Forbidden Warrior (Midsummer Knights)

“Let’s see your ankle.”

Chapter 18

Máel watched as Cassia clutched a fistful of the damp gown in her hand and swept the fabric over her feet, covering them. “Let us not.”

More battle.

“You said your ankle was turned.”

“I lied,” she retorted, and he laughed.

Her cheeks flushed as her face turned, ever so delicately, away.

“While I believe you capable of lying about any number of things, my lady, you did not look to be lying. You looked to be limping.”

“It is of no consequence,” she assured him. “My ankles turn constantly; it is their way. I am quite well. And should it matter, I lie only when captured by brigands. I am otherwise a paragon of honesty.”

His gaze swept her damp, beskirted body. “Could you run, if you had to?”

“If I had to? Why?” She pushed up, lifting her rump off the mossy little seat. “Must we?”

“No. I simply wish to know if I have an invalid on my hands.”

She reached back with a slim hand and lowered herself down again. “I could run a mile if needs be,” she said proudly.

“A mile?” he mused. “’Tis an awful long way in a gown.”

She lifted her chin. He’d already learned this little movement was her refuge whenever she was indignant. Or exposed. “I could run, sirrah. Straight to any little village that might be huddled alongside this river.”

“That sounds like a plan, lass,” he replied softly. “Are you planning something?”

“Running would be futile and reckless and would make you angry,” she said primly. “We have an accord, do we not? I take you to your sword, and you release me.”

“An accord,” he repeated.

She placed her hand over her chest. “Most solemn.”

He stared at her hand, fingertips tracing the rise of her breasts above the tightly laced gown. She sat on the ground under feathery eaves. Firelight danced across her face, bounding shadow and russet light over her fine features. The long fall of her gown had a ring of wetness a foot wide, with splashes of creek water that went to her knees, so her gown, with its varied hues of pink and purple, was vivid as light. It clung like flower petals to her shins and ankles.

He stepped nearer, feeling as if he were stepping into the bedchamber of a faerie princess. Which was ridiculous.

So why did it feel as if he was stepping into the bedchamber of a princess?

He crouched in front of her. They stared at each other.

“Are you afraid to let me see your ankle, my lady?” he asked softly.

It was part concern, but a goodly portion dare as well. She was quite aware of the latter, for battle flared in her eyes. He knew the light; he’d seen it often enough in their short acquaintance. Cassia had a temper. He’d have to be careful of that.

But he did not wish to be careful. Even after the madness of the kiss in the tent, when he’d aimed directly for battle and she had responded, he still wished to rouse her spirit. He had no idea why.

Perhaps because it made her cheeks flush. Made her lift her chin, that delicate triangle of pale smooth flesh, and meet his eye.

Whatever else might be true, her fierce glare was comprised of one essential thing: spirit.

He should not want to see such a light in her eye.

Yet he kept maneuvering to provoke it.