Chapter 5 #5
The steady cadence of the soldiers’ steps sounded on the battlement, dust rustling against the ground.
Blainor tutted. “Not even in my home, and you already want to leave. I must be a poor host.”
“I haven’t even seen Moorhafen,” she snapped. “But I’m a traveling bard.”
“It’s a title, not chains, Trisha,” Blainor said in a low voice. “I keep my word if you keep yours.”
“How about your promise to Orin, on raiding Normark? I hope you’re not expecting me to play along to your soldiers plundering farmsteads and small towns.”
“After witnessing your song’s effect on them, I’m not sure I would even want that myself,” Blainor said dryly. “Relax. Your aversion to war is clear.”
“All right. I’ll accept this title, for now,” Trisha muttered.
“Your regard toward our customs is staggering. It’s a good thing Orin isn’t here. I can only imagine his reaction.”
“Is that why you came, to honor your northern traditions?”
“No.”
“Then why?” she asked warily. “I heard your chief clearly enough at our arrival. The celebration is for you.”
“Always with the questions, Starling,” he grunted. “Don’t you get tired of asking them?”
“Not when you refuse to answer them.”
“Do I?” A quiet, cheeky smile wove through his voice. “I thought I just answered a few.”
She crossed her arms. “When it suits you, or your needs.”
He breathed out a soft chuckle, the gray in his gaze deepening. “And do you know what they are, Starling? My needs?”
“And here you are baiting me again.”
Her annoyance seemed to feed his playful smile. “One day you’ll bite.”
Heat flared across her cheeks, but before she could speak, he straightened.
“We leave tomorrow at sunrise.” Blainor’s tone had advanced to a serious one. “You’d do well to keep your door locked before then. Your… music stirred old memories to life. Some might mistake your song for an invitation.”
His warning was clear, but she didn’t understand its reason. “Invitation?”
He stared somewhere in the distance. “Abduction, Trisha. Brides, to be precise.”
A door slammed open. A scream in the night. To be taken against her will, to marry a stranger? The thought petrified her. Is this what Bran Jovell had meant?
“Lovely. Tattoos and snatching unwilling women. Is this what I should expect, how you rule your country, my lord? Something you condone?”
“Blood here runs thick and deep,” Blainor said, “as do memories. I won’t refuse my people or their customs.” He tilted his head, that infuriating amusement making a comeback. “Though I’d rather avoid it in this particular instance.”
“I’m flattered, my lord.”
“Indeed?” he murmured. “You don’t wish to be whisked away, Trisha? To become a warrior’s bride?”
“Not particularly,” she said, adding tartly, “although you have already done so in some respects, persuading me to follow you from Normark.”
Blainor’s teeth flashed as the shadows of the dying day waned over his face. A slight movement, just a fraction, moved the air, making the distance between them seem thinner. She swallowed.
“Trust me, Trisha an Tilia. You will know when I’ve abducted you.”
Her breath caught, words refusing to form on her tongue. As though invited by her stillness, the atmosphere changed—an almost tangible tension twisted her toes.
The wind swept through the courtyard, rustling the sand, and the scent of wildflowers strengthened. The crickets’ droning grew louder.
Blainor’s gaze darkened, slowly tracing her face. “Or perhaps that is what you wish.”
Furiously, she tried to come up with something to break the charged silence, but her tongue, always so ready to supply scathing remarks, seemed to have abandoned her.
His hand raised, the back of his index finger charting the line of her jaw—soft, fleeting, and warm. She shivered.
“Tell me, Trisha an Tilia,” he breathed out, moving closer still, the heat of his body stroking her skin. “Do you wish me to abduct you?”
The words fractured whatever spell she’d been under. She stepped hastily back, breaking the contact. Blainor’s hand lowered, but its heat lingered.
Despite her racing heart, Trisha forced herself to meet his stare. “Not this time, my lord.”
He sighed. “Shame.”
Trisha spun around, pressing her palms on the fence. Its coarse, splintered surface scratched. Even then, the memory of his touch burned stronger.
Furious at herself, she fought against the impulse to speak again.
Not now. Not when he’d unsettled her so much.
If she did, every word she said might invite him to push back, to force her to stare into those silvery eyes, their lapping hues.
Hadn’t she already learned? Wade in those pupils for too long and she’d drown.
Facing the fencing yard, Trisha said, “Is that what you came to say? To keep my door locked?”
“Starling, is that an invitation I hear?”
“Don’t press your luck. Or I’ll show you how hard I bite.”
“Your teeth are not sharp enough. Better to keep that door locked.”
“You’re expected in the hall. Don’t let your people wait for their Warlord.”
He inclined his head with a mock bow. “As my lady wishes.”
Only after his steps retreated did Trisha release her hold on the fence. From the pressure of her grip, the grains had left shallow imprints on her palm. She surveyed the imprinted lines, battle scars from grounding herself against his teasing. And still, Trisha’s pulse kept drumming in her ears.
Blainor never told her why he came.