Defying Destiny (5 page)

seemed too afraid to approach, but one

small girl, with hair an unusual dark gray

color, separated from the shadows. Her

small rabbit-fur boots crunched through

the snow as she came closer.

“Who is this, Uncle Nash?” she asked,

staring up at Maralee curiously. Her

golden eyes were sad and rimmed with

red as if she’d been crying.

Nash released Maralee’s elbow and

bent to scoop up the girl. He stood,

holding her up to adult level. The child sat

in the crook of his arm as he introduced

her. “This is Maralee. She’s here for a

short visit.”

“What is your name?” Maralee asked.

The girl cuddled closer to her uncle,

clinging to his sweater. “She smells

funny.”

Nash smiled and took a strand of

Maralee’s long hair between his fingers.

“It’s a fragrance in her hair.” The girl

gave a hesitant sniff before turning her

face against Nash’s shoulder. Nash

stroked her narrow back and looked at

Maralee. “Her name is Carsha,” Nash

said, and then set the girl to her feet.

“That’s a pretty name,” Maralee said,

but the girl was only interested in her

uncle.

Carsha clung to Nash’s leg with what

Maralee took as fear. “Will you play with

me, Uncle Nash?” she asked, looking up at

him with watery eyes. “Please.”

Nash stared down at her, his guilt

tangible. “Later, Carsha. I promise.”

“Carsha! Get in the house,” a harsh

feminine voice called from a nearby

cabin.

Carsha cringed. She looked up at her

uncle with a pleading look, before

releasing his leg, and dragging her feet on

her way towards a house. Maralee

watched her apprehensively. Carsha

climbed a set of porch steps and stood

outside the door with her hand on the

doorknob. The door swung open.

“Hurry up!” the same harsh voice

demanded. A hand shot out of the house,

grabbed the girl by one arm, and hauled

her inside.

A queasy feeling settled in the pit of

Maralee’s stomach. “Is she alright? She

won’t be beaten, will she?”

Nash glared at her and Maralee

suddenly wanted to flee for her life. He

took her elbow in a harsh grip and forced

her forward again.

“The people of my village would

never harm a child,” he said angrily.

“How dare you even insinuate such a

thing?”

Fear snaked up her spine. Her unusual

reaction unsettled her. “I’m s-sorry.”

Nash didn’t look at her as he

continued. “She just found out her father

was murdered. How do you expect her to

act?”

“M- Murdered?”

Nash forced Maralee up a pair of

stairs onto a porch. He wrenched the front

door open and shoved her inside. His

hands were shaking when he released her.

She backed away from him, wondering if

Nash was capable of murder. He certainly

looked it at the moment. She retreated

until the backs of her legs connected with

something solid. He pursued, leaving no

room for escape.

“You, sit,” he said in a low growl.

Maralee sat down on the sofa behind

her, never taking her eyes off him.

“Don’t move,” he demanded. “And

hand over that damnable sword of yours.”

“Like hell!”

He leaned forward, his nose inches

from hers, and maybe she was imagining

things, but it seemed as though he was

snarling at her. “Sword,” he said. “Don’t

make me take it from you.”

Maralee’s heart tried to leap from her

chest, but her breastbone impeded its

progress. No matter her degree of alarm,

she refused to give in to him. There was

no way she was handing over her father’s

sword without a fight.

“Then you’ll have to take it,” she said

evenly.

He assessed her for a moment and then

surprised her by backing down. They

stared at each other for several moments.

Maralee didn’t dare blink. “Be careful

with it,” he said.

“Of course.”

He turned away and she took a deep

breath. He walked over to the fireplace,

and bent to build a fire in the grate.

“I apologize for frightening you,” he

said quietly.

Maralee’s

hand

moved

to

the

comforting hilt at her hip. She could

understand why he might be leery of a

lady carrying a weapon in his house, but

she was not prepared to disarm herself.

She didn’t even know this man, and here

she was, sitting on his sofa in his cabin in

the woods. She wasn’t exactly sure how it

had happened. She hadn’t intended to

come here. Something about the man

compelled her.

Nash started a fire and added a few

logs before turning away from it. He

watched her for several long minutes until

she began to inch to the sofa’s far end

under his scrutinizing gaze.

“I still don’t know what to do with

you,” he told her, scratching his head. Her

eyes moved down his hard body as he

removed his leather trench coat and hung

it on a hook by the door. When he turned

to look at her again, she tore her eyes from

his lithe form to focus on his intriguing

eyes. She knew she was blushing, but she

couldn’t help it. She remembered what the

corded muscles beneath that sweater and

those pants looked like a bit
too
vividly.

She hated that she cared and that it

unsettled her so.

“Have you had breakfast?” he asked.

“I…yes.”

“Do you mind if I eat?”

“Of course not,” she whispered. Why

was he being nice to her again, when he’d

been so harsh only moments before?

“Stay.” He crossed the room and

entered a door near where she sat.

Stay?
What was she? A dog? She

considered leaving right then, just to

prove she wasn’t going to obey him

without question, but something kept her

sitting there. Curiosity? Longing? Her eyes

widened at the thought.
No, not that.
He

was just different somehow. Which made

him interesting. That’s all there was too it.

She found him interesting. Not... arousing.

She touched her cheeks with cool

fingertips, glad he was out of the room for

a moment so she could collect her

scattered thoughts.

Maralee glanced around the room,

trying to make sense of the man who lived

here. Situated beneath a window facing

the porch was a well-made, wooden desk.

Old books with yellowed pages and worn

bindings were scattered over its surface.

Near-empty inkwells and tattered quills

crowded one corner. Papers, in uneven

stacks, rested among the tatty books.

Beside the desk was a bookshelf with

more old volumes, and in the corner of the

room, a comfortable looking chair draped

in a thick bearskin. Another bearskin was

on the sofa beneath her, and a third served

as a rug in the room’s center. A hunter or a

fur-trader? He liked to read or write. She

wondered what else there was to this man.

He intrigued her.

“Are you sure you’re not hungry?”

Nash asked, peeking into the room at her.

“The game’s fresh. Yesterday’s hunt.”

“I had breakfast at the inn.”

A crooked smile graced his lips.

Her cheeks flamed again. Her heart

hammered. It was as if his smile activated

the make-a-fool-of-myself lobe of her

br ai n.
Curses!
She wanted to be very

angry with him for his attempts to bully

her. She should be livid. Why wasn’t she?

He disappeared into the kitchen once

more.

A moment later, he returned with a

dressed rabbit on a spit, and set it over the

fire to broil. He glanced around the room,

his eyes resting on her eventually.

“Do you like to read?” she asked,

nodding in the direction of his books.

“Oh.” He approached his desk and

closed several open books, before

returning them to the shelf. He scooped up

a pile of papers and stuffed them into a

desk

drawer.

“Just

researching

something.”

“What are you researching?”

He turned and caught her eye.

“Something.”

Her thoughts scattered. He looked

away.

“Do you like to hunt?” She glanced at

the bearskin on the floor.

“It serves its purpose.” He returned to

the fire to turn the spit. The mouth-

watering smell of roasting meat filled the

room and added to the cozy scent of

burning wood.

Maralee felt she had to fill the silence

with conversation, which was a strange

need for someone who normally kept to

herself. “I never imagined a village could

exist so deep in a forest.”

“We keep to ourselves for the most

part,” he said. “You’re the first… uh…

non-resident to visit here.”

He glanced at her briefly, and then

devoted his full attention to his cooking.

“Will you direct me to Sarbough? I’m

not sure I can find my way back easily.”

A slight nod was his only answer. The

silence between them was awkward. She

scrambled for something to engage him in

conversation.

“Did you say the girl, Carsha, was

your niece?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice softening.

“She’s sixteen.”

“Six
teen
?”

“I mean…
six
?” He looked at her as if

gauging her reaction to his claim.

“She looks about six.”

He nodded. “Yes, she’s six.”

“You said her father had been

murdered, then he must have been—”

“My brother.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know

how awful it is to find your loved ones

murdered.”

He glared at her. “Do you? Do you

really?”

His sudden outburst startled her, but

she continued. “I…yes. My family, all of

them, were murdered by Wolves. Only I

survived. I was Carsha’s age.”

He tore his gaze from her. His jaw

clenched and he slammed his fist into the

wall beside the fireplace. The entire cabin

shuddered under the intensity of the blow.

Maralee gasped. Perhaps the memory of

his brother was still too fresh in his mind

to talk about just yet. She still found it

hard to relate her tragedy to others, even

after all this time. And she understood the

anger. Sometimes, it crippled her.

“I apologize. I shant mention it again,”

she said.

Nash remained kneeling by the fire for

a long time, turning the spit every now and

then. The room was growing warm and

comfortable now. Maralee found her eyes

drooping. Her lack of sleep and the

excitement of the morning had caught up

with her. She untied the laces of her cloak

and pushed it from her shoulders. It

pooled behind her, but she didn’t bother to

stand up to fold it properly. She wasn’t

planning to stay long and didn’t want Nash

to think she was getting cozy. As soon as

he finished his meal, she would ask him to

direct her to the inn. And if he refused,

she’d try to find her way back on her own

and hope she didn’t end up getting lost in

the expansive and unfamiliar forest.

His breakfast of rabbit grilled to

perfection, Nash stood and carried his

meal to the next room. He didn’t look at

Maralee as he passed her and she

pretended she didn’t see the tears on his

lashes.

Nash sat down at the small table in his

kitchen and picked meat off the broiled

rabbit with his fingers. He preferred it

raw—had cooked it for
her
benefit. The

Huntress. He wasn’t sure why he

bothered.

He ate slowly, ears trained towards

the silent living room. He kept expecting

her to make a run for it, wicked sword

drawn and flailing, slaughtering his

people with some sort of strange self-

righteousness.

He

hoped

he

had

effectively frightened her into obeying

him. He wasn’t usually so domineering,

but she infuriated him.