shallow bowl with soap and water. Using a scratchy ball of straw instead of a sponge, she began to scrub every inch of him. The abrasive motion hardly seduced, yet within a few strokes, he humiliated himself by an obvious display of desire. If she had blushed again, teased, giggled, given any girlish notice at all, he might have turned it back around on her with some lusty joke, but except for a spiked eyebrow, she continued her rough scrub bath without banter.
“I’ll poke you, if that’s what you ’ r e after.” The crude words crushed the silence, the only mask for his shameful need he could find. “But I’m not your husband.”
“You have it backwards,” she said flatly. She moved to scrub his back, so he couldn’t see her, only feel her palms kneading the muscles along his spine. She took special care to clean the grime from the open lash marks, though somehow, despite her seeming roughness, she did not aggravate any of the wounds. Her touch soothed, even if her words stung. “You’re my slave-husband by the law of light and shadow, but I owe you no access to my bed, nor to my body .” She reached lower and scoured his buttocks. “Don’t mistake this for intimacy, Blue Waters. I would do the same for a boar, if I had it sleeping in the same room as me.”
The breath of her words, unyielding though they may have been, only hardened him further. Unlike him, she smelled wonderful, musky, sweet, feminine . He hadn’t had a woman since … well , it had been a while . His body didn’t care if she was his owner, not his slave. It wanted her as much as it had when she’d been his captive.
Stupid body.
“So I’ll be sleeping inside?” he asked. He’d expected she would make him sleep outside, in a kraal. Or a cage.
“That depends on you.” The bath appeared to be over. She shuffled through her belongings until she found something else. A knife.
Perhaps his kraal notion was overly optimistic. She seemed to have in mind a more pointed revenge. Rthan eyed the stone blade with wary defiance rather than fear. She grabbed his tail of braids and yanked his head back roughly, so that his throat was exposed. Every braid she held represented one of her people he’d killed. She balanced the stone knife against his neck and paused. He tensed.
“Do you expect me to beg to be your husband, just for the right to live?” he snarled. “I may be your captive, but I refuse to give my allegiance to your filthy tribe.”
“ You wooed me with the knife, didn’t you?” she asked, tightening her grip on his hair. “You were willing to take me as your slave-wife. Funny, you feel differently when the positions are reversed.”
“No one expects a wife to forget her birth clan, or to face them in battle. A true husband must be prepared to kill his own kin in defense of his wife. I’ll not defend a Yellow Bear against my own blood.”
“I don’t need a man to fight my battles for me,” she said coolly. She lifted the knife—he tensed again—lathered his jaw with soap, and scrapped the edge of the knife along his cheek.
He suffered a moment of disorientation before he realized , She’s shaving me .
Without a word, she scraped the blade over his cheeks, chin and throat in smooth, careful strokes. The muscles in his neck and back did not relax , though her touch was gentle. In fact, he was all knotted up by the time she finished and brushed her fingers across his cheeks to make sure they were smooth. He was breathing hard and he could not look at her.
“You have lice in your hair,” she informed him crisply, putting aside the shaving things and finding a comb on the shelf against the far wall. Deftly, she released his hair from the braids. He shivered each time her fingers stroked his hair. She shook the lice she collected on the comb into the soapy shaving water to drown them.
“I’ve hardly dented the lice population in that haystack,” she said scathingly as soon as she finished. “When I
“I’ll poke you, if that’s what you ’ r e after.” The crude words crushed the silence, the only mask for his shameful need he could find. “But I’m not your husband.”
“You have it backwards,” she said flatly. She moved to scrub his back, so he couldn’t see her, only feel her palms kneading the muscles along his spine. She took special care to clean the grime from the open lash marks, though somehow, despite her seeming roughness, she did not aggravate any of the wounds. Her touch soothed, even if her words stung. “You’re my slave-husband by the law of light and shadow, but I owe you no access to my bed, nor to my body .” She reached lower and scoured his buttocks. “Don’t mistake this for intimacy, Blue Waters. I would do the same for a boar, if I had it sleeping in the same room as me.”
The breath of her words, unyielding though they may have been, only hardened him further. Unlike him, she smelled wonderful, musky, sweet, feminine . He hadn’t had a woman since … well , it had been a while . His body didn’t care if she was his owner, not his slave. It wanted her as much as it had when she’d been his captive.
Stupid body.
“So I’ll be sleeping inside?” he asked. He’d expected she would make him sleep outside, in a kraal. Or a cage.
“That depends on you.” The bath appeared to be over. She shuffled through her belongings until she found something else. A knife.
Perhaps his kraal notion was overly optimistic. She seemed to have in mind a more pointed revenge. Rthan eyed the stone blade with wary defiance rather than fear. She grabbed his tail of braids and yanked his head back roughly, so that his throat was exposed. Every braid she held represented one of her people he’d killed. She balanced the stone knife against his neck and paused. He tensed.
“Do you expect me to beg to be your husband, just for the right to live?” he snarled. “I may be your captive, but I refuse to give my allegiance to your filthy tribe.”
“ You wooed me with the knife, didn’t you?” she asked, tightening her grip on his hair. “You were willing to take me as your slave-wife. Funny, you feel differently when the positions are reversed.”
“No one expects a wife to forget her birth clan, or to face them in battle. A true husband must be prepared to kill his own kin in defense of his wife. I’ll not defend a Yellow Bear against my own blood.”
“I don’t need a man to fight my battles for me,” she said coolly. She lifted the knife—he tensed again—lathered his jaw with soap, and scrapped the edge of the knife along his cheek.
He suffered a moment of disorientation before he realized , She’s shaving me .
Without a word, she scraped the blade over his cheeks, chin and throat in smooth, careful strokes. The muscles in his neck and back did not relax , though her touch was gentle. In fact, he was all knotted up by the time she finished and brushed her fingers across his cheeks to make sure they were smooth. He was breathing hard and he could not look at her.
“You have lice in your hair,” she informed him crisply, putting aside the shaving things and finding a comb on the shelf against the far wall. Deftly, she released his hair from the braids. He shivered each time her fingers stroked his hair. She shook the lice she collected on the comb into the soapy shaving water to drown them.
“I’ve hardly dented the lice population in that haystack,” she said scathingly as soon as she finished. “When I
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