Page 2 of The Stallion & The Tigress
“I would rather win you, kitten,” he said.Hereached up and pushed the scarf back from her head, spilling a massof thick, wavy curls as black as pitch down to her waist.When shedidn’t shy away or even twitch, he lifted a heavy tress between hisfingers, which shone russet in the sunlight.“I would rather marrya woman of sturdy body and easy temper to bring my sons into thisworld.”
Her spine lengthened and her eyes widened.“Are you proposing marriage to me?”
“I am.”
“Why would you propose marriage to a womanyou know nothing about?”
“I know you are strong of mind andlong-limbed,” he told her as he stepped in even closer.He unwoundthe lock of her hair and pushed it back behind her ear.“I knowyour hair shines black and russet in the sun’s light, and that youreyes flash green fire with sparks of gold when your pelt isruffled, as it is now, kitten.”
He leaned in and whispered into her ear.Hissenses assailed with the sweet, seductive scent of exotic flowers.“I know you’re as intrigued with me as I am with you, and that youwonder what it would be like to breed with me.”
Slowly, she turned her head.Her mouth was nomore than a breath from his, teasing, tantalizing.“How are yougoing to sire children with me or any other broodmare, youstrutting stallion,” she growled, pulling her blade in one swiftmotion and pressing the point of it into his groin, “if I geld youhere and now?”
Aleksi went stock still for a heartbeat, andthen he laughed, low and rumbling.“So,” he said, stepping back andletting her hair slowly slip through his fingers.“My kitten hasclaws.”
“Claws she will not hesitate to use shouldyou accost her again,” she assured him with eyes blazing.
“I am forewarned,” he said with a courtly bowand a grin.
“You are foresworn, Aleksandr.”She spun onher heels and began to stride away, her black mane swinging in timewith her skirts.
“Wait,” Aleksi called out.
She stopped mid-stride, her silent companionalmost bumping into her as she whirled around to face him.
“What is your answer to my proposal?”Sheglared at him as if her eyes truly could flash fire and raze him toash.“At least tell me your name.”
“Not ‘kitten.’”
Sahar sat at the royal family’s long table inthe center of the palace courtyard, sipping her spiced wine andpicking at the honeyed dates that were the last of the sevencourses served for the Feast of Autumn’s Eve.As soon as the dateswere cleared away the men riding in the festival’s races would beintroduced to the king, and two things would happen.The arrogantass Aleksandr who, by his accent and fair looks, hailed from theNorthern Steppes, would find out who she was, and she’d be thefirst and only woman to stand and join the line of riders.
Her parents, King Asad and Queen Oona,wouldn’t argue or humiliate her by trying to dissuade her fromriding in the races in front of an entire courtyard filled withvisiting royalty and the merchants and traders of their city.Onceannounced publicly, they would have to stand by her.After all, itwas they who had told her all her life that she rode as well as anyman.Now she would have the chance to prove it.
Halah, her cousin and companion earlier todaywhen they had gone to look over horses for trade, had been the onlyother person to know of Sahar’s intention to enter the races, andshe had kept her cousin’s secret well.Better than Sahar had.She’dlet it slip while challenging the braggart Aleksandr, who had thegall to think his stallion capable of beating Lasair in a race andworthy of breeding with her.He’d obviously assumed Sahar was somesimple maid who’d fall at his big feet and weep with joy andgratitude that he considered her worthy of becoming his wife andbroodmare, not the proud, spoilt princess he had spoken of withsuch disdain.
She drank down the last of her wine and feltits easing warmth spread through her veins.Certainly, she hadfaults enough.Her father, while proud of her swiftness of bothmind and body, had often lectured her on her rashness, while hermother, herself a woman who had gone against the traditions of herown clan as well as those of the desert tribes, had often stressedthe importance of choices and manners.No, her parents had neverspoiled her or her twin brother, Asim, other than with their love.They’d raised their children to be truthful and honorable and toconsider others before themselves.Sahar had never demanded anymore from others than she did from herself.
So why did this Aleksandr ruffle her fur thewrong way, as he had so smugly put it?Part of what he’d said abouther was true.She’d been proposed to many times, and she hadrefused every proposal.But they had been from men of rank andwealth who knew what she was, men looking to increase their ownpurses and standing by marrying a princess.Not a single one caredabout who she was as a person.What her worth was.At least thisAleksandr, for all his strutting and boasting, had asked herbecause of his skewed sense of her as a strong woman with an easytemper.She chuffed into her empty cup.Surely her quickness withher blade today had disavowed him of her having an “easy”temper.
Sahar was not against marriage exactly.Shehad grown up the child of parents famous for their love and longmarriage.Her brother, Asim, had already married Rima, the eldestdaughter of the Oryx and the Willow, and proudly awaited the birthof their first child.
Halah, two years younger than Sahar, wasbeing courted by Munir, the newest and youngest member of theking’s personal guard.At twenty and one, Sahar was more than oldenough to marry, but she was quite happy with her life as it was.She certainly had no need for a husband.She had wealth andposition of her own, and family everywhere she turned.While sheand her brother were her parents’ only children, her Aunt Lyrra andUncle Nasim had four living children, all of whom had grown uptogether in the palace built by their parents when they had settledhere some twenty and two years ago.
They had been happy years, but for the springof Sahar’s tenth year.The shadow of a memory passed through her,and she shivered and smoothed the skirts of her one shouldered gownof emerald worm weave.
Servants began to clear the empty plattersand refill goblets of wine and beer as men got up from their seatsand started to form a line in front of the king’s table.Other men,who hadn’t been part of the royal feast, joined the line fromoutside the palace courtyard.Her father had always insisted thatthe races be open to all challengers, no matter their station inlife.
Soon enough, she caught sight of Aleksandrwalking in.He was not hard to find.He stood head and shouldersabove every man lining up, but for Prince Taweel the Tall.Aleksandr’s hair shone, its color lighter than most, a mixture ofbrown and gold and every shade between, like finely sanded cedar,cut to below his ears, with a thick shock falling onto his high,wide forehead as it had earlier today.He wore a robe of moss greenlinen with hems of umber worm weave and leather boots, not sandals,and his waist belt, though loosely cinched, emphasized the breadthof his shoulders compared to the trimness of his waist, and wasembedded with stones of amber, as was the sheath of a bone-hiltedblade.
He was cleanshaven this evening, whichexaggerated the strong line of his jaw and the ridiculously deepcleft of his chin that she had seen only a hint of earlier todaybeneath several days’ worth of dark stubble.Though she could notsee the color of his eyes from where she sat, she knew they werethe deep brown of loamy earth and that they lit up when he laughedand darkened when he grew serious, as he did now, spying hersitting at the king’s table beside her mother, the queen.
He dipped his head in acknowledgement, hisgaze never leaving hers, and Sahar lowered her chin a notch inreturn, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.The lineof men turned to face the royal table, and Aleksandr, standing deadcenter and not more than six paces from her, grinned, showingstrong, straight white teeth, eliciting girlish sighs and twittersall around the courtyard.His grin widened and Sahar pressed herlips tight.
Her father, King Asad, stood, and thecourtyard quieted.At forty and five years of age, the Black Manestill commanded attention.His shoulders were broad andwell-muscled, his spine erect, and his mane, though more silver nowthan his namesake black, was thick and glossy enough to make mentwenty years younger envious.He held his hand out to her mother,Queen Oona, who rose from her seat with a calm grace that was asnatural to the Swan as breathing.Dressed in her favoriteone-shouldered gown of lavender linen overlaid with a sheer sheathof golden worm weave intricately embroidered with delicate bloomsof lavender and heather, a fortieth birthday present from herhusband, she took his hand and stood beside him, as she had theirentire life together.
“Welcome all,” he said, his rich voicecarrying out across the night.“Welcome to the Feast of Autumn’sEve.”
Applause and cheers rang out and Sahar’schest filled with pride.Pride for her parents, her family, for thetribe and the city they had built and ruled over fairly.
