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Varrick’s glare remained as he stared at her. There was no malice or accusation in her voice, just the opposite. She spoke softly, supplying him not only with answers but with a reason as well. A reason that did not sit well with him, though the quick glance of her naked when he had flung open the door intruded on all other thoughts.
Her shapely body was more than pleasing; breasts that were abundant, a perfectly curved waist, hips that did not skimp nor spread too wide, skin kissed rosy from the heat of a bath, and features so fine one could not look away.
Argus’s words echoed in his head about not meeting her eyes and instinctively, his gaze fell on her hair, long, auburn in color with splashes of red running throughout and highlighted by the fire’s light since it was still wet.
His wife was far more attractive and alluring than he expected.
“Finish!” he snapped. “We leave soon.”
Keeping the towel tightly gripped against her, she asked, “Please, my lord, may I have time to dry my hair and have a bit to eat and drink.”
“You have not eaten today?”
“A small bit of bread, but nothing more since a full day ago,” she said, hoping he would not deny her. The bath had done much to return some strength to her. If she could eat a good meal, she would grow even stronger.
“Dress and be done, then meet me in the Great Hall where food and drink await,” he ordered and turned to leave.
“I will not be welcomed there.”
Varrick looked over his shoulder at her. “I will welcome you and that is all that matters.”
The door closed behind him and Fia leaned her hand on the table, realizing she had forced herself to remain erect and show no fear. But fear had claimed her limbs as soon as Lord Varrick had entered the cottage. He was an imposing man and with his reputation of a ruthless warrior she would be foolish not to fear him.
She hurried into a linen shift, fearful to remain naked in case he should return, then rubbed her hair as dry as best she could with a towel and sat near the hearth running her fingers through the thick strands to further dry it. It would take time for it to fully dry, so she did not confine it to a braid or with a strip of cloth. If she could sit close by the hearth in the Great Hall, the heat would help much to completely dry it, then she could braid it.
When only a slight dampness remained in her hair, she hurried into the remaining wool garments, grateful for their warmth. She eased on the wool stocking and secured them with ties before slipping on her own boots. With no cloak in sight, she grabbed the soft wool blanket off the bed, secured it like a cloak around her, and, taking a fortifying breath, left the cottage.
* * *
“She may be a witch,but she is now my wife, by your request, and I expect her to be treated as such,” Varrick admonished Newlin, the man once again trembling in front of him.
He had stopped to see that all was prepared for the return journey home before confronting Newlin in the Great Hall, though it was more an excuse to calm his anger that no one had tended to his wife. She might be a witch, but she was still his wife and to disrespect her was disrespecting him.
“I apologize, Lord Varrick, but my clan fears her—”
“More than me?” Varrick snapped and glanced around the Great Hall to see all the servants’ heads bowed, not one willing to meet his eyes. He turned his attention back to Newlin, who stared past him, his mouth agape. He noticed then his warriors wore similar expressions, and he turned.
His wife stood just inside the door, a blanket draped around her and her auburn hair falling in lovely waves over her shoulders onto her chest, sparks of a brighter red glinting in the shiny strands. Her hair was not the only thing about her that caught the eye. She had a beauty that left one speechless and deep dark eyes that mesmerized all who glanced at her.
“Do not look at her!” Argus shouted. “She will steal your soul!”
Everyone turned their heads away except Varrick. He went to her, and she was surprised when he looked her straight in the eyes.
“I have no soul to lose,” he said, then turned to his warriors. “Go make ready for departure.” He never saw his men move so fast, avoiding Fia as they filed from the room. He looked at Fia and pointed to a table. “Sit!”
Fia went to the table, grateful it was by the hearth and sat with her back to the flames so the heat would finish drying her hair while seeping into her bones. A thought struck her as she settled on the bench, resting the blanket beside her. Her husband professed no fear for her, but he had yet to offer his arm or hand to her. Did he fear touching her?
“Fresh food and drink for my wife,” Varrick called out, and when not a single servant moved, he let loose with a roar. “NOW!”
His roar sent a shudder through Fia and had every single servant running. She was relieved when not long after Cora was the one to bring food and drink to her.
The woman stared in shock when she stopped in front of the table. “All talk of your beauty and I see they do not lie.”
“Beauty is the mark of the devil,” the cleric said, having entered the room with rushed steps. “It must be vanquished before it spellbinds Lord Varrick.” He raised his hand, a dagger clenched in it as he lunged at Fia.
Varrick launched himself at the man, but instinct had Fia grabbing the tankard in front of her with the hot brew and tossing the contents in the cleric’s face before Varrick could reach him. He stumbled back screaming, his hands rushing to his face and his dagger’s blade catching his cheek and slicing it. He dropped the dagger and pressed his hand to his cheek, then pulled it away to stare, stunned at the blood dripping from his fingers. Then he pointed an accusing, blood-stained finger at Fia. “She is evil. She forced me to cut my face.”
Newlin hurried to the cleric and waved to a servant who stood frozen with shock. “Get the cleric to our healer.”
