Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 32461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Senna looked back at him aghast. “I cannot do that, sir. It is my duty to serve you. And if I don’t—” She shook her head and before he could argue any further, she added the log and adjusted it until the flame caught.
Legion watched her straighten and walk to the table and check the pitcher.
“There's fresh water. If you need more, one of the servants will bring it.”
“You?”
“If I'm told.”
The simple answer bothered him for reasons he couldn't explain.
“Have a peaceful night, sir,” she said and headed toward the door.
“Senna.”
She stopped and turned.
Legion wasn't certain why he'd called her back.
Her gaze met his, waiting patiently.
Then he noticed. “Your wrist.”
She glanced down at it. Red marks from the warrior's fingers were already darkening against her skin.
“It's fine.”
That she spoke as if it didn’t or shouldn’t matter, annoyed him. “It doesn't look fine.”
“It will be by morning,” she said without complaint, as though bruises were simply another inconvenience that came with her work.
Legion’s brow drew together in a frown.
Senna noticed. “He won't bother me again.”
There was no accusation in her voice. Only certainty.
“Thanks to you,” she said, her voice softer. “Good night, sir.”
“Good night, Senna.”
She left, closing the door quietly behind her.
Legion stood staring at it for several moments. She hadn't flirted, hadn’t piled him with false praise. She hadn't attempted to remain in his chamber a moment longer than necessary. She had simply thanked him and actually meant it.
Legion found that to his liking, perhaps more than he should.
Chapter Eight
Torden
Sorcha stopped the moment her front hooves struck the wooden gangplank.
Torden nearly walked into her. “Come on, lass.”
The dapple-gray mare didn't move.
Men passed them carrying crates and sacks aboard the ship bound for Morra Mist. Sailors called to one another from the deck, ropes creaked, wood groaned, and waves slapped against the hull.
None of it was unfamiliar to Sorcha.
That was what troubled Torden. She had traveled aboard ships with him before and had never given him difficulty. She might not have cared for being confined below, but she had always followed him willingly.
Today she refused to take another step.
Torden ran a reassuring hand along her neck. “You've done this before.”
Sorcha tossed her head and backed away from the gangplank.
Torden grew concerned. Something was wrong.
He gave her a moment before trying again, walking beside her rather than leading from ahead. She trusted him enough to follow, though every step seemed reluctant. By the time they reached the deck, her body was tense beneath his hand.
A sailor approached and motioned toward the opening that led below.
“Horses go beneath.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Torden snapped so sharply that sailor hurried off.
He wanted to give Sorcha a bit of time to settle before taking her below, but with all the boarding activity he couldn’t stay there long.
A few more minutes, then Torden started forward.
Sorcha didn't.
He looked back at her. Her ears flattened and she pulled against the reins.
“Sorcha,” he said, his voice holding a command.
The mare backed away.
Now he was concerned.
She knew that tone of his meant she was to obey for both their safety. She also knew ships. She knew the cramped quarters below deck and had endured far longer crossings than the one ahead of them. Yet she was behaving as though he intended to lead her straight into danger.
Torden moved closer and rubbed her neck. “What is it, lass?”
Sorcha's dark eyes remained fixed on the opening.
Then a familiar voice rose above the activity on deck.
“You bloody idiot.”
Torden went still, then slowly turned his head.
The young woman from the inn, Ismera, stood several yards away arguing with one of the sailors.
“Of course she did,” he grumbled and looked at Sorcha. “Don't worry. I won’t let the troublesome lass near you.”
Sorcha's ears suddenly pricked forward.
Torden scowled. Ismera had spotted him and that had brought her debate with the sailor to an abrupt halt.
For one hopeful moment, Torden thought she might ignore him, angry for dumping her on her backside outside the inn and she would turn in the opposite direction. He wasn’t that lucky.
She headed straight for him
She looked different from the last time he’d seen her. Gone was the gown covered in mud and horse piss. A tartan skirt fell to her ankles, and over a linen shirt she wore a brown leather vest cinched firmly across her chest. Brown leather bracers covered her forearms, giving her an appearance far more suited to travel than the bedraggled woman who had stormed into the inn.
She was more petite and her eyes a more vivid blue than he recalled, and judging by the determined set of her mouth, she was still troublesome.
Torden braced himself for whatever complaint she intended to throw at him, but when Ismera reached him, she barely spared him a glance. Her attention went immediately to Sorcha.
“What’s wrong with her?”
The concern in her voice surprised him.