Page 44 of Seducing the Sorcerer
“Does it grow?”
“Don’t seem to. Sacking, after all.”
“Mm.” She made a little tsk sound. “That tongue.”
It was a sore point. No decent horse had a tongue that hung down like a bit of limp red seaweed. But it couldn’t be denied. And it was brave of her to bring it up. It was refreshing, really, to have it out in the open
“Ain’t judging regular though, are we?” he pointed out.
“Fair. Maybe it’s a fine example for the breed. Maybe it’s we who need to adjust our opinions, eh, Mr. Todd?”
Gods, but she was diplomatic. Tactful, insightful, kind.
“Aye,” he said.
“How old? Can you tell?”
“Three hundred years, apparently. Maybe four.”
“Ha!” She shot him a grin.
“Said it weren’t regular.”
“Those withers.”
“Ah. Mm.”
“Good broad chest.”
“Mm.”
Morgrim cleared his throat. “If I may?”
“Aye?”
Fenn turned, dazed with happiness, and found he couldn’t look away. Because he’d forgotten Morgrim was half naked. And sweaty and dishevelled and a bit vexed-looking, like someone had been making him wait for longer than he wanted and he was getting flustered by it. He was still holding the kitten, which was now wriggling to get down.
He had the slight, flat, boyish torso of a man who has never had to chop wood or dig cesspits for a living. But he didn’t have the soft body of a scholar either. He was lithe, his muscles well-defined. A line of dark hair led down his flat stomach from his navel, vanishing beneath the waistband of his trousers, tempting Fenn’s gaze lower. Fenn looked firmly up so as not to be rude, but that was no better, because with Morgrim’s hair tied back and his high-collared robe off, there was the graceful line of his neck. There was the tender place just above the shoulder that would be so good to kiss and, then, perhaps, to bite.
He realised, belatedly, that Morgrim was staring back at him and that Aramella was watching them, looking from him to Morgrim, comprehension dawning on her face. But what was she comprehending? Something to do with magic? Or, maybe, now she’d seen the horse and spoken to Fenn she was understanding why Morgrim had invited him to stay. Or—
Oh Gods! She couldn’t tell, could she? That Fenn fancied Morgrim, that Fenn dared to have hopes. And her maybe expecting to marry Morgrim herself.
Morgrim seemed to realise the thrashing kitten was trying to tell him something. He crouched and let it down onto the ground. It stalked a few paces, stiff-legged, and stopped to wash at him in a disowning manner.
“Where’s that sack of rags?” Fenn said, and got very busy looking for it and picking it up.
When Aramella had just been a name it had been easy to forget about her. But here she was, clearly a young woman of intelligence and discernment. It was impossible to believe Morgrim might be pressuring her into marriage; Morgrim wasn’t that sort of man. But surely rumours of marriage wouldn’t have come from nowhere? The two of them might well have an understanding. Fenn felt a fool all over again. He’d likely been sniffing around after a man who was already spoken for.
“Goodness, is that the time?” Aramella said, apropos of no bell Fenn had heard. “I ought to go.”
Morgrim frowned. “I thought you were staying to go through that new Fixer’s Bill.”
“As we were sparring, I was thinking: best not to respond too fast. Give everyone an extra day or two to cool off,” Aramella said.
Morgrim raised a puzzled eyebrow, but all he said was, “As you wish.”
“Yes. I’ll leave you to it. Mr. Todd, lovely to meet you. Perhaps we might ride together one day? There are some good tracks in the hills to the north. Or Morgrim tells me he’s shown you the mustering ground?”
