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He snorts. “As well as I cook.”
“In fifteen hundred years, you never learned to dance?” Or had a relationship?
What else has he skipped?
“Aye, bawdy victory dances with an ale in one hand and a wench’s backside in the other.”
“Everyone is still staring. Please. I’ll teach you.”
“Is your goal for them to stare at me in your stead?”
“No, but if we’re in the middle of a crowd, I won’t feel like an insect on a corkboard.”
His frown says he’s confused. Then I remember he never took tenth-grade biology.
“Come, then.” He sighs and leads me to the center of the room.
People give us a wide berth as we find our place in the middle of the crowded floor, where he towers over everyone. A sensual ballad drifts through the speakers. Just what I need to take my mind off being the local freak show.
I cling to his huge shoulders. He wraps his arms around my waist protectively and scans the crowd. Against him, I melt. I feel safe.
He brushes his hand down my spine, mostly exposed by my skimpy dress. I filter my hands through the inky strands of his dark hair. It’s a bit longer than fashionable but seems perfect on a Dark Ages man. And his woodsy, male scent goes straight to my libido. Suddenly, I wish the crowd would fade away and leave us alone. Since that’s not going to happen, I have to deal with my other problem…
“You’re not moving,” I murmur.
“I told you; I know not how to dance.”
“When you fight, you move your body. Dancing is the same sort of thing.”
“Nay.” Marrok begins to shuffle from one foot to the next. “Like this?”
I try to contain my reaction, but I just can’t. I burst out laughing.
He scowls. “Few of the men here dance differently.”
That’s true, but it’s not what tickles me. “It doesn’t matter the century; the average man doesn’t like to dance.”
“I am a warrior, not a fop on a stage.”
I soothe his ruffled feathers by planting a kiss on his neck, his jaw…his oh-so-tempting lips. Again. Once more, just in case he’s still angry. Then I sigh when he takes charge and captures my mouth. The man’s touch is truly heaven.
The song ends, and we wander to the bar. People still stare, but now I’m far more attuned to Marrok than a bunch of strangers I might never see again.
“An ale, please,” he orders. “I need one to pass this evening. Especially if there will be more dancing,” he mutters the last so only I can hear him.
“We all need a pint after hearing about the Anarki attack on the MacKinnetts, mate.” The bartender, an Irishman with curly auburn hair, sets the beer in front of Marrok. “And now to hear that Craddock’s youngest daughter is missing, and the Anarki symbol burned into her bed… Poor thing. If she comes back at all, she’ll wish she weren’t alive.”
I gasp. “What’s the Anarki? And what’s being done to find this poor girl?”
The bartender suddenly zeroes in on me. Does he think I’m an idiot?
Marrok shoots him a warning growl. “Ask the lady if she would like a drink.”
I should chastise him, but the bartender was rude first. And Marrok’s chivalry is endearing.
“Forget it. I’m fine.”
“The questions you ask about the Anarki and the girl, they are for magickind, love,” Marrok soothes. “They do not want humans involved.”
