The Conqueror

He laughed again and hopped over a log. “They weren’t so much iniquitous.”

“True. They were vain, covetous, and self-serving. Let me think what that harkens to mind. Oh, aye: Men.”

His smile faded. “I won’t begrudge you your opinion, Raven.” He ducked his head to avoid another tree limb, and they walked awhile in companionable silence. “I personally wasn’t speaking so much of your woman-ness, but your…” he waved his hand vaguely in the air.

Gwyn’s eyes narrowed. “My what? What’s this?” She mimicked his hand wave.

“Your…” He pursed his lips, thinking. “Fickleness.”

“Fickleness? Fickleness? You think I’ve been fickle?”

He looked wary. “I’m just saying someone should keep a better eye on you—”

She slid off the horse and landed with a thud. “A better eye? On me?” She stalked forward, finger in the air. “Happens you might try being herded into marriage with someone whose very presence on the earth offends you, with warts and foul breath—”

“Endshire doesn’t have warts.”

“Oh, as if you’d know. He has them on his soul. Have you ever been cha

sed through the streets of London and up the king’s highway? Have you ever been told to ride in a litter ‘for your protection’ so you don’t have your own horse to escape upon?

“Have you ever—” She was moving closer in a fury, every “you” punctuated by a jab toward his chest, until her fingertip hovered an inch away from his body. “—had your own inclinations but been thwarted by those who are simply stronger than you, and so they will always prevail. Because of these,” she said as she jabbed a furious finger toward his sword, “and those.” She reached out to pinch the muscles of his arm.

It was a mistake. The moment her hand closed around the bunched strength of his upper arm, encased in steel and leather, she felt his heat and power throbbing onto her, and almost fainted.

“Aye. I have,” he said in a deceptively quiet voice. “There is always someone stronger than thee. And what of me, mistress?” His gaze turned hard, his tone cold. “What of the things I have left behind tonight? How am I to figure in your mad accounting?”

He wrenched his arm away, breaking her stunned grip, then it was she in his grip, she propelled backwards, she leaned up against Noir. And she remembered far too well what had happened last she’d stood near the horse.

“Well,” she whispered. “Quite well, Pagan. You have been nothing but…my saviour.”

He was still a moment, his face a taut mask of impassive regard, then he flung his fingers open.

“Foolish,” he muttered. He raked his fingers through his hair, tousling the dark spikes. “And less patient than I ought. You’ve been through a lot tonight.”

“Well,” she agreed with a shaky laugh. “I’ve certainly been through a lot of men.”

He stared a moment, his hard face given the gift of surprise, then threw back his head and laughed so deeply the woods rang with it. He laughed so hard and so well she forgot all about being afraid, aware mostly that her arm felt cold without his fingers on it. She felt unruly and reckless and peculiar, washed out and energized all at the same time, as if she’d been breathing too fast.

Emotional storms were like that, she supposed, although her recall was dim. It had been a long time since she’d given rein to her emotions, and her life the last twelve years had been much more tranquil as a result. Better. Truly. Who could say otherwise? Doing as she was told, stifling those pesky urges and intuitions that ruined everything, ’twas for the best. Truly. All was well.

Except for the fact that no matter how well she behaved now, nothing could bring Mamma back. Or Roger. And now Papa was dead too.

Willfulness had its price. But why did so many others have to pay?

The familiar free-falling sensation began again, and she slipped down into the Ache, that yawning chasm of despair that had cracked open twelve years earlier on the day her brother, much-loved heir to the Everoot earldom, was killed. By Gwyn.

Mamma died three months later, her heart broken in two. Papa kept on, of course. As a shell.

Gwyn’s body started closing in on itself, as it always did when the memories came. Her shoulders crumpled, her throat tightened. Oh, Mamma. I miss you so. It was a terrible accident. I told Papa that ever so many times.

“Here.”

Pagan’s voice jerked her out of the awful reverie. She flung her head up to find him watching her, the flask extended. She shook her head, dispelling the dark thoughts, and reached out. “You feel blessedly uncomplicated.”

“You mean the drink does.”

She recoiled as the now-familiar fire threaded its way down her throat, then lifted the flask in mock toast. “Aye. To simple drinks.”