Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)(35)
“Get off me.”
“Admit it, or you’ll be smelling me all over you the entire night.”
Honestly, he smells wonderful. Like fresh mountain air and masculinity and . . . I squirm beneath him, hoping he won’t notice how flushed I’ve suddenly become.
Cohen stills. His eyes lose their teasing tilt, darkening till they’re brown as bark instead of hazel, as his attention follows an invisible path along the curves of my face until landing on my lips.
His jaw ticks.
“Night, Dove,” is all he says before he abruptly pushes off of me and moves away, hugging the far side of the bed.
I lie there, breathless and confused. Was he about to kiss me? Impossible.
I want to smack myself. It’s obvious he still sees me as nothing more than a friend or a sister, since he pulled away despite the eagerness painted all over me. I’m such a fool. A wanton, ridiculous fool.
We stick beside the inn until nightfall and then make our way to the market square at the center of town, where the Merryluna Festival is alive with music and dancing under strings of hung lanterns. Laughter is shared and smiles tossed around as we weave through the edge of the packed, cheerful crowd. Ale flows from barrels set on tables beside sweet cakes and breads. The nutty aroma of the fresh loaves reminds me of the time Papa tasked Cohen with a week of kitchen work as punishment for not having prepared his arrows properly before a hunt. Cohen had the last laugh when he baked two loaves of the best bread I’ve ever had—?a skill forced on him by his mother. A smile runs free across my face. I turn to ask Cohen if he remembers, but in the crush, we’ve been separated.
The top of his brown hair bobs several paces away. I move toward him as the fiddles adopt a brighter, jauntier tune. The onlookers whoop in recognition. Women in full skirts flock to the open area beside a circular water fountain, where they spin circles around men dressed in their finest tunics and coats. Stepping close, then moving away, their dance is a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of color.
I never danced at Midsummer’s Tide or Winter Feast; the taunts from others were too much of a deterrent. The few times I went, I left before the fiddles and citterns and drums played in full swing. Now I look around at the awe and glee on so many faces. The desire to be more like these happy strangers beats through me in time to the locals’ dance steps.
“Do you want to dance?” Cohen’s deep, clear voice catches me off-guard and I jump, giving him reason to release a full, throaty laugh. I turn away from the dancers, embarrassed by Cohen’s teasing and, in the same breath, angry with him for making me feel that way.
There’s a break in the gathered group where I can escape and wait till we talk to Duff Baron. I weave away from Cohen and out of the festival crowd, passing jugglers and children playing stick games and arm-wrestling men.
Once I’m beyond the throng of people, I stand in the shadows and watch the two women who have a bucket of fire displayed at their booth much like a keg of ale would sit on a tavern table. One woman is tall and lithe, the other short and button-nosed. Curiosity pulls me to step closer, but I remain hidden as a young girl sitting on the shoulders of her father approaches the booth.
The scarecrow of a woman holds her hand over the bucket’s flame until a ball of fire leaps into her palm. It makes little movements of bobbing while the woman holds her arm still. Is the fire not burning her?
How does she do that?
I gasp. She’s a Channeler. For a moment my muscles bunch in anticipation of the townspeople turning ugly accusations on the woman or red coats swarming over. Instead, the little girl and her father clap and laugh and cry for more. I’ve forgotten we’re in Shaerdan—?this woman’s life isn’t at risk. The woman holding the flame flips her hand over a jar and drops the walnut-size fireball inside. The flickering orb bounces against the glass as the jar is passed to the young observer and her father.
“Amazing,” I murmur.
“Want one?”
My attention snaps away from the women. The dark lane Cohen has found me in shadows most of him, so I cannot make out much of his face other than the genuine smile on his lips. For a moment, my mind goes blank.
Then I remember his earlier question.
“No, I don’t,” I say, even though a jar of Channeler fire sounds like the most intriguing thing in the world.
“Why’d you leave? Weren’t you enjoying the music?”
“I didn’t enjoy you teasing me.”
“What? When?”
My arms cross over my tunic. “When you asked me to dance.”
A smile spreads cheek to cheek, his white teeth reflecting the festival lights. “You’re upset because you thought I wasn’t serious. What if I truly wanted to dance?”
Why is he pushing this? My cheeks grow hot. “Regardless, I wouldn’t have danced with you because I’m dressed as a boy. And that surely would’ve drawn notice.”
Cohen’s eyes narrow in thought, and then without warning, his hand snakes out and steals my cap so my braid tumbles down my back. “Now you don’t look like a boy. Will you dance with me now?”
I make a move to take back the cap, but his arms are too quick. He holds it behind his back and lifts his brows in silent question. As if he honestly wants to dance here in the street.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, the no evident in my tone. He chuckles and steps closer until I’m completely swallowed by his shadow.