Even though she did not look at his face, his body spoke to her. There was a flutter under his bear-pelt, a shift of his head. What a prideful creature; he was like the very peacock. The corner of her lips pulled back in a faint smile, but it was one that did not linger. A command was given, and while she was hardly stooping now, Siv adjusted her position as if she had been waiting. It felt peculiar to be subservient to a man—but she had not missed the scrutiny of his eyes as they followed her body. Baby-fat still clung to her, but it was a sign of good breeding to be able to hold onto such. A skinny waif would die under the harsh hand of winter.
The horses were things she did not bother with, and so Siv ignored them and focused her attention on the man alone. It was he she had intended to impress, he who had the true power. She smiled at the slippery coating of his words, wondering how many women had fallen to such tactics. “Siv, my Lord Hunter.” No surname; she did not need one here. If things moved along as she had planned, in time, she would claim another. “When I came to your land,” even now she phrased things in such terms; there were games played with words, and she wove them well. “I came with little. I could not properly gift the hospitality of your kingdom.”
She flicked her eyes to the pale mare’s blanket at the mention of it. “I was trained by various hands; the secrets of the craft were passed down to worthy apprentices of the bloodline. I have been practicing since I was a girl.” There was no boasting from her, for her skill showed itself clearly enough.
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