He snorted. “Of course I trust you, but there isn't a man breathing who wouldn't be wary when daggers surround his bits.”
She chuckled. “That's true. Even a Kai man would be alarmed.” She lolled in his arms. “Kiss me again and then I'll wash the blood from your hair.
Serovek didn't need to be told twice and spent the next several minutes availing himself of Anhuset's taste, not only of her mouth but her neck and earlobes, the crooks of her elbows, her nape and her temples. She did the same to him, her tongue a wet caress on his skin that pumped the blood hot and fast into his loins again. His cock swelled, eager to experience the delight of her body.
She slipped out of his arms, motioning for him to follow her as she waded to the pool's edge where their clothes lay in a heap. The monk who'd led them to the pool had left not only towels but a small jar of boiled soap weed and a comb.
Good as her word, Anhuset soaped and rinsed his hair while he partially reclined in front of her, in a near torpor as she patiently combed the bloody mats out of his hair. Even with the occasionally painful tug of the comb, he relaxed so much under her grooming he nearly fell asleep.
When she was finished, she handed him the comb. “My turn,” she said.
Eager to touch her in the same way she'd touched him, he happily traded places with her. Combing her hair was an easier task than combing his. She wore it a similar length but the texture was different, thick as his but straight as a spear haft and coarse enough to discourage tangles. The comb glided easily through her locks until hitting an unexpected knot.
It caught the comb hard enough to jerk her head back. “Ow!” she yelped, staring up at him as if he'd lost his senses. Her eyes widened, and she jerked forward only to fall back with another yelp, the comb still entangled in her hair.
“Hold still,” he ordered, letting go of the comb. “You have a bad tangle back here.” She ignored his command, trying to wiggle away, only stopping when he said, “A ribbon?” Anhuset made an odd noise, something between a growl and a mortified squeak, and went still.
Serovek pried the comb loose from the knot that was actually a frayed white ribbon twined around some of her hair. He slowly uncoiled it, surprised by its presence. She wore a few tiny braids at her temples to keep recalcitrant strands out of her face, but he'd never seen her adorn her locks with beads or other ornaments, and especially not ribbons.
This one had seen better days. Ragged at the edges and more gray than white now. He ran this thumb down its length, teased by a memory that skated along his consciousness. Anhuset sat in front of him stiff and silent as a marble pillar.
“Feel free to cut it out if necessary,” she said. “I tried to tie it the right way but had to knot it to make it stay.”
“I wouldn't know what to do with a hair ribbon.”
His heart paused its beating for a moment as the memory finally revealed itself. A conversation at High Salure less than a month earlier but seemed a lifetime ago. “Where did you find the ribbon?”
She waited so long to answer, he almost gave up on getting one. “When you brought back staples from that market to replenish our supplies. There was a ribbon tied to a bunch of herbs. It fell to the ground. I took it.”
I wouldn't know what to do with a hair ribbon.
She'd asked why he never married, and he'd told her of his wife, describing her beauty and love of hair ribbons. He barely recalled the face of the flirtatious woman in the market who'd given him the flowers, but staring at the ribbon still tangled in Anhuset's hair, he remembered tossing the bouquet in the wagon, eager to get back to the camp and the Kai woman waiting for his return. “I can comb around it.”
“No. Take it out. No one can see it anyway, and it's just a nuisance.”
He didn't cut the ribbon out but spent extra time unraveling strands of hair until it came loose. As much as he wanted to keep it, he offered the ribbon to her when he was done. She held it for a moment before tossing it to the side. “Remind me to grab it before we leave,” she told him. “I'm sure the monks have a midden I can toss it into on the way back to our rooms.”
There was no way that treasure was going into a midden if he had anything to say about it. He kept the words behind his teeth, finished combing her hair, and scooted around her to slide back in the water. She stayed on the pool's edge, her expression a study in stoic reserve, her yellow eyes unblinking as she watched him. She held an invisible shield in front of her, a defense against embarrassment at him finding the ribbon and the belief that surely, surely he understood why she'd tried wearing it properly, and worst of all, why she had failed.
He did understand and fell even deeper in love with her. It wasn't the right time to tell her either of those things or even dwell on the symbolism of her wearing the ribbon at all. She would only lash out and close off even more. Instead, he steered the conversation in a different direction.
“You,” he told her in a teasing voice, “have the most delicious breasts.”
As he hoped, the outlandish remark worked its magic. The shield went down and her eyebrows went up before she laughed her raspy laugh. “Is that so?” She stared down at her chest before turning to one side and then the other, displaying the objects of
