The Conqueror

She offered him an arched brow, which he saw even through his sidewise attention. “And I told you, Pagan: I know of no inns along this stretch of highway.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted, “’tis a bit off the highway.”

“A long bit, by the look of it. We’ve been riding for half an hour.”

“You’ve been riding, and it’s been nearer an hour.”

She raised her eyebrow another notch. “You may have your beast back.”

“We’re almost there.”

“Where?”

“Duck,” he said, and without looking back to see if she had, he did, bending his head beneath a low-lying tree branch. When he lifted it, they were in the centre of a clearing.

An old, disused path meandered away into the ferns at the far side. In its centre rose the battered remnants of a single building, huge and hulking, its wood and wicker walls half torn away. Only the stone portions stood, and even they were crumbling.

Gutted by fire and looters, most of it was only a half-shell now. Towards the back of the edifice, three gloomy stories rose, squatting sullenly over the crippled forebuilding. In a few windows yellow candleli

ght glowed, looking like gaps where the eerie maw had already lost its teeth. In the dark night, the battered structure looked sinister and imposing and almost alive.

He heard a sharp intake of breath from behind. His stallion threw his head in the air and sidestepped.

“Easy, Noir,” he murmured.

She was staring. “I thought you said you were taking us to an inn.”

“’Tis an inn.” He gestured with his hands for her to slide off into them.

“That,” she insisted in a squeaky voice, pointing, “is not an inn.”

“An inn houses travellers, no?”

She started to nod, then stopped. Her head fell to the side as she studied him. “No. I mean, yes.”

“Well, then,” he said, as if that settled the matter.

Extending his hands, he held them up again. She gave him a disdainful glance and, untying the bulky pouch she had tied around Noir’s saddle, she disappeared over the far side of the destrier. Noir kicked out with his hind hoof, barely missing her. From under the stallion’s belly, he watched her small slippers stumble to the front of the horse, where he met her with a cool glance.

“You’re determined to lose or injure every body part before the night is through, is that it?”

“Humph,” she snorted.

Injury to her body was the least of Gwyn’s worries at the moment. Much more worrisome was the thudding inside whenever Pagan looked at her. It harkened back to the Ache. Only this, while it lodged in the same places—heart, womb—did not lie on top like a smothering rag. It was different.

Dangerous.

“Humph,” she said again, and crossed her arms over her chest.

Every muscle in her body was sore. The autumn winds had thoroughly chilled her damp fingers and toes. Her clothes were beginning to dry in mud-caked wrinkles, and she was so addled by his kiss she could barely think straight. She stared at the façade of the building, pretending he wasn’t staring at her profile. “So, where is the innkeep?”

Just as she spoke, a man came hurrying out to them. Pagan lengthened his stride to meet him halfway across the clearing and she watched as they spoke swiftly, unable to hear the hushed conversation. The man reached out and took Noir’s reins, then disappeared into a far building.

A moment later, a pair of men rushed out of the crumbling building and into the stables. They raced out on horses a moment later and, lifting their hands to Pagan as they galloped by, disappearing into the woods.

Pagan returned, his face set in grim lines. “Come.”

“The innkeep?” she queried in an innocently sweet tone.