Free 22 Nights by Linda Winstead Jones Page B

she desired to be.
    “What are you smiling at?” she snapped.
    “Am I smiling?” he asked.
    “Yes. You look like an addle-headed fool, sitting there with that senseless grin on your face. Do you find me amusing? ”
    He did, but didn’t think it would be wise to tell her so. “No, of course not. I’m simply spending this quiet time remembering better days, that’s all.”
    She snorted. “Remembering other women, I suppose.”
    “Naturally.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Makes the time pass more quickly as I wait for the stew to be done. Should I share my intimate thoughts with you?” he asked, knowing she would refuse.
    Bela wrinkled her nose at the pot and ignored the question. “I’m starving. Isn’t the stew done enough?”
    “No. The meat will be tough if we don’t wait a bit.”
    “Fine.” She slumped back in her chair, eyes on the pot.
    The silence was heavy and uncomfortable. Bela’s clothes were slowly drying, but remained damp here and there. It was easy enough for Merin’s eyes to rake over her body. Her breasts were nicely shaped, even as she wilted in her chair. Her hips were nicely rounded, a woman’s finely shaped hips not at all disguised by the manly trousers. Her hair was matted and the braid was less than flattering, but the poor hairstyle only accentuated the fact that her face was strongly feminine and flawless, the cheekbones high, the eyes nicely shaped—not wide and childlike like so many girls—the mouth . . . that wide mouth was near perfect.
    Merin found he could not stand the silence—or his own perusal—for very long. “So, tell me about your sword,” he said. “It’s unique.”
    “You have no idea,” Bela said softly.
    “The grip is unusual.”
    She looked at him and narrowed her eyes. “You’d best know now that you’re to keep your hands off Kitty.”
    Surprised, Merin blinked twice, and then he laughed. “Kitty? You named your sword? And if that’s not bad enough, you named it Kitty ?” He laughed again. “I’m so glad to hear that, Bela, really I am. It proves to me that, like it or not, you really are a girl.”
    She was incensed, as he’d imagined she would be. “If you must know,” she snapped, “Kitty named herself.”
    Merin’s smile faded. He didn’t think Bela was teasing him, not with that intense expression on her face. The way she handled the sword, the familiar glimmer of the grip . . . His wife was in possession of a magical sword, and if he wasn’t mistaken, the grip was made of a crystal he well recognized. A living crystal, a crystal capable of sucking the very soul out of a man, or a demon.
    “Where and how did you come by this sword?” he asked.
    “I don’t intend to tell you . . . ,” she began hotly.
    “No more games,” he interrupted. “This is serious business. Tell me about Kitty.”
     
    WHEN Merin declared the stew had simmered long enough, they filled their bowls and took them to the table. Hungry as Bela was, she was well aware that the food was still too hot to eat. They would have to wait a few moments longer. They sat. The rope that connected them was long enough to allow some freedom of movement, but was not long enough to allow one to sit while the other stood by the fireplace, not even in this small cottage.
    “So,” Merin said as he stirred the cooling stew in his bowl, “Kitty chose you.”
    “Yes. Clyn found her in the mountains, nearly three years ago, and he was not pleased when he learned that he couldn’t keep her. But it was not his choice to make. It was hers.”
    He was intrigued by Kitty, as was everyone who learned of her existence. “You call the sword ‘she,’ and the name is certainly female. Why?”
    “She speaks to me in a female voice.”
    Merin shook his head and took a small bite to test the stew. Apparently it was fine, as his next bite was much larger. It had been a long day, so he must be as hungry as she. “This is fascinating,” he said between bites.