Chapter Two #2
“What… what are you doing, crouching there like a stump?” she managed to demand, sitting up and wiping her muddied hands on the wall. “You could have killed me.”
The man simply looked at her, a glimmer in his blue eyes. “And you could have looked where you were walking.”
His voice was deep and quiet, his speech somewhat slow, but she didn’t receive the impression he was a dullard.
Simply deliberate in what he said. And, in truth, he was entirely correct in what he’d said, so she cast him a frustrated expression as she picked herself out of the mud, trying to wipe herself clean.
“Next time, I suppose I shall have to,” she said. “With you around, I will have to watch every corner I turn.”
He didn’t say anything, but he did watch her as she stood up, his gaze lingering on the long, slender legs in snug hose, the shapely female form beneath the belted tunics, and the face of an angel that was now twisted in disgust as she tried to wipe the mud off her arse.
She had dark hair, pulled into a messy braid, and eyes that were a shade of hazel that made them appear golden.
None of her alluring attributes escaped his scrutiny; that was clear.
He eyed her as if he’d just found something delicious for supper.
As she stood up, he suddenly stood up next to her.
Now, he towered over her by well over a head.
Considering how tall Asmara was, the fact that the silent warrior was so much taller was a serious testimony to the man’s size.
As he stood next to her, he also turned to face her fully, and Asmara could see that the entire left side of his head was scarred and damaged.
He virtually had no ear. As he shaved the sides of his skull and left the top of his blond hair long, the shorn scalp only emphasized the damage.
Most men would have grown hair to cover it, but not this man.
In truth, his shorn head didn’t distract from what Asmara was realizing was a truly handsome man.
In fact, all of that battle damage seemed to make him even more attractive in her eyes.
But he was also rather intimidating and frightening if she thought about it. He abruptly grabbed her by the wrist and began pulling her away from the hall. Startled, not to mention fearful, she dug her heels in to resist him.
“Let me go,” she hissed, beating at the hand that held her. “Did you hear me? Release me!”
He ignored her. He dragged her all the way back across the bailey, past groups of men who were watching but did nothing to help Asmara.
They simply turned back to their conversations.
Asmara didn’t want to create a huge scene and start screaming, but she was close.
The man had a grip of iron. Still, she figured she could fight off anything he tried to do to her so, at some point, she stopped dragging her feet, purely for her pride.
It was embarrassing to let people see her being dragged, so she started to pretend she was going along with it. She simply started walking behind him.
The warrior pulled her into the stable yard where so many horses were being watered and rested. There was a well in the stable yard, which was an unusual feature, and also a very long drinking trough. He took her right over to the trough, picked her up easily, and tossed her in.
Asmara landed with a big splash. Horses scattered as the water flew, and she howled when she realized what he’d done. The water was freezing. Quick as a flash, she leapt out of the trough, infuriated that she was now soaked to the skin.
“Why?” she demanded, enraged. “Why did you do that?”
He still had that glimmer to his eye as he looked at her. He pointed to the lower half of her body. “The mud is gone now.”
He was right. Asmara realized that the mud was now almost completely washed off and although she was clean again, she was also soaking wet. Enraged, she balled a fist and threw a punch right into the man’s jaw.
His head snapped back at the force of the blow, and he took a step back as well, but he didn’t stagger. The move simply surprised him. As he put a hand to the spot she’d hit, Asmara shook her fist at him.
“That is for getting me dirty in the first place, you dolt!” she raged. “And you did not have to try and drown me. I am quite capable of cleaning myself!”
The man eyed her as he rubbed his chin. “Forgive, demoiselle,” he said. “As you pointed out, I caused you to fall in the mud. It is my responsibility to clean you.”
Demoiselle. That wasn’t a term Asmara heard frequently. That was a Saesneg term for an unmarried miss, a term of respect. This enormous, scarred warrior with the slow, deep speech had her curiosity; she could admit it.
He was unlike anything she’d ever seen before.
“Well,” she said, feeling her outrage fade somewhat at his explanation. “You could have at least told me what you were going to do.”
All he did was look at her, a slight lift of the very broad shoulders.
Then, a smile flickered on his lips, which spurred her outrage.
She was about to berate him again when she realized that his smile also spurred her humor in what was truly a ridiculous situation.
She’d fallen over him, and gotten dirty, so he threw her in the water.
He’d taken responsibility for what he’d seen as a consequence of his actions.
As stupid as the situation was, she couldn’t really fault a man who took responsibility for his actions.
When she saw a flash of his teeth, surprisingly straight and white, she fought off a grin.
God, what was happening to her? When she should be beating the man, she was grinning at him.
Who is the dolt now?
“I shall make sure I look where I step from now on, with you around,” she finally said. “My name is Asmara, by the way. You may as well know the name of the woman you tried to drown.”
He simply dipped his head as if pleased to make her acquaintance. “You are a queen, demoiselle.”
That low, slow speech was intriguing. “Nay,” she said. “Not a queen. I am a warrior, as are you.”
His gaze lingered on her, the glimmer in his eyes now held a touch of warmth, she thought. “You should be a queen,” he said quietly.
The way he said it made her heart beat, just a little faster.
She opened her mouth to ask him his name, but a shout from the great hall distracted them both.
Someone was calling the men into the hall and the big warrior with the scarred head began to move towards the call, quickly, leaving Asmara standing there, dripping all over the ground.
She watched him go, thinking that he looked sorely out of place among the Welsh warriors. As if he didn’t belong in the least.
Her thoughts lingering on the mysterious warrior, she began to follow the herd of men as they headed towards the hall, hoping she could find a place by the hearth to dry herself out.
She also hoped she could find a location where she could keep an eye on the strange warrior and, perhaps, even discover his name.
Why the interest? She had no idea.
But no ordinary man would have the courage to throw Asmara ferch Cader into a watering trough.
Somehow, she sensed the pale warrior was no ordinary man.