw more scars across his back and sides.

The other women around me fell silent as they watched him, and a sudden pang of jealousy shot through me.

Did any of them have a claim on him? I glanced around, embarrassed, shocked at my own reaction, the way my nipples tingled beneath my dress. An odd flipping sensation in my belly. All I saw in their faces was trepidation, respect, perhaps a little fear.

I wanted to go to him, right there and then. I wanted to touch those scars and ask him how he got each one. I wanted to soothe his aching muscles and bathe away the mud and dirt that smeared his flesh.

I wanted to know him.

Still holding the reins in one hand, he grabbed the well bucket with the other and poured it in a single, cold fountain over his face and body. His skin glistened in the sunlight as rivulets of muddy water trickled down between his pectoral muscles.

“Who is that?” I whispered to Annie.

“Bors MacDonald. He comes and goes. See him every few years. Pay him no mind and he’ll be gone before you know it...he’s not the staying kind. Soldier for hire, wayward they say.”

He glanced our way, his dark, unsettling eyes pinning me in place, and whatever the washerwoman’s next words were, they were lost to me, because all I heard was my own heartbeat. The intensity in his gaze caused a quiver to replace the tension down low, and I felt a trickle of wetness seep into my underdressing.

He dropped the bucket and the reins, and took a few long strides in my direction, never once unlocking his eyes from mine. His jawline hardened into a severe angle as the muscle there flexed under the days of unshaven beard.

I glanced around, looking to see who he was approaching, sure that it couldn’t be me but he moved in a straight line, never glancing at anyone else and sweat broke out over my skin as heat rose on my cheeks.

I nearly cowered before him, half expecting to be bawled out for staring, but he stopped just a few inches from where I stood, appearing to battle with himself.

In my mind’s eye I saw him stride over, pin me down and force himself upon me right there and then.

“This time I’m here to stay, Annie,” he muttered.

His eyes stayed upon me, as if he was trying to make some important decision. His brow tightened and I thought he might speak to me.

But before he got a chance, the singing started.

Weschail’s town square was little more than a paved oasis along a dirt path, surrounded by the few solidly-built houses and workshops in the town, and one of its two inns.

The Cock and Bull was known locally for its strong, unwatered ales and reasonably decent rooms, and it was from its door that the five half-dressed men fell, a drinking song still passing from each of them as they headed our way.

The washerwomen tutted and murmured words of disgust, if not surprise, since the singing, uniformed men were clearly soldiers. And everyone had heard the stories of soldiers with free time on their hands.

I’d been distracted by them, the same as everyone else, but when I turned back to Bors I found him staring their way with a look of contempt. His hand, I noted, had gone to the hilt of the sword hanging at his waist, and almost imperceptibly he took a step forward, placing himself in front of Annie and me.

One of the men, the first in the group, ran an assessing eye over the gathered women, but when it settled on me I heard a growl from beside me.

“How much?” he slurred, hiccuping as he laughed.

“I… I don’t…” I stammered, not sure how I should respond. I could smell the drink on him from a dozen paces, but it wouldn’t do to upset a group of drunken soldiers. They weren’t even soldiers of our clan, their uniforms marking them as outsiders. Wars had begun over less.