She was gorgeous. The sunlight shimmered like gold in her strands as she eased the braid apart with her fingers. She bent over and jiggled her head before standing and flipping her hair over her head.
Christian’s throat became dry. She was stunning and sexual.
She separated her strands into three sections and began plaiting them into a tighter braid. She worked her luxurious locks into obedience as she paced back and forth, scanning the ground.
Christian couldn’t look away. Each movement of hers was sultry and provocative. He was sure she didn’t even know she was doing it. He watched her appreciatively and found himself getting lost in how her fingers glided through her hair, in how her hips swayed with her steps, in how her armor fit over her breasts.
He tried to swallow and ended up coughing.
She lifted her gaze to him.
He turned toward the trees. But after a moment, he couldn’t resist looking back.
Her hair was in a braid again, and she was pacing, staring down.
Christian scowled. Was she searching for parchment? She suddenly stopped and bent, brushing some grass aside. Then, she stood and continued strolling, her gaze on the forest floor.
He tilted his head as a memory tickled the back of his mind. She used to look for luck. He straightened in realization, a slow smile forming on his lips. “Do you still look for four-leaf clovers?”
She halted. A righteous embarrassment straightened her back. “We can use all the luck we can get,” she said defensively.
Christian nodded, and she resumed her search. He remembered when he was staying with the Hawkes how she used to look for the clovers whenever she could. She used to say, “everyone could use more luck.” And he agreed. They certainly could benefit from more luck.
He studied her and smiled.
As the sun set, they headed north and stopped at a nearby town, La Beau, to refill their ale. Willow was confident they were on Sage’s trail and would pick it up again in the morning.
Crickets chirped, and a bird cried out in the night as they stabled the horse and headed for the inn. The wooden structure was one level.
Christian opened the door, pausing to inspect the main room. Willow stepped around him and into the room. The fire in the hearth was low, and the room was dark. There were two empty round wooden tables in the center of the room.
Willow led the way to one of the tables and sat in the chair facing the door. Her father taught her always to have a way out. Christian took a seat across from her.
A man with a dirty apron approached them. He had no hair and a twisted nose. He waved a hand at a thin girl who rushed to the hearth to stoke the fire.
“Do you have pottage?” Christian asked.
“Aye,” the man replied, wiping his hands on his apron.
“We’ll take two and two ales.”
The man held his hand out, palm up. “Coin.”
Christian deposited a coin into his palm, and the man scampered toward the back room.
Willow stared at Christian for a long moment. As the fire in the hearth sprang to life, muted red flickered across Christian’s rugged face. His jaw was square with a cleft in his chin. A day’s growth of beard covered it and his upper lip. Her eyes lingered on his lips, a sensual slash on his face. He had gotten better at kissing since their first time. His nose was straight, and she was glad it had not been broken. A dark curl hung over his forehead. She had always loved the way his curls framed his face. Now, he pushed them back as if trying to tame them. Her gaze dropped to his eyes. They were shadowed in the dancing light from the flames, making him look dangerous.
An uncomfortable mistrust had settled between them. Willow didn’t like it. The fact he didn’t trust her was like an open wound.
He reached across the table to take her hands into his but stopped midway and pulled them back.
She knew it had been instinct. It was as if they belonged together. She felt it too. But she also knew he would eventually leave her. She had to guard her heart against him. It would be too easy to fall in love with him again.
Suddenly, the door swung open, and two men entered the room. One wore black chainmail armor.
Willow straightened, recognizing the soldier who had chased her in the chateau. Chills raced up and down her arms. She swung her gaze to Christian.
“We have to go,” they both said at the same time.
