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A pair of woodsmen led the party, bows slung on their backs, basic, but sharp shortswords on their hips. Their drab, earth-toned cloaks and boots would make for excellent camouflage under the trees. A ways behind them walked bannermen in sky blue and bright silver armor, reeking of sweat from the day’s warmth and the heaviness of their armor. Behind, Lords Connor and Reginald rode side-by-side, more of their men behind them, finery versus function.
“That’s ridiculous,” Reginald was saying, gesticulating with a gloved hand. “It would never work.”
Connor gazed on the gleaming, golden lord with such fondness and softness that Leif found himself glancing away, feeling as though they were owed some semblance of privacy. They were lovers, then, and not only because they smelled of one another, and the musk of sex unsuccessfully washed off with a splash from the creek this morning. It was evident in the air around them, an energy, a sense, bold as a burning brand from the fire in the way one looked at the other.
It was a sight that relieved him. Neither of them, then, were Amelia’s lover.
Not that it mattered. Not that he would ever…not that she would…
He sighed. “Pull yourself together, man,” he muttered under his breath.
The lords passed, their men trailing along, ignoring their bickering, and their group left a cloud of dust in its wake. Soft, pale dust, that swirled, and parted, and revealed the black head and arched neck of Amelia’s massive stallion, Amelia herself sitting erect and expert in the saddle, reins held loosely in one hand, the other resting on her thigh in the pose of a skilled, relaxed rider.
Her helm with its shocking red plume was hooked on the back of her saddle, its crimson crest trailing down the horse’s flank and flicking in a rhythm to match his tail. Sweat glistened on Amelia’s brow, cheeks ruddy from the sun, and without the unnecessary red paint, her mouth proved shapely and soft pink. A nice mouth. Nice like all the rest of her. He knew a sudden sharp, but purely human urge to see her without her armor; to know the feminine shape of her, and the way a thin nightgown would cling to her.
He took a deep, bracing breath, ruthlessly pushed down his wolfish tendencies, and prepared what he would say to her, when he stepped out of the shadow of the trees and drew up alongside her.
Then he noticed Ragnar.
He caught his scent first, that familiar musk that now, unfortunately, always brought to mind sex, his mind filling with memories of their joint exploits, loins tightening, cock stirring on automatic impulse.
As the dust cleared, he caught sight of him, dark-gold head bobbing along above Amelia’s knee as he walked beside her stallion, his gait long, and easy, his posture open and relaxed. His hair was off his face, braided back by Leif’s own hands that morning, before the sun was up, before they traded places, and Ragnar worked a single knuckle bone into his hair in turn. Exposed, Ragnar’s face was visible, as was his expression, a blend of smitten and devious. He was enjoying his conversation with Amelia…and thinking of all the ways he wanted to drag her off her horse and make her moan.
Leif growled before he could help himself, and swallowed the sound with difficulty.
Ragnar heard him. A quick, barely-noticeable jerk of the muscles in his arms, fractional tilt of his head. Leif glimpsed the corner of his mouth lift, caught the fast, blue snatch of his darted gaze, and knew that whatever Ragnar said next would be for his benefit.
His voice floated across the road, and the strip of verge on which Leif stood. “Do they listen to you, then? All these men? They don’t chafe beneath the yoke?” Ragnar had on his most charming voice, the one that had always inspired a sigh, and a reluctant invitation to dinner from Erik. The one that always left Leif with his head tipped back, a jerked nod signaling for Ragnar to get on with it, before a hot, willing mouth closed over his cock.
Amelia arched a single brow, but the twitch of her lips betrayed amusement. She was charmed; everyone who met the man was. It was his blessing, and the world’s curse.
“They wouldn’t,” she said, “if I acted the simpering princess. My aim is to be fair, and to listen carefully to everyone’s contributions.”
Ragnar glanced up, just as Alpha blotted out the sun, a vast, bat-shaped shadow closing over them momentarily. “The drakes don’t hurt, I expect.”
Amelia tipped her head back as well, though unlike Ragnar’s, her gaze was fond as she watched her dragon sail ahead of their party with one mighty, audible flap of leathern wings. The portrait she made – slender throat, fine-featured profile, graceful, easy posture in the saddle, the breeze blowing loose strands of hair across her face that she swept back with an unconscious gesture – was quietly stunning, more devastating than any jewel-dripping lady in feast day finery.
But it was more than that. It was also the drake, and the horse, evidence of her communion with wild things, that tickled the wolf in him; had it sitting up and panting, ears pricked. The sense that if any woman could understand what he was, and welcome it besides, it would be a woman like her.
Notherexactly; he couldn’t allow himself to think that. To have that hope.
“No, they don’t hurt,” she said, and then she lowered her head, and scanned the edge of the forest.
He knew she spotted him when her spine stiffened, shoulders pressing back. Her free hand, resting on her thigh ‘til now, went to her reins, checking the jig her mount gave in response to her sudden tension. Her gaze met his, and he watched, with regret, as all the easiness in her face was shuttered behind a stiff and leaderlike mask. Her mouth flattened, and her eyes closed off, and she might as well have slammed a door in his face.
“Will your alpha join us?” she asked Ragnar. “Or would he prefer to lurk in the bushes?”
Leif clenched his hands into fists, and squeezed until the knuckles popped – saw Ragnar hear the sound, and snigger to himself over it. Fucker.
“I dunno, my lady,” Ragnar said. “He does like to lurk, my alpha.”
My lady.
My alpha.
Leif ruthlessly shoved down the buzzing warmth kindled in his gut by those titles, and strode out into the sunlight to join them.
Amelia’s brows quirked, and she stroked her horse’s neck and murmured soothingly to him. He settled, but his dark gaze was fixed now on Leif, and his knees snapped up a little higher on each step. Leif knew if he got too close, or made a sudden movement the stallion didn’t like, he’d have his kneecaps pawed straight off.
