"Mary Kirchoff. Kendermore ("Dragonlance Preludes I" #2) (angl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

Meanwhile, Gisella scampered barefoot up the slope toward the
light of the fire, stopping occasionally to pluck pine needles from
the tender pads of her feet. She knew Woodrow was scandalized by her
nightly forays to the nearest body of water - and to bodies of
another sort when the option was available - she thought with a
girlish giggle. He'd said it was rather bold of her to traipse around
in the woods unclothed. But Gisella Hornslager was accustomed to
taking care of herself. She found the damage from a day's dirt and
sweat grinding into her skin more upsetting than any possible
encounter with a wild animal. The frigid bath by moonlight had felt
divine, though now her damp skin felt cool against the night mountain
air. She drew her thin wrap closer and hurried toward the promised
warmth of the fire.

Gisella stopped in her tracks at the edge of the clear ing; the
most delicious aroma assailed her nostrils.

"Tasslehoff's recipe," said Woodrow, noting the pleased
expression on her face. He had removed the chicken from the fire and
was in the process of sliding the bird from the stick.

Gisella rushed forward and turned over the bucket of water for a
seat. Gingerly testing the temperature of the rocks around the fire
with her icy toes, she found a comfortable spot. Sighing contentedly,
she looked at the kender, who had woken and was holding a large tin
plate under their dinner.

"Perhaps your friend, that cute half-elf, was right about one
thing: maybe you are worth more than a bolt of fabric." She snatched
up a smaller plate and held it out eagerly to receive her share. "I'm
starved!"

"Thank you," Tasslehoff said, though he wasn't sure if that had
been a compliment or not. He tipped the platter so that tender,
crumbly bits of chicken rolled onto Gisella's plate, and then added a
helping of bean stuffing. Tas sat back to enjoy his own meal.

Woodrow ate his share in silence, watching his employer.
Gisella's hands were a flurry of activity, and her mouth never stopped
chewing. Before Woodrow had eaten more than two bites, Gisella was
finished with, hers. She sat with her arms clutched tightly about her
waist, holding her wrap closed, her eyes the half-closed slits of a
sleeping cat.

Woodrow had not met many women, and had come to know only a few
of them, but he felt that Gisella Hornslager was not typical of her
sex. She had her own rules about everything, and she seemed to care
not one whit what anyone thought of her. She had a voracious appetite
for food, among other things. He blushed, remembering the sound of her