After a while, Joselyn came marching across the knoll. As she neared, his heart sped up and he forced himself to wait before fixing his curious gaze upon her. What would she say next? What would she do? He looked up to see her eyeing the altar with suspicion. As though she could feel his gaze upon her, she turned her head to face him. She stared him down, a defiant glint in her golden eyes. His lips curved into a smile.
So fierce.
Folding her legs beneath her, she took a seat on the opposite side of the firepit, as though this were her meadow and he, her humble servant. He chuckled and struck his flints together. Perhaps this night would not be too frightening for her. The kindling sparked to life.
Hollen uncorked a water skin made from a ram’s stomach and wet a rag. His bride’s face was covered in a fine layer of dust and sweat. He held it out to her and she sneered, turning her face away. He sighed, dropped the rag onto her lap and walked away. As he knelt to his pack, the cloth smacked him in the back of the head with a wet slap. Hollen shot his bride a look of reproach, but she was turned toward the fire, as though nothing had happened.
Hollen rolled his eyes and plucked the sagging cloth from his neck. He returned with enough dried ram meat and cheese for the two of them. He took his seat across the fire from his bride, portioned out the food and passed over her share. She scowled at the offering.
“You should eat,” he said, and took a bite of his own food. “Too much fear in a day makes the body weak.”
“Do I seem afraid to you?”
He stopped to regard her. To her credit, she didn’t shrink from his gaze. He pursed his lips. “Less than most women, I’m sure. But I doubt you’ll find the bonding to your liking, so you’d do well to care for yourself.”
His bride’s imperious expression wavered at that. “You’re making a mistake.”
“No, mu hamma,” he replied, voice gone husky. “I don’t think I am.”
Hollen thought of their conversation in the tunnel. “Why me?” she’d asked. “Because you remind me of someone,” he’d thought.
When she’d struck him with the rock, Hollen’s first coherent thought was of pure pride. Or at least, it was once the stars had cleared. Though there was little about his own bonding he’d anticipated as a youth, the one thing he’d hoped for was a woman as strong and fierce as his beloved mother. In that moment, it had seemed he’d found one, and nothing could have pleased him more.
Joselyn sat staring into the fire, her mouth pressed into a tight line. Regna, how he wanted to know more about her. He fed twigs into the fire. “How old are you?”
She ignored him.
“Do you like to ride?”
Nothing.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“If I did, I suppose I would never see them again,” she snapped.
Va kreesha. Hollen swore inwardly. He’d only just met his bride and already he was making an epic mess of things. After so long alone, after waiting so long for her, this distance was torture.
Patience, Hollen.
He picked up the damp cloth she’d rejected and pressed it to the wound on his head. “You have a quick mind. Lucky for me it was only a stone.”
Silence.
“Were you armed with a knife I might have shared my father’s fate.”
Her gaze snapped up at that, and Hollen turned to hide his triumphant grin. He mopped the blood from his beard. Would she take the bait?
“What happened to your father?” she asked.
Hollen turned to answer. “My mother stabbed him before he had a chance to bond with her. He nearly died.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“My mother saved his life,” he answered honestly.
Joselyn gaped. “And your father stole her away just as you’ve stolen me?”
Hollen nodded.
“Then why would she save his life?” Her brow creased with suspicion.
He shrugged. “I guess she felt he was worth saving.”
Joselyn scoffed. “Your mother sounds like a fool.”
Hollen stiffened. His father and mother’s bonding was a story they’d shared proudly with their children over and over throughout the years. Each time they did, one or the other would remember a detail they hadn’t mentioned before. Hollen remembered sitting around the campfire as they spoke, feigning indifference. In truth he’d committed every detail to memory.
He watched Joselyn’s face pale and realized his fists were clenched. He relaxed and managed a tight smile. “As are all women who choose to love us men. Thank the gods for foolish women.”
She frowned. He’d surprised her. If the gods were on his side, he would manage it many more times.
The savage’s mother is off limits. Good to know.
Joselyn watched the wild man from across the fire. She remained stock still, her head held high.
“What do you think of your new husband?” he asked, continuing to eat as he crouched over the fire.
“You are not my husband,” she said flatly.
“Soon enough, mu hamma.”
“You look like a savage.” Her voice was laced with contempt.
The man stopped eating and looked up, with a twinkle of amusement in his dark eyes. All at once he rose, sucking the last of the grease from his fingertips. He stared down at her and wiped the fingers dry against his furs.
Joselyn tried not to shrink. He began pulling at the straps of his leather armor, and her wariness ascended to outright alarm. When his studded cuirass was hanging loose, Hollen stripped it off and dropped it to the ground next to him. He met her eyes and Joselyn prayed he was simply over-warm and would presently sit back down. Instead, he reached for the bottom of his furs as though to pull them up.
Joselyn’s gaze flitted across the ground as she searched for a weapon. In her periphery she saw him draw first the furs and then a wool undershirt over his head. With that temporary block, she snatched a stone from the ring of the firepit and pulled it deep into the sleeve of her own cloak. Pain flared in her hand. She’d used the bruised one. Skies!
When she looked back up, she sucked in a breath. Her captor stood across the tiny fire. He watched her as her eyes fell over his bare torso. His towering body was a mass of well-formed muscle. No one would accuse this man of idleness. A light brush of hair covered his chest and much of his belly, growing thicker as it disappeared beneath the line of his pants. Joselyn had never seen a man so indecently exposed, and certainly not one so appealing. But that wasn’t what caused her breath to catch.
“I hope you have a stronger word than ‘savage’ at your disposal, woman. I think you’ll be needing it.”
Indeed.
Scars covered him—along his arms, across his broad chest, and all down the lengths of his sides. These weren’t the variety which covered Sir Richard’s face. Her father’s steward bore many marks, a testament to long years earning glory on the battlefield. Though they’d robbed Sir Richard of beauty, they were badges of great bravery and fortitude. There was a dignity in them that lent Sir Richard instant respect wherever he went. Hollen’s scars weren’t the sort that inspired respect. Hollen’s scars inspired wonder and fear.
A labyrinth of raised white flesh crept down his body in elaborate sweeping patterns, a sophisticated web of inscribed skin. There was an order to the designs that Joselyn couldn’t make sense of, but each mark had obviously been chosen with care for shape and position upon the masculine canvas that was his body. Though there was artistry to them, Joselyn couldn’t quite call them beautiful. They conjured bloody images of someone carving those marks into naked flesh.