AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The corner of his mouth twitched, and a bright spark of amusement flared to life in his gaze. “Well, I wouldn’t recommend you practice with one of their blades: they’ll always be too heavy for you, no matter how skilled you become.”
She made a face, and he chuckled.
“You’d need a good deal more…mass…to wield one of those, let’s say.”
“Yes, I see. That’s what everyone’s always telling me: ‘My lady, you require more mass.’”
The tug of his mouth became a smile, sharply-spreading, wide and boyish, a wild thing rarely let off its lead and enjoying the freedom. “We should start with the sword you already have – if Ragnar didn’t drop it on the road and leave it there to rust?”
“No, I collected it.” Then she said, “We? Are you proposing to tutor me yourself?” And how wouldthatgo?
His chest swelled on his next breath, and the arch of his brow was cocksure when he said, “I suppose you could always take up lessons with one of the men I bested today, if you think them more capable.”
She snorted a laugh in very unladylike fashion, and shoved his chest.
It was something she’d always done. With Oliver and her brother, John, growing up. Smacking their arms or giving them a shove when they said something cheeky or stupid; and then later, with Mal, when he said outrageously inappropriate things on purpose, so she’d laugh, and swat at him. John had always sighed theatrically when she did it, and told her she’d never land herself a valuable husband behaving, in his words, like a swineherd or a drunk soldier, but Oliver and Mal had always given her a grin, and teased her back; a poke in the ribs from Oliver, or a tousling of her hair. A returning shove from Mal – that had turned, when they were older, and had become lovers, to a tickle, or a bold smack to her backside that left her feigning affront and giving chase when he took off running. It was her way of being physically affectionate, the tomboy coming through when she felt she could trust someone, and open up around them; she’d never cared for cheek kisses and walking arm in arm beneath the shade of a parasol. No, give her a good backhanded slap on the arm any day instead.
It was thoughts of Mal that had driven her to it tonight; missing him, missing that connection, wanting that physical closeness and familiarity.
But the moment she made contact with Leif, she realized her mistake, and she froze.
Her hand, damningly, was still on his chest. On his very firm and solid chest, resting there. She could feel the density of hard-earned muscle, and also its give; that pliable thickness of strong pectorals the likes of which she hadn’t felt beneath her hand since Mal was run through with a Selesee spear. She could feel the heat of Leif’s skin bleeding through his shirt and tunic, so much warmer than a normal human; feel the steady, strong drumming of his heart, and the lift of his chest as he took his next breath.
Then came the embarrassment, a great red-faced wave of it, flooding her whole body and making her want to hide. She snatched her hand back. “Sorry, sorry.” She couldn’t look at his face, not after that. “My brother would apologize to you on behalf of my unfeminine behavior…if he weren’t dead. Ha ha.”
His voice had gone somehow lower, gravel-edged; the sort of voice easily imagined in the dark of night, bridging the span between pillows. “I don’t mind. Women don’t behave as…stiffly up North as they do in the South.”
She could hear his smile, and so she braved a glance at his face, though she knew hers must be red. His smile was smaller now, close-lipped, and had softened his bold, masculine features. She noted a faint dusting of pink along his cheekbones; wanted to think of his gaze as fond.
“I’ve always been too forward for my environs down here. Too mannish.”
“Hm. You should meet my mother.”
“I would like to.” Who wouldn’t want to meet the woman who’d birthed and reared him? Who’d shaped his childhood, and raised him to the man he was today. Tessa’s stories painted a vivid picture, but Tessa had a tendency to understate things. She wanted to meet Revna for herself: the sword-wielding woman who’d gone toe-to-toe with armored Sels in defense of her home.
“She would like you,” Leif said, softly, and his gaze shifted; dropped to her mouth.
Amelia was too old and too experienced to mistake that sort of glance for anything besides what it was: interest. Sexual interest.
It was one thing to feel a stirring of want inside herself; another entirely to think it might be returned.
She took a step back.
Leif’s gaze snapped back to her eyes right away, and his expression went chagrined. “I’m sorry about your brother,” he said. “And your father. I don’t suppose I’ve said that, since we met, and I should have right away.”
She offered a thin smile. “Thank you.”
It was awkward, now, and she wished she hadn’t made it so. “Lessons?” she asked, aiming for chipper. “There’s plenty to do before our departure, but I suppose I could squeeze a few in, here and there.” Her smile tugged wider, truer. “If you’re sufficiently recovered from today’s exercise, that is.”
He rolled his eyes with a huff. “I suppose I’ll manage.”
Amelia chuckled, and Leif smiled back, and it was a little less awkward.
It would be so again, though, she feared.
Or maybe she wasn’t fearful at all, and that was the problem.
~*~
