Page 6 of The Captive's Curse
Ha! For a moment there, I’d thought I’d lost my charm when I fell so ingloriously into the mud. But no—what had I been thinking? Mud could dim my blond hair, but not my radiance. Even men who’d never really looked at another man before anddevoted themselves entirely to the ladies—Rivina’s betrothed, for one—had trouble resisting me.
Greatly emboldened, not that I generally needed it, I braced a hand on my ankle and tipped my head, peering at Enzo around my right calf.
For a moment I thought he was smiling.
Then I remembered I was looking at him upside down.
And eyebrows raised almost to someone’s hairline were very strange from this angle, too. But his face had gone crimson, and his gaze wasn’t on my face. It seemed to be fixed…
I waggled my ass at him, and he let out a soft sound, something between a grunt and a grinding of his teeth.
“No help necessary,” I repeated. “The fall didn’t stiffen me up too much, luckily. But how badly am I bruised? I can’t see for myself.”
“I’d have to examine you more closely.” His voice had a rough edge to it. “Which I certainly have no desire at all to do. None. I was coming to the hall for supper. You—happened to be here.”
Well, that was a suspicious combination of too much protesting and flustered non sequiturs. Turning my head back so he couldn’t see my face, I allowed myself a sly smile, though I kept the delighted laughter inside. He might be a sneering, sardonic bastard with a sharp tongue, but he was also a man.
I could handle a man. I’d handled dozens, in fact. And if he could throw me off-balance, then sauce for the gander, gods damn it.
With a fresh burst of energy and determination, I scooped up the blanket and stood, channeling my power into it, focusing on the color and texture and also on how I’d feel wearing it—because I’d learned that my magic worked better if I could infuse it with emotion, the more powerful the better.
As I turned to face Enzo again, I sent my magic rippling through the blanket, refining its structure, transforming ugly brown wool into—still wool, to be fair, but softer, so smooth it shimmered, now a pale golden-green that I knew would pick up all the highlights in my eyes. The edge of the blanket separated into gleaming fringe as I shook it out.
A few flips and wraps, and I had it draped around me in a style that had been popular a few hundred years ago, ironically the same odd old fashion I’d been wearing the other night at the masquerade ball that had indirectly caused Rivina’s fury and my subsequent kidnapping. I ran my hands down over my body, smoothing out any wrinkles and also working more magic on the shirt, leaching out all the natural color of the fibers and turning it snowy white.
Shit—I’d also taken out almost all of its strength, and made it nearly as thin as gossamer. Oh well. It’d last through supper.
My eyes fluttered open, and I was instantly caught by Enzo’s deep, dark gaze. “I’m ready to go in to dine,” I said. He didn’t move a muscle, simply staring at me inscrutably. “What, no cutting commentary on my clothing?” I demanded, rather miffed that he hadn’t jumped to offer me his arm. Although what could one expect from someone so obviously ill-bred and rude? He’d knocked me off my horse into the mud!
Enzo shook his head slightly and blinked, his eyes sharpening. “No, I don’t think I need to say anything,” he remarked cryptically. “After you.”
Fine. I could face all of his outlaws alone. Even if, despite my bravado and my underlying confidence in my own worth, it made my knees a bit watery to walk through that doorway barefoot and in a fancy blanket, the captive of that towering, scowling prick who’d be right behind me making who knew what kinds of mocking faces.
They’d never know, though. Lord Cyril, mage, musician, and poet, wouldn’t show his discomfort. He’d think of himself in the third person in order to be less embarrassed, instead, apparently. Gods help me.
With my head held high, I strode down the length of the hall, looking neither to my right, where my peripheral vision informed me that every single person at every single table had at last turned to gawk at me, nor to the left, where several grinning serving lads had stepped aside against the wall to let me pass.
It felt like it took a very long time, even though it was only a few seconds, but at last I stepped up the several shallow stairs that led to the high table’s dais.
The chairs were all askew and there were no place settings, and nothing to show me where Enzo usually sat. Fine. I crossed behind the table and stopped at a chair to the right of what was probably the center, where his high-born prisoner would naturally be seated.
But when I turned to pointedly raise my eyebrows at Enzo, a signal to him that he ought to pull out a chair for me, I found myself pointedly raising my eyebrows at nothing.
He’d stopped at the bottom of the stairs, hesitating next to…a plate, cup, and cutlery set neatly at the head of the first long table.
Where clearly Enzo had been expecting to sit.
Oh, gods. He’d sit down and leave me standing here like a presumptuous fool, humiliated beyond even my ability to hide…
He looked up at me, and the corner of his lips twitched.
Fuck. He’d be laughing at me, too.
And then, before the silence and the pause stretched quite to the point of awkwardness, he was moving again, taking the stairs two at a time and stopping by the chair I’d mentally designated as his, just as if that had been his intention all along.
“Have a seat,” he said, and ignored my chair to pull out his own, dropping into it with the ease of a king surveying his domain.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I obeyed, too relieved to even remark on his lack of gallantry.
