Not that she minded really, she hadn’t worn it because it’d been fashionable. Knowing there were few about who could be affected by her made her suddenly want to wear the clothes she’d denied herself for so long.
There was no way she was going to walk downstairs dressed in this skimpy clothing, even if it did feel like a dream on her. Hanging in the exact same spot this nightgown had been was a simple sage-green dress.
A moment later, Dalia sailed into the room. “Good, you’re up, miss. We must dress you quickly, for the game is about to begin.”
She was much less friendly this morning and every time Shayera tried to engage the maid, she received nothing but one-word answers. Realizing the girl was about business and not pleasure, she shut up and grimaced as the maid’s deft and nimble fingers styled her hair.
“There, you look lovely.” Dalia smiled and pointed to the mirror.
When Shayera looked, she could hardly believe it was her.
Her skin glowed like someone had poured candlelight behind it. There was a luminescent quality to it that seemed almost unreal, causing the light blues of her eyes to stand out. Her hair had been caught up into a side braid, allowing some of her more wild curls to fall with a haphazard sort of grace that actually looked intentional. The gown was simple, unadorned, but her red-and-gold-streaked hair was so bold that any arrangement too complicated would turn her gaudy. The hemline of her dress came to her knees, exposing the silky expanse of calves she’d concealed for so long.
Placing a trembling hand against her bright pink cheek, she shook her head. “I shouldn’t look like this, Dalia.”
Dalia’s hand was gentle on her shoulder. “Ye look fine, miss, and as I said last night, none will bother you. Master keeps them all away.”
Making sure to mute as much of her charm as humanly possible, Shayera gave a tight grimace. She wondered whether Dalia was aware that her gentle pat was now turning into fluttering fingers.
Inching out of her grasp, she stood. Dalia must have finally realized what she’d been about, for her dark onyx skin gleamed brightly as if it were now her turn to blush. “I’m… I’m…”
“No, don’t.” Shayera’s smile was tight. “You can’t help yourself, seeing my reflection was a shock and I didn’t block my charms as I should. My fault completely. Let’s go then.” Forcing a cheery disposition, she pointed at the door.
Dalia didn’t speak again after that, leading her straightaway to the same room in which she’d had supper with Rumpel last night. He was seated at the head of the table again. This time, rather than wearing the jeans and snug shirt she’d found so alluring on him, he was now dressed in a formfitting plum-colored shirt and gray slacks.
If it was possible, he looked even better than she’d remembered. He still had a bit of scruff around his face and his long hair was loose, as seemed to be his custom.
But it was the smoldering look he gave her, the one that said he was mentally undressing every square inch of her body, that threatened to make her knees give out. Curls of heat and fire spun out of control deep in her belly and she had to lay a palm to her middle to keep from making a fool of herself.
“You look rested,” he said in that deep, sexy voice of his. “Cook has made breakfast.” And when he pointed, a silver-domed platter appeared before where she’d been seated the previous night.
The aroma of fried bacon fat, coddled eggs, and toast smeared in sweet jelly teased her senses, making her feel suddenly ravenous even though she’d eaten like a pig the night before.
“Thank you, Dalia,” he said, never taking his eyes of Shayera. “You may leave us now.”
Shayera felt her maid’s reluctance as she glanced between the two of them before finally vanishing in a plume of black smoke.
“Sit.” He pointed.
Reminding herself that she wasn’t here to massage her own ego but to prevent her father from having to kill himself, she swallowed her pride and sat.
“Eat.”
“Do you enjoy ordering me around, imp?” she snapped, forgetting her promise of just a second ago.
“I enjoy a great many things, Carrot, most of them quite wicked.” His long, tapered fingers drummed the gleaming wood and her stomach dropped to her knees. The dress that’d been so comfortable a second ago now felt too tight and constricting as she imagined the feel and slide of those fingers upon her flesh.
It was a dangerous thought, one she’d never indulged in before. Being a siren didn’t mean she didn’t want touch, it just meant she never trusted that a man’s desire to be with her wasn’t because of what she was rather than who she was.