The Dark Huntsman: A Fantasy Romance of The Black Court (Tales of The Black Court Book 1) (15 page)

She gave herself a moment to recover and for him to open his eyes.

“You’re not the kind for forcing women?” She gave him a hard look. “What about the kidnapping thing, the contract, and the possibility of trading my body for my life?”

“There are rules in these situations. I simply followed them. And I didn’t kidnap you. I rescued you from a difficult situation. You owed me.” He leaned back, contented, relaxed, and sexy as hell.

He smiled and popped another raspberry in his mouth. Trina shuddered.

She forced her wayward thoughts back to the issue at hand. “I owed you? How do you figure that?”

“If I hadn’t taken you from there, you’d be dead today.”

“You mean you would have killed me.” The rush of anger was a relief, pushing her arousal deep inside where she could ignore it and focus on her nearly forgotten hatred of elves, fae, and this elf in particular.

She rose, crossed to the stove, and went back to stirring the pot with brief, vicious strokes, wishing she had the guts to stir in some black magic or poison.

“Well, of course. But, because I spared your life, by all the rules that govern us, I was owed something. And you didn’t have much on you at the time.” Logan’s lascivious grin gave no doubt he even now pictured her naked.

“If you’d given me time, I’d have figured something out.” Trina tried to stay calm, but her Gift had opened up. A rush of power thrummed in her bloodstream, offered up in a generous flow from the pool of eager energy under the clearing. It surged into the soles of her feet, pushing her to use it anyway she wanted. Black magic, white magic, sex magic.

She pushed the needy power away, afraid of what she might do with it in anger or uncontrolled lust. Tear his clothes off and ride him until she broke? Or take him on physically until he used his superior magic to take her down all the way to death.

She gripped the spoon and concentrated on not using the power to create a lethal breakfast.

“If I’d given you time, we’d both be dead,” Logan said. “You, because the queen wants you dead. Me, because if I didn’t kill you, she would have sent someone else to do the job, then they would have come after me. Don’t sleep with me if you don’t want to. Although,” his eyes sparkled, “if last night is any indication, I’ve no doubt you’ll be changing your mind.”

Trina’s mouth dropped open. “You arrogant son of a…”

“But don’t be thinking I’ve dealt with you unfairly.” He cut her off. “I’ve followed the rules set up between your kind and mine. I’ve spared your life, and given you a more generous bargain than I had to.”

“Fine! Here’s your breakfast. I’m fulfilling my side of our deal.” She slopped some undercooked oatmeal into a bowl and slammed it down on the table, her body vibrating with power that either wanted to kill him or rip his clothes off. “Now, since you have bargained so generously, I want my two sets of clothing, and shoes!”

He arched a brow. “One set. I already gave you the dress you have on. I’ll get you another one, and shoes, when I go to see what kind of information I can find out about the next gypsy meet.” Picking up his spoon, he poked at the glop in his bowl. “Is there any cream?”

“Well maybe you can get a cow when you go to the fair, Jack! No, there’s no cream. All we have are dry goods. There are no eggs, or milk, or anything like that. And this dress is unacceptable. It doesn’t fit right, it’s too short, and I prefer jeans!”

She forced the power away and back down into the pool. Afraid that if she didn’t, she would push his breakfast aside, climb up on the rickety table in front of him, splay her legs open, and beg to be kissed.

“I’ll see what I can find,” he said, apparently oblivious to her struggle. “The selection in the cottage is limited. There are some floor-length gowns, but I didn’t see any jeans. And I like that dress on you.” He smiled and she relaxed, her lips tugging up in response.

She was going to find herself giving in and she wouldn’t even be able to blame him, just her own stupid lack of self-control. She pinched her arm in a vicious twist to help her remember that under this charming persona lurked a ruthless man.

Nice men didn’t come to your house to kill you and your family, even if they changed their minds. What if she’d been old or ugly? Would she be dead?

“I’ll tell you what,” He shoveled oatmeal into his mouth and swallowed. “I’ll head over to the cottage and find out what I can from my uncles. I’ll also see what I can wheedle out of them in the way of fresher goods. I’m going to owe them quite a bit by the time I can pay it back.” He sent her another winning look. “And before I go, I’ll haul in water for you to have a bath. Would you like that?”

“I’m still not having sex.”

“I’m a patient man, love. I have a whole year.” A wicked Cheshire grin tilted his lips and despite her best efforts, she smiled back. “Now, I’m giving you one opportunity for a bath, then I’m leaving.” He threw the remainder of the raspberries on top of his oatmeal and spooned the last of it into his mouth.

“A bath. No strings?”

“No strings.”

“Yes.” She was filthy and desperate for clean water. She squashed the feeling that she’d be paying for the bath later. “Just one question. Where’s the bathtub?”

“If I start hauling in the water, it’s sure to appear somewhere. Home spells are not my area of expertise. As I understand it, the original owner liked to do quite a bit herself.”

“Who lived here?”

“Just a green witch, like yourself. Long gone.” For the first time that morning, the amused look dropped from his face and she caught a glimpse of the hardened man underneath. Then his face smoothed over, the spoon clattered into the empty bowl, and he rose from the table.

“Time to get moving, lass.”

Trina shook herself and got busy cleaning up so she wouldn’t get caught staring at the muscles moving and shifting under the skin of his back and legs as he pulled off his robe to get dressed. In fresh, clean, clothes.

The oatmeal bowl clattered to the counter. Her blood pressure zoomed.

“Wait a minute, why do you have clean clothes, and I only have this?” She indicated her dress. The same dress she’d been wearing the day before and had slept, well almost slept, in. “Where did your nice, clean clothes come from?”

“Oh, these?” He looked down at his chest and legs, seeming surprised that he was dressed at all. “These are mine. I have a whole wardrobe in my pocket.” He grinned, his good mood restored as if he’d tugged that out of a pocket, too. “You my dear, have not.”

Whistling, he grabbed two buckets and sauntered out of the cottage.

“Ooohh!” She turned, and tripped over the metal hip tub that had appeared behind her. “I hate him! And don’t think you can make me feel any better about all this.” She chided the empty cottage in a loud voice. “A bath might make me clean, but I’m still stuck out in the middle of the woods. With him!”

A half-hour later, she changed her mind.

She was in ecstasy, immersed to her shoulders in lavender scented water. Hot, clean, water. The spell on the cottage was working overtime now, apologizing for its earlier rustiness. It had sped the heating of the water, so that by the time she emptied her bucket into the tub, the one on the stove was hot and ready to go. It also kept the water the perfect temperature while she bathed. She hummed, happy and relaxed for the first time in days.

She put all her worries and fears on the back burner: the kidnapping, being out of touch with her family. The sex.

No, she would not think about the mind-blowing sex.

She’d made her decision about Logan, and it felt good to know it was the right one. She would serve out her year, and he would help her find out why the queen had it in for her tribe. She was clean, and warm, and every muscle she had abused over the last few days had softened to the consistency of warm taffy.

And she was not thinking about sex.

Warm, silky water cascaded from the sponge down over her extended arm. Sunlight filled the cottage. And for this one single moment, all was well. Later she would think about everything else. Think about the queen. Think about the elf.

But not the blood-rushing, lip-licking, smoky-tasting sex.

Logan peered through the newly clean white curtains hoping to see Trina without her prickly defenses up. Every time she saw him, she threw up shields he doubted she even knew she had. She sat, her back facing him, and ran a dripping sponge down bare arms. Water slid over her skin, making it glisten, before dribbling back down into the steamy bath. He couldn’t stop his grin at his sudden good fortune.

For once, he’d gambled on the fickle portals and won. He’d ridden hard, picked his uncles brains about the upcoming gypsy meet, borrowed more supplies, and swung through an unpredictable portal in order to return in time to catch Trina lounging in the tin bath.

And he was glad he’d taken the risk.

Inhaling deeply the steamy scent of lavender, rosemary, and sage floating out the window, he let his shoulders drop. He could stay here all day. The light breeze, singing of the birds, and slight heat of the sun were seductive.

Trina sat up. Water coursed in shining droplets off her naked arms and shoulders. She leaned back, chin high, and dunked her long, soapy dark hair into the tub. Logan stopped breathing as she held the pose—spine arched into a bow, full breasts pointed to the ceiling, water dripping in lazy rivulets from the rosy tips.

A ravenous hunger lightninged through him, stealing his strength and propelling his thoughts in directions they never should have gone. He staggered, grabbed the window frame for support, and sucked in air.

This kind of hunger wouldn’t be fed in a year. Or two. He needed more time. Maybe a decade before he’d be satisfied.

Breaking her pose, she reached for a tall glass jar from the chair next to the tub. She poured the viscous violet liquid onto her hand and massaged it into her scalp. He inhaled lavender, got his legs back, and headed for the door.

“Can I assist you, milady, in the rinsing of your hair?”

Trina shrieked and shot down into the tub, water sloshing over the sides.

“No. Go away. I don’t want help!” Her green cat’s eyes glittered. “I can rinse myself.”

“Surely that long hair requires a full rinse, allow me to help.” He picked up the bucket of clean, hot water waiting next to the tub and tipped it over her head.

She sputtered and spit through the deluge. “You’re drowning me!” She stood up, struggling to step out of the tub, water spilling everywhere. “Get out!” She wrestled with the heavy wet hair streaming over her face and eyes and snatched blindly at the towel he held out.

“You’re getting the floor wet.” He indicated a new towel that appeared next to her feet. Trina snarled and stepped on the towel, allowing it to soak up the remainder of the water.

“You were much quicker than I expected.” She wrapped the thin towel into a tight fabric defense. “Couldn’t find your way back to your uncles’ house?”

“I didn’t want to leave you all alone here your first day.”

“Well, you could have taken a little longer. I swear you just left.”

Her breasts rose up and down with each agitated pant, their curves swelling high under the clinging wet material. He leaned in, ran a finger under the edge of the towel and along the moist contours of her cleavage.

Her pupils grew large and dark.

She sucked in a sharp breath and took two steps away. “Back off, buster. Even the help is entitled to privacy. Go outside and I’ll finish up in here.”

There was no doubt in his mind she wanted him, and if he gave her enough time, she would be changing her mind about sharing his bed. He wasn’t willing to wait. He wanted her now.

“I could leave, but the view is much more enticing inside.” Logan snagged one of the kitchen chairs and straddled it backwards. “I think I’ll sit here, wait for you.”

“Fine!”

Leaving a trail of water on the wood floor, Trina crossed to the nailed-up rails that formed the ladder to the loft. Logan rested crossed arms on the chair back, leaned his chin on his arms, and enjoyed the view of Trina’s struggle to climb and still hold her towel. He let her get halfway up, where he had a nice view under her towel, before asking, “Don’t you want the clean clothes I brought you?” He dangled the string of the expanding bag on one finger. She whipped around. Her bare feet slipped, and she flailed for the rail, nearly losing her grip. The towel dropped.

“Ooohh!” She jumped the three feet to the floor, retrieved the towel, and re-shielded her nudity. Shooting him the evil eye, she grabbed the bag of clothes. She was out of the cottage and outside so fast he wasn’t sure it had even happened.

“You could say thank you,” he called out, the only answer the creaking slam of the shed door.

Logan turned his chair to face the open door and waited, hoping his gifts improved the wench’s mood. His memory of sex the night before was intense.

His fingers digging into her hips, her scent, her sighs. And his release. The fact that he’d had that type of pleasure and was hungry for more must be the result of his long drought.

Trina came out of the shed and twirled in the grass, her dark, wet hair and full, white cotton skirt unfurling around her like a Spanish dancer. She was young, so much younger than his three hundred years. Even the long-lived gypsies were butterflies compared to his potential millennia. He was barely an adult. The lass would be dead long before he reached middle age.