A Brother's Price

with the tip of her tongue, making a show of licking it clean. It recalled her leaning over him, her tongue touching his bare skin. His body responded to the memory. His blush became a complete burn as she noticed his arousal in his trousers.
    “It’s sweet.” she murmured, “but not as tasty as you.”
    He felt tike flipping a towel over his head and hiding. He felt like running from the room in embarrassment. He felt like leading her upstairs and letting her use her tongue on him again. The last put shudders of desire through him.
    He struggled to find a less intimate subject. “How is your sister?”
    Amusement fled Princess Ren’s eyes. “She tried to get out of bed and failed. She nearly fainted when she stood up.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    Ren frowned a moment, then shrugged. “I’m thankful she’s alive.”
    Jerin finished slicing down the ham, his hands trembling so much he had trouble controlling the sharp knife. “So,” he said, trying not to seem as anxious as he felt, ‘“you’re going to be staying another night.”
    The smile returned to Ren’s face. “If not more.”
    He looked at her. wanting her, wondering how he was going to resist her.
    “Riders!” came a call from one of the princess’s women, and the kitchen went still.
    “It’s Eldest! It’s Eldest and the others!” Leia’s voice followed the call.
    There was a general rush for the door to see their seven elder sisters return. Corelle, not surprisingly, ran to meet them, talking low and fast, making sure they heard her side of the story first. They had apparently already heard some version of the news. Their horses were lathered and blowing from a hard riding. Their rifles sat in saddle holsters, instead of being wrapped well and strapped to the back of their saddles. Eldest gave Corelle a scathing look as she dismounted. She unholstered her rifle, saying, “See to the horses. We’ll talk later.” She threw her reins to Corelle and came on to the house.
    Eldest looked first to Jerin. then scanned the children for the other boys. Seeing that the family’s greatest assets were safe, she locked gazes with Princess Ren.
    “Your Highness,” Eldest said quietly, handing her rifle to Heria without a glance. “Welcome to the House of Whistler.”
    “Thank you. Eldest Whistler.”
    Heria ducked away to return the rifle to the gun rack. The other children stood, waiting for orders.
    Eldest glanced about the kitchen at the food threatening to burn unattended. “Get breakfast on,” she stated. “We’ll wash up and eat, then talk.”
     
    So this was what little Whistler girls grew up to look like, Ren mused, studying the recently returned elder sisters. If the Whistler family had been a motley crew during the War of the False Eldest, they had weeded out all the variants in the last two generations. Without exception, the Whistler clan was black-haired, blue-eyed, and good-looking. The military heritage that showed in the children as broad strokes became unmistakable in the women. Regulation short haircuts, clothes tailored along the lines of an infantry uniform, rifles in hand, and six-guns riding low in tied-down hip holsters. Beyond the outward appearances, there was the military precision to the way they rode in—handing exhausted horses, damp greatcoats, and weapons to younger sisters—and they settled wordlessly to the breakfast table smelling of horses and lye soap. Food was eaten in tense silence, broken occasionally by a younger sister trying to report a wrong or misadventure. Eldest Whistler silenced the girls with a look.
    Unlike the night before, Jerin and the younger boys sat with the family instead of hiding in the kitchen. Still, Jerin sat at other end of the table, at Eldest’s right hand, with the other boys well barricaded behind their sisters.
    Eldest broke the silence, naming a town a day’s travel downriver of Heron Landing. “We were in Greenhaven last evening, when we heard that there had been an attack on the farm. No one knew any details, just that one of our little ones had ridden in for Queens Justice.”
    “I went for Queens Justice,” Heria said, “because Corelle and the others weren’t here.”
    “Heria!” Corelle cried as if stabbed. “We were just next door.”
    “You were supposed to be here!” Heria snapped, to which the nine- and eight-year-olds added their backing.
    “Hush.” Eldest Whistler quieted that family dispute with one look and a single even command. “We will