The Bride Tournament (Hexed Hearts Book 1)(10)
Panting like a wounded gazelle, she dipped into the service hall.
And smacked into a very broad-shouldered man.
***
Gerard frowned as a bullet-shaped bundle, secured in a scratchy wool cloak, pounded into his abdomen.
His arms came up and caught the person, its cloak-clad head barely reaching the center of his sternum. He pushed the yelping figure a good arm’s distance away.
“Oww.” The person hobbled on one foot, grasping the other in agony. “Fruitcake! Are you wearing steel-toed boots or something? Who wears steel-toed boots anymore?”
Female. The word whispered through his mind and his body came to immediate attention. Her voice, husky as if rarely used, rolled over him. His hands tightened on her slender shoulders.
“Whoa.” The woman grappled with her hood and pushed away from his hold. “Let me go, brute.”
He didn’t let go, though his brow rose at her tone and insult. He wasn’t the least bit offended. She hadn’t a clue whom she was talking to; it was early and this was the service hallway—no one of note or title wandered here. He found the oddity rather pleasing. People didn’t speak to him this way in Galacia. Too bad the second her hood came off she’d know who he was.
Gerard sighed and released her. Her hood dropped.
He lost all semblance of propriety and gaped.
She was beautiful. Honey blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun was the perfect complement to her peaches and cream skin. Rouged cheeks, natural in their blush, gave off a delectable heat. Sapphire blue eyes frowned up at him from under lush brown lashes.
“Doofus, watch where you’re going next time. You could have hurled me down those dratted stairs, you tree-trunk oaf.” The insults spewed from pouted pink lips. The bottom, like a plump little pillow, caught between straight white teeth. “Geez, you really are a tree. What are you, a lumberjack?”
One fact became clear to his lust-laden mind: this woman hasn’t a clue who I am.
And he liked that too much. He shook his head to chase away un-gentlemanly thoughts—pinning her against the wall to discover if she tasted as spice-filled as she sounded—and evasively responded to her question.
“No, not a lumberjack.”
Those blue gemstone eyes squinted up at him. “Well, my advice stands the same. Watch where you’re going next time.”
“Someone’s cranky this morning,” he fired back.
“I haven’t had my coffee yet.” She arched a brow. “Oh, and a giant footman broke my toes. Bound to make anyone surly.”
“I’m not a giant and I didn’t step on you. You ran into me.”
“Semantics.”
“Uh, no. I believe I won this little trifle.”
“Trifle? Good lord, an educated lumberjack.” A smile toyed with corner of her mouth.
He wanted to keep exasperating her to keep her here.
“At least I’m not a waspish woman.”
“Careful, I might step on you.” She glared.
“Go ahead, I’m wearing steel-toed boots. Remember?”
She eyed him, sighed, and waved off his comment. “I’m late. This has been fun. Let’s never do it again.”
Without so much as a backward glance, she marched off, toward one of the many chambers lining the hall. He watched her go, unable to look away. The gentle sway of her hips, barely visible under that monstrosity of a cloak, called to mind a primal activity. He fisted his hands.
Maybe this whole Bride Tournament isn’t so bad…so long as she enters. Her outfit finally registered with his tired brain; it was the uniform of a cinder maid, not a lady. Shit. She couldn’t enter the tournament.
He wouldn’t end up with that little spitfire as his bride.
***
Ellie tripped down the hall as she struggled to take off her cloak and retie her apron at the same time. Her shoulder hurt where she’d collided with the beefy man at the top of the steps. Something else hurt, too. A strange ache, strong and insistent, pulsed between her thighs.
The attractive man had peered at her from a tanned visage. His furrowed brow, a darker shade of the tousled blond-brown hair on his head, shadowed penetrating eyes. Long lashes, the only soft aspect of his face, framed his hazel gaze which had shone with too much humor.
She patted her work-required bun and straightened her severe black dress.
“Crap, Ellie, there you are. I was beginning to think you’d finally abandoned me.” Rachel bounced around the corner. She carted a trolley full of cylindrical logs, fire starters, and flint. “We have a lot of fires to light this morning.”
Ellie tossed her woolen cloak onto a nearby chair and fell into place beside Rachel.
Her petite brunette friend grinned and hip-checked Ellie. “You going to the Homecoming celebration?”
“No.”
“Why not? I know you got an invitation.” Rachel bounced along the hallway toward the ladies’ wing. “You are nobility, go. I’ll be there serving.”
Ellie laughed and piled several logs into her arms. Rachel grabbed a sachet of fire-starting material and they ducked into the first bedroom on silent slippers.
She positioned the logs, rearranged the dying embers of last night’s fire, and sat back on her heels, while Rachel snapped her fingers causing the match to strike fast against flint. A single spark burst to life, lighting the nest of kindling, and the logs soon crackled with heat.