Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
She scrubbed her hair twice and then got busy on her body. There was still some warmth left in the water when she finished, and it would have been nice to linger but that would have been wiser to do before she had scrubbed herself and left the filth in the water.
Hurry, he looks for you!
Startled by the sudden warning, she hurried out of the tub to hastily dry herself in front of the hearth, squeezing the water from her long hair before she did. When nearly finished, the cottage door burst open.
Lord Varrick’s impressive form overpowered the doorway and he glared at her with an anger that frightened her. She shivered, not only from his intense scowl but from the cold that drifted in, and she quickly covered herself with the damp towel.
Varrick hurried the door closed, seeing his wife tremble. He looked at the tub, then back at her. “What are you doing here in a cottage and not in the keep? And why is no one helping you?”
She spoke truthfully to him. “I was not wanted in the keep and there was no one who wanted to help me wash, and I needed no one to help me,” Fia said, recalling the protest of the servants ordered to help her until finally the two of the lowliest servants had been left with the task. “It would seem the witch is feared more than the legendary Highlander.”
Varrick’s glare remained as he stared at her. There was no malice or accusation in her voice, just the opposite. She spoke softly, supplying him not only with answers but with a reason as well. A reason that did not sit well with him, though the quick glance of her naked when he had flung open the door intruded on all other thoughts.
Her shapely body was more than pleasing; breasts that were abundant, a perfectly curved waist, hips that did not skimp nor spread too wide, skin kissed rosy from the heat of a bath, and features so fine one could not look away.
Argus’s words echoed in his head about not meeting her eyes and instinctively, his gaze fell on her hair, long, auburn in color with splashes of red running throughout and highlighted by the fire’s light since it was still wet.
His wife was far more attractive and alluring than he expected.
“Finish!” he snapped. “We leave soon.”
Keeping the towel tightly gripped against her, she asked, “Please, my lord, may I have time to dry my hair and have a bit to eat and drink.”
“You have not eaten today?”
“A small bit of bread, but nothing more since a full day ago,” she said, hoping he would not deny her. The bath had done much to return some strength to her. If she could eat a good meal, she would grow even stronger.
“Dress and be done, then meet me in the Great Hall where food and drink await,” he ordered and turned to leave.
“I will not be welcomed there.”
Varrick looked over his shoulder at her. “I will welcome you and that is all that matters.”
The door closed behind him and Fia leaned her hand on the table, realizing she had forced herself to remain erect and show no fear. But fear had claimed her limbs as soon as Lord Varrick had entered the cottage. He was an imposing man and with his reputation of a ruthless warrior she would be foolish not to fear him.
She hurried into a linen shift, fearful to remain naked in case he should return, then rubbed her hair as dry as best she could with a towel and sat near the hearth running her fingers through the thick strands to further dry it. It would take time for it to fully dry, so she did not confine it to a braid or with a strip of cloth. If she could sit close by the hearth in the Great Hall, the heat would help much to completely dry it, then she could braid it.
When only a slight dampness remained in her hair, she hurried into the remaining wool garments, grateful for their warmth. She eased on the wool stocking and secured them with ties before slipping on her own boots. With no cloak in sight, she grabbed the soft wool blanket off the bed, secured it like a cloak around her, and, taking a fortifying breath, left the cottage.
“She may be a witch, but she is now my wife, by your request, and I expect her to be treated as such,” Varrick admonished Newlin, the man once again trembling in front of him.
He had stopped to see that all was prepared for the return journey home before confronting Newlin in the Great Hall, though it was more an excuse to calm his anger that no one had tended to his wife. She might be a witch, but she was still his wife and to disrespect her was disrespecting him.