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  “‘Tis his uniform, the Tolemac colors, that they fear. But they know well my father’s name. I will speak for us,” Ardra said, stepping forward.

  Gwen plucked at the back of Vad’s tunic, but he ignored her. His posture remained guarded, even militant, his expression impassive as he stood behind Ardra.

  A man, garbed much as Ardra’s men had been, in crossgarters and a long cloak the color of their surroundings, stepped forward. He gestured for them to follow him into the trees.

  Gwen’s heart picked up as they moved silently behind the man; the children and women brought up the rear. A hum of soft chatter followed them. The urge to look over her shoulder, to see if the looks on the Selaw faces were benign, was almost overwhelming.

  They came to a clearing filled with scattered clusters of cottages. At the man’s terse command, the children and other folk hurried away toward the cottages. Carefully tended vines climbed about the doors and windows. Here and there, lavender and white flowers bloomed on the vines.

  Ardra bowed deeply at the waist to the man. He returned her bow, but did not take his eyes from Vad. Vad gave no greeting.

  “Our boat capsized,” Ardra fibbed, “and we lost much of our provisions. We have only these with which to trade.” She set the wooden box on the ground before the man and stepped away to where Gwen and Vad waited.

  The man knelt and pulled the peg. He inspected the contents between quick glances at Vad. “What do you need? These are very fine, indeed.” His hands turned the bowls over and over.

  Gwen noticed that his fingers were long and his hands well tended. He was not a man who toiled in the fields.

  Ardra took a step forward. “We need warm clothing, blankets, shoes—”

  “Thirty arrows,” Vad said quietly.

  “Thirty arrows,” Ardra repeated.

  The man stroked the silver cutlery. “May we have the box as well?”

  “For ten more arrows you may have the box,” Vad said.

  The man sat on his haunches. Gwen could see him visibly relax. Ardra knelt before him and sat back on her heels. They bartered a few more moments. Vad stood as still as a statue throughout it all. A tangible wave of tension seemed to shimmer about him.

  Finally Ardra rose, a dazzling smile on her features. “We have done well, as have they. Come. We will see to the clothing first.” She retained the box and bowls. The man took the cutlery. “When we are satisfactorily garbed and armed, we will complete the trade.”

  They followed the man to a nearby cottage where he left them, gesturing Ardra to continue on with him in another direction. Its door was too low for Vad, who had to duck to enter. As their eyes grew accustomed to the dim interior, a woman shooed two children through the door before returning to the hearth.

  Gwen examined the cottage. It was simply furnished. It had a stone hearth, shuttered windows, and an intricately decorated plaster chimneypiece, painted with delicate birds and flowers.

  Unearthly birds, unearthly flowers.

  A wave of homesickness swept through Gwen.

  The village man arrived with armloads of clothing and blankets for their inspection. He dropped them at the foot of a high bed covered in many furs. He never acknowledged Vad’s presence at the hearth, but physically skirted the area each time he entered. Some of the tension that pervaded the room disappeared when the man left them.

  The woman, less splendidly garbed than Ardra, but in much the same style gown, remained behind and proved as susceptible as every other woman where Vad was concerned. She stared at him, stumbling over her hem, bumping her elbows on chairs. Gwen resisted an urge to slap her silly when she almost upset a kettle as she pulled it from a hook over the fire. Her efforts to fill a washbasin resulted in half the hot water slopping over and steaming on the hearthstones.

  Vad stepped forward and relieved the woman of the heavy kettle. The woman thanked him so many times, Gwen had to bite her lip to remain silent.

  Finally, with many bows and smiles, the woman placed a small fabric-wrapped bundle by the water along with a length of linen and silently departed, her eyes riveted to Vad. She tripped over the doorjamb and practically catapulted backward from the cottage.

  Once the woman had departed, Gwen looked about, unsure what was expected of her now that she and Vad were alone.

  “You will bathe first and I will stand watch,” Vad said. He drew his long blade and held it casually in his right hand. The flames reflected along the blade.

  “Do you think you’re going to need that?”

  He shrugged. “One should always be prepared.”

  She glanced about and realized that she and Vad were alone in the cottage.

  “Where do you think they took Ardra?” She sank to the edge of a chair. Beside her, on the well-scrubbed table, the basin of water steamed. A wonderful, spicy scent came from the small bundle. She lifted it and held it to her nose. She breathed deeply of the soothing scent.

  “She will be given a more honored place to wash and better garments from which to choose.”

  Gwen nodded. “So rank has its privileges here, too.” She unwrapped the cloth to reveal a waxy bar of brown soap. She stroked her fingers along the surface and brought it again to her nose to inhale the fragrance.

  “I seek nothing better,” Vad said. “I do not need serving women pawing me either. Now disrobe. Bathe while I keep watch.”

  He nudged some clothing on the fur-covered bed with his dagger point. “These clothes will do well enough for you. They are warm, and with your butchered hair, you will excite less curiosity garbed as a man. Make many layers, especially for your feet. It will surely be bitter cold at the Fortress of Ravens.”

  “Okay.” Gwen waited until Vad moved to the hearth and stood there, his broad back to her. The sharp edge of his blade glinted in the firelight as he warmed his hands.

  Gwen shook out the clothing he’d indicated. He’d picked well. The long trousers and heavy woolen tunic were made for a man not much taller than she. The linen undergarments, like long boxer shorts, and a shirt with a huge tail looked so soft, she wanted to just put them on and curl up somewhere and snooze the night away.

  With a sigh, she tugged off her boot and shoe, sorry she’d tramped mud through the woman’s cottage. She pulled her grimy nightgown over her head, dropped it, and stood on it to protect her bare feet from the icy wooden floor. The nightgown was beyond saving.

  Carefully she dipped her hands into the basin. The hot water felt wonderful. The cake of crude soap lathered well. The thought of being clean banished even her shivers. As she scrubbed her arms, her goose bumps disappeared and warmth took their place.

  She worked slowly, savoring the rich lather, the spicy scent, the hot water. She saved the dirtiest part, her feet, for last. Finally she bent from the waist and began to stroke away the splashes of mud on her calves.

  Behind her, Vad gasped.

  She whipped around, hands spread to conceal her breasts. Water and soap trickled down her front.

  “Gwen.” In two quick strides he crossed the small cottage to where she stood.

  How naked she felt. How suddenly hot. How suddenly vulnerable. Her vision blurred and her mouth dried. He seemed to have grown taller, stronger. Smoke from the hearth filled the room with a dull haze behind him, outlining his shoulders, his silvery hair.

  He reached out and placed a hand on her arm, a caressing hand. He turned her about. Slowly, with great gentleness, he ran his fingertips along her shoulder, down her back, over the curve of her hip. “You are hurt.” His voice was low, rough.

  A shudder ran down her spine in the wake of his caress. Flames licked where his fingers touched. She began to tremble. No words formed on her thick, slow tongue.

  He stepped even closer and dropped his weapon on the bed. He took the soapy cloth from her hand and began to wash her back slowly, in gentle, circular motions. She arched to the sensation, soothed herself in his ministrations.

  “Why did you not tell me you were hurt?”


  She could feel the whisper of his breath on the back of her neck. The room filled with a foggy mist.

  “They’re just…more…bruises,” she finally managed. “They don’t…really…hurt.”

  An errant thought—that he cared about her even if he didn’t trust her—flickered through her mind. Then he wrung out the cloth and placed it in the bowl. Her whole body went ice cold when he returned to the fire. It flared to nearly burning when he took the kettle and renewed the water in the basin. He dipped his hands into the water and lathered the cloth again.

  She could not move, her eyes glued to the motions of his strong hands. Her feet were somehow attached to the floor, her body frozen to immobility by an outside force. When he again stroked the warm cloth along her shoulders, across her back, a long, deep sigh of pleasure escaped her, and she didn’t care if he heard it.

  Vad felt anger crawl through his control.

  He had caused these hurts by bringing her into his world. Her sleek back muscles quivered as he bathed her bruises. He’d never seen such injuries. The dark marks spread in ugly patches on her delicate skin. Uncannily, he knew what she must feel. A throbbing, a dull, heavy ache, would underlie each mark. He felt the throb, knew the ache in his own flesh.

  He’d also never seen a woman with such golden hair on her head and such dark hair… He forced his thoughts from the small swath of hair covering her femininity.

  With the lightest touch he could muster, he stroked the cloth down the back of her damaged legs, wiping away mud, exposing more of the bruises and an angry red scrape.

  He placed the basin of water on the floor and went down on one knee behind her. She stood as still as a statue, her head bowed, her hands clasped over her breasts.

  How beautiful was the smooth column of her back, the ivory curve of her hip. A shimmer of heat ran along his fingers as he bathed her, and the tantalizing scent of the soap filled the room. Heady, spicy, it teased a memory, but then she turned, and all thoughts of the soap slipped away from him. Her flesh was soft and rounded, just the way he liked his women.

  She sighed and swayed toward him. Her eyes fell closed.

  Heat suffused him. Desire replaced succor. His body grew heavy with need. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to a livid bruise on her thigh.

  An arrow of want darted through him.

  He rose before he touched his lips to the soft flesh of her belly. “I am sorry for your hurt,” he said, taking her clasped hands and spreading them open. He placed the cloth in her palms. It should have been cold now, but was instead almost too hot to touch.

  Her eyes fluttered open. Unfocused, vague, her huge, dark eyes gazed up at him. A pulse beat frantically in her throat.

  She licked her lips.

  Slowly, lest he awaken her from the trancelike state in which she seemed to be frozen, he leaned forward and kissed her shoulder.

  Not her moist lips.

  He could not kiss her lips. He would be lost. Driven to forget his goals.

  Goals of honor.

  She tasted sweet. Her skin was soap-scented, silk-textured, inviting. He skimmed his fingers after his kisses, stroked the hollow of her throat with his tongue. How hot and fevered felt her flesh.

  She moaned.

  He forgot why he should not kiss her. Slowly he brought his lips to hers.

  Her kiss was as he remembered—tasting of foreign lands and forbidden wants. Sweet, hot, forceful, possessive—beguiling.

  With a jerk, Vad pulled away. She swayed to music only she could hear.

  Beguiled, he thought. I beguiled her.

  Or had she beguiled him?

  He no longer cared. He swept her hot, damp body into his arms and laid her out on the furs.

  With little effort, he urged her hands to his shoulders. Very slowly she stroked her fingers down his chest, then pulled up his tunic. Heat spiked low in his belly—hotter than any need he could ever remember with any woman. Her palms kneaded his chest muscles, aroused him, invited him to touch.

  Her breasts were firm and fit perfectly in his hands. “I want you,” he said.

  “Yes,” she whispered, arching against his caress. Quickly, his hands shaking, he shed his clothes. When he was naked, he walked to the table; it seemed very far away. He washed his face, his body, sluicing the hot water down his skin.

  When he turned back and gazed at her, he stumbled against the table’s edge.

  She lay stretched out on the furs, one knee bent, her legs spread open, her lips gleaming. Then she lifted her arms to him.

  Her invitation was just as he’d dreamed it on his journey across the ice fields.

  Would she disappear when he clasped her to him?

  No. This time she wrapped her arms about him and urged him close.

  His body flashed hot. Chest heaving, he surrendered to her seductive pull.

  Her mouth was greedy. So was his. He wanted to devour her. Together they feasted on each other’s mouths, tangling tongues, nipping lips.

  He pressed her arms wide and climbed over her, resting on his hands and knees, caging her with his body.

  The taste of her throat, her breasts, her belly was sweeter than the best wine. He drank in the scent of her, nuzzled the tiny triangle of hair, learned the smooth texture of her inner thigh, as he dragged his tongue back and forth on her from knee to hip.

  “Now. Now,” she said in a moan, twisting her hands in his hair, and thrusting her hips beneath his kiss. She embraced him with her thighs, urged him down with her strong arms.

  He joined himself to her with a hard thrust. She was hot and ready—experienced—meeting him, moving in perfect rhythm with him.

  They rocked together, sweat springing up between their bodies. She smothered her cries against his neck. Her nails scraped across his back in painful counterpoint to the silken heat in which he moved. He wanted more than just a joining. He wanted to inhabit her.

  Suddenly her body arched frantically against him, once, then twice. Her head lolled back, her arms opened. His knife clattered to the floor.

  “By the sword,” he said in a moan.

  All around them blurred. The bed spun, tipped.

  “Hypnoflora,” he said with a gasp.

  Chapter Twelve

  He could not stop. Her body possessed him. Tides of desire swamped him.

  “Vad!” called a muffled voice from outside the cottage. “Vad!”

  With a near roar of pain, he tore his body from hers.

  His chest heaved as he stood over her, his heart pounding wildly, every muscle screaming for him to finish what had only just begun for him.

  “Let me in!”

  Ardra. She had come at the perfect moment to save him from foolishness. His ardor died a swift death.

  Vad shook his head and took a long, shuddering breath. He turned to the door, then realized Ardra’s voice was accompanied by a soft rapping on the window shutter.

  Gwen lay in the deep shadows of the bed, her eyes closed, her mouth slack. “Sweet Gwen,” he murmured. “This did not happen.”

  He touched his lips to her shoulder, then snatched up his blade. With a groan and an unsteady hand, he dragged furs over her body.

  The shutter resisted his efforts to open it.

  Ardra’s voice persisted in a whisper from behind it. “Vad. Open now! Hurry! Hurry!”

  Finally he worked the catch and swung the solid wooden shutters wide. The midday light dazzled him. An icy blast of air swept into the cottage, and for a moment his head cleared and his mind recognized what he had done.

  “Pull me in,” Ardra said, lifting her arms to him, calling him to his duty.

  He boosted her over the windowsill and set her on the floor.

  “We must go. Now. Out this window. There are men watching this place from the clearing.” Then she clapped her hands over her eyes and turned her back. “You are naked!”

  “I was…bathing,” he said, glancing at the bed.

  “Hush. Lower your voice and garb yourself. Q
uickly,” she persisted.

  He could not make his feet move. “I think the soap was tainted with—”

  “Aye.” Her head bobbed agreement. “With hypnoflora.”

  Vad pulled on a pair of thick breeches, too short for one of his stature. He jammed his feet into his boots.

  A swirling mist still hovered in the room. It inched in Ardra’s direction across the floor.

  “Throw the soap out the window,” he said. Ardra reached for the small cake. “Nay! Do not touch it with your hands!” He must fight the heavy languor that was stealing over him again.

  Taken in by hypnoflora—the mistake of a man half his age. He pictured the tiny flowers, fields of them, stretching as far as the eye could see—like snow—men picking them, women crushing them.

  The images tumbled about so that he thought he was in the cottage one moment and the fields with the pickers the next. He leaned on the table. His head pounded. The heavy scent of the room was one of passions aroused but, thank the gods, not released. “Why have they done this? What purpose was served?”

  Ardra pitched the soap from the window. “I overheard two men arguing. It was planned the instant we made our appearance.” Ardra drew the shutters and helped him cross-garter his legs. “The women want to keep you.”

  “Keep me?” He shook his head.

  She held out several long tunics. “Aye. The women were very taken with you. They wish to keep you for…for…I am not sure for what purpose.” She looked about. “Where is Gwen?”

  Vad indicated the bed and drew on a green cloak to conceal his knives. It also gave him an opportunity to ignore Ardra’s scowl of censure.

  She swung about and hurried to where Gwen lay buried. “We must wake her, clothe her. If the women can convince the men their plan has worth, they will come straight here for you. They have a pit in which to put you.”

  “A pit…” Vad looked away. A dark place. He trudged to the bed and tossed off the furs. He tried to jam Gwen’s arm into a sleeve, but she was as limp as a dead eel. “This is hopeless.”

  With little ceremony, he rolled Gwen up in the furs and pulled her into his arms. “You can dress her later,” he said. Ardra snatched up clothing and made a bundle of it.