If I had a pottery pitcher, I cannot say I would not use it over the fool’s head. “What. Did. You. Say?”
“Not. A. Thing.” He sighed deeply. “Do not make this difficult, Drifa. It is for the best, and we will catch up with Ivar in no time at all.”
Drifa narrowed her eyes with suspicion. “Let me repeat my earlier question. Where do you intend to sleep tonight?’
“Right here,” he said.
I knew it, I knew it. The troll! “Nay, you are not. I am not coupling with you again.”
“Mayhap you should wait until you are asked.”
Her face flamed. “Go find another stall to sleep.”
“None are clean. Do not worry, I will not touch you.”
She should have been assured by his promise, but then he added something else.
“Unless you ask.”
He proceeded to remove his clothing. Every single stitch. Then he stretched his arms overhead, yawned widely, and laid himself down on her blanket.
“Good night, Drifa.”
He really means to stay away from me? She would have been fooled, except for one thing. His enthusiasm was sticking up like a bloody flagpole.
Laughter bubbled up in her and erupted in a guffaw as she pointed at it. She continued to alternately snicker and giggle, even as she laid herself down, fully clothed, at the farther edge of the blanket.
“Good night, Sidroc,” she said when she finally calmed down. Isn’t it wonderful that this is a game two can play?
She was almost asleep when she heard him mutter, “It’s not funny.”
“Yea, it is.”
“ ’Tis not nice to make jest of a man’s ... um, manhood.”
Drifa fell asleep with a smile on her face.
She awakened in the middle of the night to a chill in the air and a light that should not be there. She realized that a torch had been lit and placed in one of the secure wall brackets. And, somehow, her clothing had melted away.
Most amazing of all—though she was a dunderhead for letting down her guard—the biggest scoundrel in all the Norselands was leaning over her, staring slack-jawed at her hennaed nipples.
’Twould seem the joke was on her.
He wasn’t an artist, but he painted pictures in his mind ...
Sidroc didn’t know whether to hoot with laughter or shout with joy at the wondrous sight before him. He was kneeling at the side of Drifa’s nude body, taking in the view. A most incredible view, by the by.
Drifa had suddenly grown reddish-brown nipples and areolas. Bright reddish brown! They were either a virile man’s fantasy-come-true, or a monumental jest. He was leaning toward the former.
“Why am I naked?” Drifa asked, her eyes shooting open suddenly.
Was there ever a more foolish question asked by a woman? “You were moaning in your sleep and I thought it best to check for hidden wounds.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“It was worth a try.” He turned his attention back to her chest, not that it had ever left. “Uh, what happened?” he asked with as much subtlety as he could muster.
“I already told you before that the harem eunuch hennaed all the flower buds, even Ianthe’s.”