He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. Give me the chisel, Blueskin. I'm sure she'll let me go, though. It looked very patient, she thought, and a little self-satisfied. She was too late. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack.
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