Townsend, Lindsay - The Snow Bride (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Lindsay Townsend
on the pallet like a basking grass snake, slowly, sinuously, and a tiny sigh escaped her mouth. Watching, staring, he was stunned again by her beauty, by the wonder of a woman sleeping in his presence.
It was so wonderful he forgot to swallow a final sip of water. As he felt it trickling down his scars and mottled beard, he desperately smacked his good hand across his face, veiling himself in case the first thing she saw, looming in the firelight, was him, too close.
But she did not wake. She turned on her side and curled into a ball, and he tracked her movement with helpless pleasure. Her languor and the gently snorting horse beguiled him. Telling himself he would rest for a moment, only a moment, he eased himself onto the pallet beside her. Facing the fire, he watched the whispering flames and daydreamed of summer in the heart of winter.
Later he dreamed in truth. In the dream, as ever, he was hale and whole, unmarked by the blades that had hacked off his hand and foot and scarred his face so deeply. He and fair-haired Peter were boating on a river with Alice and Elfrida. Alice was learning how to scull from her husband, straining on her oar and calling to her children on the grassy bank. Elfrida dropped pine cones into the water, where each cone became a door.
In the dream, when she spoke to him, he understood.
“Damsels live behind these doors, and a beast visits them.”
“Where does he live?”
She smiled. “You are a good student. That is for us to find out.”
She reached across the ribs of the rowing boat and took his unblemished right hand in hers. “You are handsome. I like your curly black hair and beard.”
She leaned forward, brushing her cheek against his beard. Her touch and the scent of her, spices and poppy, mingled with sweet, warm flesh, aroused him instantly.
“What is your name?” she whispered, stealing a swift kiss from his whole, unscarred mouth.
“Magnus,” he said aloud and woke, his head throbbing. Light glared into his eyes, and he shielded them with his arm, sighing as he saw the stump where his hand had once been. His missing foot itched and ached as he remembered afresh his old war wounds. In Outremer, his scars had been badges of honor and courage, but in England he was ugly, a beast.
A monster to catch a monster. Is that not apt?
He heard Elfrida’s breath, fast and hard, and knew she was awake. She had not screamed yet, which was a blessing.
He flinched, surprised as she thrust a firebrand up to his face, then he held still, tormenting her and himself with his looks.
A pair of bright, amber eyes scanned his ruined face. Elfrida crouched by the fire, glancing at him, the door, and the horse.
“If you try riding him, he will kick you off into a snowdrift,” Magnus remarked. Keeping his voice low and even, he said, “Elfrida, my name is Magnus. I am here to help.”
Her eyes narrowed at his use of her name, but she shook her head as he repeated what he had said in every language he knew. When he had finished, she held up her arm and pointed at his. Baffled, he raised his left hand, and she brought the burning brand close, studying the limb as if looking for cloven hooves.
“I am a man,” he said quietly. “I know I may not look it.”
She lifted her left hand, turning the palm to him. When he pointed at the red spots that now marred her previously flawless skin, she nodded to him, then to his horse.
He was stunned when he realized what she was suggesting and violently shook his head. “So you have a pox, which is one reason why you have swooned. But I am still not leaving.” He shrugged and risked a smile. His missing teeth were no worse than those of many others. “I had poxes as a child, and in the East.”
She jabbered something, tossing the brand onto the fire and snatching up the cross he had made. When he began to recite the creed, she joined in, then lifted her other arm, where faint spots were already beginning to emerge, and pointed a second time
It was so wonderful he forgot to swallow a final sip of water. As he felt it trickling down his scars and mottled beard, he desperately smacked his good hand across his face, veiling himself in case the first thing she saw, looming in the firelight, was him, too close.
But she did not wake. She turned on her side and curled into a ball, and he tracked her movement with helpless pleasure. Her languor and the gently snorting horse beguiled him. Telling himself he would rest for a moment, only a moment, he eased himself onto the pallet beside her. Facing the fire, he watched the whispering flames and daydreamed of summer in the heart of winter.
Later he dreamed in truth. In the dream, as ever, he was hale and whole, unmarked by the blades that had hacked off his hand and foot and scarred his face so deeply. He and fair-haired Peter were boating on a river with Alice and Elfrida. Alice was learning how to scull from her husband, straining on her oar and calling to her children on the grassy bank. Elfrida dropped pine cones into the water, where each cone became a door.
In the dream, when she spoke to him, he understood.
“Damsels live behind these doors, and a beast visits them.”
“Where does he live?”
She smiled. “You are a good student. That is for us to find out.”
She reached across the ribs of the rowing boat and took his unblemished right hand in hers. “You are handsome. I like your curly black hair and beard.”
She leaned forward, brushing her cheek against his beard. Her touch and the scent of her, spices and poppy, mingled with sweet, warm flesh, aroused him instantly.
“What is your name?” she whispered, stealing a swift kiss from his whole, unscarred mouth.
“Magnus,” he said aloud and woke, his head throbbing. Light glared into his eyes, and he shielded them with his arm, sighing as he saw the stump where his hand had once been. His missing foot itched and ached as he remembered afresh his old war wounds. In Outremer, his scars had been badges of honor and courage, but in England he was ugly, a beast.
A monster to catch a monster. Is that not apt?
He heard Elfrida’s breath, fast and hard, and knew she was awake. She had not screamed yet, which was a blessing.
He flinched, surprised as she thrust a firebrand up to his face, then he held still, tormenting her and himself with his looks.
A pair of bright, amber eyes scanned his ruined face. Elfrida crouched by the fire, glancing at him, the door, and the horse.
“If you try riding him, he will kick you off into a snowdrift,” Magnus remarked. Keeping his voice low and even, he said, “Elfrida, my name is Magnus. I am here to help.”
Her eyes narrowed at his use of her name, but she shook her head as he repeated what he had said in every language he knew. When he had finished, she held up her arm and pointed at his. Baffled, he raised his left hand, and she brought the burning brand close, studying the limb as if looking for cloven hooves.
“I am a man,” he said quietly. “I know I may not look it.”
She lifted her left hand, turning the palm to him. When he pointed at the red spots that now marred her previously flawless skin, she nodded to him, then to his horse.
He was stunned when he realized what she was suggesting and violently shook his head. “So you have a pox, which is one reason why you have swooned. But I am still not leaving.” He shrugged and risked a smile. His missing teeth were no worse than those of many others. “I had poxes as a child, and in the East.”
She jabbered something, tossing the brand onto the fire and snatching up the cross he had made. When he began to recite the creed, she joined in, then lifted her other arm, where faint spots were already beginning to emerge, and pointed a second time
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