He picked up her dress once more, finding the opening and forcing it over her head, keeping his eyes averted as best he could. It bunched around her neck and her arms weren’t in the sleeves, but it covered most of her salient parts. His fingers brushed the place where her shoulder met her throat, and he felt her jerk. She might want to please him, but she was afraid of him too. She began to right her clothing, shoving her arms back into the sleeves and securing the ties at her breasts.
“You and your men, you went to the washwomen yesterday.” It was said without accusation, but Sasha clearly knew that the washwomen offered a variety of services. “You gave one of the women your body, Captain, and you took hers. Why will you not do the same with me?”
“How do you know this?” he gasped.
“When you left me here, I saw it, as if it had already happened.”
His stomach roiled, and he stumbled back.
“You are far more trouble than you are worth,” he whispered, mortified that she had seen him, and worse, that she’d admitted it to him.
“That is what Mina used to say,” she whispered, bowing her head. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you angry. I cannot help what I see.” Her voice broke, and he knew he’d wounded her. “I am trying . . . so hard . . . to understand you.”
“If you want to understand something . . . then ask.” He knew as soon as he said the words, he would regret them.
“And you will tell me?” Her voice was so wistful he could only nod.
“We will be on the back of that horse for another fortnight. I will tell you.” She nodded and he inclined his head as well, indicating a bargain agreed upon. He had to get out of her chamber. His hands were shaking and his lungs burned. He turned and strode toward the door.
“Kjell?”
It was the first time she’d ever said his name. She usually called him captain or master, though he’d put an end to the latter very quickly. He froze.
“Yes?”
“You said if I came back . . . you would try to love me.”
He turned his head, caught in the familiarity of the words.
“What?”
“Come to me and I will try to love you, I will try to love you, if you but come back,” she chanted softly. “I heard you . . . and I came back.”
“I lied,” he said, breathless. He made himself look at her again, so she would believe him. She was covered from head to toe, and yet he could still see her unclothed.
“Who were you lying to?” she asked.
“To you,” he whispered, lying again. He looked for his anger. Where was his bloody anger? Come to me and I will try to love you. I will try to love you, if you but come back.
She made him want to try. She made him want to lie again.
“It didn’t feel like a lie,” she said, and he could only stare at her silently, willing her to let it go. But she persisted, relentless in her undressing.
“You didn’t kiss the wash woman. Why? Do men not find pleasure in kissing?”
His body tightened and he turned away, reaching blindly for the door.
“You said if I didn’t understand something I should ask.”
“Yes. Men find pleasure in kissing,” he ground out.
“Will you kiss me?” she asked, and he cursed, slamming his hand against the heavy wood, making it tremble and his resentment soar. He turned on her with his weapons drawn.
“Why?” he made his voice cold, but he didn’t wait for her to answer. “If I do not kiss you . . . are you going to take off your clothes and offer yourself to one of my men?”
She flinched and he cursed.
“Why would I do that?” she whispered.
“You are trying to survive. I understand that.” He did understand it, and he wouldn’t hold it against her, even if it bothered him. Survival was ugly, and she’d survived terrible circumstances. Still, such behavior would cause problems among his men.
“You are wrong. That is not who I am.” Her voice shook, and for the first time, he saw fury in her face.
“It is who we all are, Sasha. Every man and every woman. We are all just trying to survive.”
“Why do you hate me so much?” she asked, her voice level but her face flushed. Her eyes were molten, and he wondered how he had ever thought them blank. They snapped and sparked, radiating heat and life and emotion.
He closed the space between them and sank his hands into her heavy hair, lifting her chin to his so he could drive his words home. The angle parted her rosy lips, and he scowled down at them, their very color suspicious to him.
“I don’t hate you,” he choked out. “I don’t trust you. I don’t want to feel anything for you. And you are determined to make me your fool.”
She answered him with clawed hands, pulling at his hair the way he pulled at hers, her arms bracketing his face, her body crowding him. Her sudden aggression surprised him. For once, her anger rivaled his own.
“Do you feel this?” she asked, her hands tightening in his hair, making his scalp burn. “What about this?” She stood on tiptoe and sank her teeth into his lower lip, hanging on like a rabid wolf as he hissed and gripped her face between his palms to make her stop.
They were nose to nose, chest to chest, his lip caught between her teeth when he realized that her breasts were soft and her thighs firm, her temper hot and her mouth wet. Her face was delicate beneath his hands, the line of her jaw smooth and silky, her eyes as liquid as the blood that roared in his head. She released his lip from her teeth, but her hands didn’t loosen in his hair, and she didn’t retreat.
“Do you feel me now?” she asked, but her voice cracked, her anger melding into uncertainty.
It was something Lady Firi would have said—bold and imperious—but Ariel of Firi wouldn’t have released his lip, and she wouldn’t have watched him with the same mixture of expectation and vulnerability. Lady Firi would not have waited for him to kiss her with lips that trembled or eyes that begged. She would have bit him and scratched him and wrapped herself around him, taking what she wanted.
“No,” he lied, harsh. Hell-bent. But his heart betrayed him, quaking, terrified that Sasha would believe him—finally—and release him, shamed, as he intended her to be. Shame was a wonderful weapon. But she didn’t step back, didn’t pull away from him. Instead, she continued to lay herself open, an emotional obeisance that was unfathomable to him.
“How can I feel so much when you feel so little?” she cried, her breath moving against his lips, the mere inches between them a contradiction to the lies he told. He couldn’t answer her. He would give himself away. So he stared stonily, unflinching in his deceit. Her lids closed, as if his glaring refusal hurt her eyes. Her lashes, as black as her eyes, lay against her freckled cheeks and, freed from her gaze, he shuddered. She was precious to him. Precious and so . . . lovely.
She was so impossibly lovely.
Men who made their living with a sword were large and strong, or they didn’t last for long. Women who made their living serving others were lithe and lean, with very little left over for themselves. Kjell was a warrior, Sasha was a slave.
But he felt her.
She must have sensed his tremor, for her mouth returned. No anger this time, no teeth. She simply placed her lips on his, connecting them, as if by doing so she would see inside him, hear his thoughts, and know for certain that he was immune to her.
If she had lain with men, those men had only taken, not given, because she did not seem to understand the art of the act or the steps typically followed to create pleasure. She did not curl her tongue against his or even part her lips to invite him in. Hers was not so much a kiss as a need to get closer—to know—and her mouth was completely still against his. Soft. But still.