hitch in her voice and the bravado that seemed so much bluff,
he had an impression of innocence caught in a trap.
She lay very still, hiding in the darkness. He breathed deeply,
scenting her in the warm room. She smelled of lemon and
jasmine, and beneath that lay a hint of her own feminine scent.
He wished she weren’t a slave and could choose a lover of her
own volition. He wished he could rub his face against that warm,
perfumed skin.
He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled over on his side. “Don’t
be afraid,” he said, more as a reminder to himself than a
reassurance for her. “I meant what I said. You’re safe with me.”
***
Sera lay awake in the dark, listening to the Outlander king’s
breathing. The depth and the evenness of each breath had told
her that he had fallen asleep half an hour ago, but she had to be
certain before she took advantage of her sudden good luck.
It was all her fault—from the very beginning. If she had
not begged her grandfather to save the ferendi devil who lay
dying outside the cliff walls, he would never have ordered the
Outlander brought into Arkadia.
After he’d recovered, the Outlander stole away in the night,
bearing with him the Heart of Fire.
Without the Heart of Fire, the kingdom was vulnerable to
any tyrant seeking Arkadia’s destruction. Grandfather would
have no recourse but to seal the kingdom shut forever on
midwinter’s day. And Sera had no recourse now but to chase
after the thief and return the ruby before Grandfather did so.
Sera bit her lip. Only two months left! If she didn’t find the
ruby by then, she’d be banished from the Hills forever. If only
Hadar’s eunuchs hadn’t thought her Hill cloak a dirty rag and
burned it, she could fly on the wind from this prison, and she
would be searching even now for the ruby.
The Outlander king still slept. His breathing had deepened
and slowed into that state of dreamless relaxation when even
the most aware cannot hear hushed footsteps in the darkness.
She couldn’t spare time to think about this king, whose beautiful
face outshone that of the Apollo standing in the Temple Square.
It had been difficult not to respond to his beauty when she stood
hidden by the wooden balcony screen. But up close, the man’s
dark fringed, gray eyes had shimmered with something both
frightening and compelling when he looked at her. It had to be
fear that made her respond to his gaze with languid warmth in
her belly and a strange weakness in her knees.
Sera rolled into a crouch and rose to her feet. No more
nonsensical thoughts, she scolded herself. It was past time to
go.
Glancing through the lacquered windows, she saw the moon
dip behind a cloud and made her way, step by step, across the
marble floor of the bedchamber. There would be a few sleepy
guards outside, but she would simply say the king had dismissed
her. The walk to the stables wouldn’t be a problem. Grandfather
had taught her to blend as though she were a part of things.
Muffled sounds came from the corridor—terrible sounds
she had heard once before. Heart slamming erratically against
her chest, Sera retreated into the room and shrank against the
wall to the left of the door. She stood between the sleeping
Outlander and the door, listening in horror to the low, choking
sobs of the guards as they were killed. And then came a rustle
of a key in the lock and the slow creak of the doorknob as it
turned.
The dim light in the corridor outlined the doorway well
enough for Sera to see four figures dressed in black. A silent
scream gathered in her throat, but she could not utter a sound as
her worst nightmare crept into the room. She shrank against the
wall, thinking only stillness, as Grandfather had taught.
At that moment, the moon sailed out from behind the cloud,
limning everything in silver. The men in black were slinking
closer to the bed, intent, not even aware of her presence in the
room.
Run, run, she thought. The stable was less than three minutes
away.
hear his muffled breathing, smell the sweat of anticipation on
him. He slowly made his way toward the bed, his knife raised
and ready. She could leave in a moment more and be free. She
could—
“No!” The scream ripped its way from her throat.
While the Outlander struggled up from sleep, Sera took a
deep breath and hurled herself at the black clad leader who was
closest to the Outlander’s bed. The vermin was solid and hard.
A black hood shrouded his head. She struggled, biting the wrist
that held the knife, but the man gripped her hair and pulled
back hard, exposing her neck to the knife’s blade. Her eyes
watered in agony at the cruel pressure on her scalp.
Through the ringing in her ears came shouts and cries of
pain. The Outlander king was a blur of motion and unleashed
power. The door from his companion’s chamber crashed open.
In the light pouring in, she saw the king slice through the men
coming at them as though they weren’t even armed. She caught
a gleam of concentration in his gray eyes, a glint of bright sword
against her captor’s dark-clad side. The knife dropped from her
throat, but as the man holding her went down, she felt the icy
glide of steel through the flesh of her arm.
The companion, sword raised, joined the fighting. Sera
stood swaying in the darkness, while the king whirled,
quicksilver swift, and cut down another assailant. Suddenly,
there was no sound in the shadowed room but the scratch of
tinder as the companion lit a lamp.
“Hell, you’re not even breathing hard,” said the companion,
rushing over to the king.
“They didn’t touch me,” said the king, shrugging. “The girl
sounded the warning and threw herself at the leader.”
They both turned to Sera and stared at her. She stared back,
her heart galloping unsteadily as the candle flame made swaying
shadows on the wall behind them. The Outlander king really
was strong, she realized muzzily, and his look could intimidate
anyone. His gray eyes had gone the color of dark slate, and his
mouth turned down in a fierce frown.
Why was the man angry with her, she asked herself in a
hazy sort of defensiveness. It was not fair. All she got from her
good deed was the scorching heat of this giant’s glare.
The king’s eyes were focused on her arm, she realized, not
her. Looking down to see what had prompted his fury, Sera saw
the blood coursing down from the slice across her arm right
above her elbow. The thin silk of her skirt was already drenched
with it.
“It is nothing. A mere scratch,” she murmured. “Help me
get to the stables, and you’ve paid your debt.”
“It’s rather more than a scratch.” The king moved to her
side, pulled off
his linen shirt and ripped it into strips. The blond
one held her arm steady while the king wrapped the strips around
the wound. Both men paid strict attention to their task, but
ignored her weak protests completely.
“The black uniforms, the masks—who else could they be
but the bastards plaguing the border towns of Russia, as well?”
asked the one called Andre.
“That they would dare! And to do this to a woman . . ..”
The king’s hands were gentle, but the bandage was
uncomfortably tight.
The Brotherhood. That was what they called themselves,
the crazed religious zealots who preyed on the kingdoms of
Beaureve and this king’s Laurentia—as though a word could
make jackals seem like men of honor. They spewed hatred upon
any of the people who worshipped in traditional prayer houses
with those litanies the Brotherhood found offensive. Outlanders!
Never in a million years would she understand their antipathies,
their brutality.
“Hadar betrayed us,” the blond one was saying. “He must
have given them access to your room.”
“Hadar’s a fool and a coward. He could have had an ally,
but instead all he’s gained is an enemy.” The king went to the
door, dragging her along with him, holding her close to his side
as though he did not wish to let her go. His naked chest was
dense with muscle, damp and heated from the battle, and very,
very solid. She had a sudden absurd desire to rest her head
against the springy scattering of black hair growing there. The
blood loss had obviously affected her brain. She looked into
the hallway as he pulled her forward within the circle of his
muscled arm. Several guards in Iman Hadar’s gold and red tunics
lay dead outside the door.
The king returned to the room, still holding her steady with
one large hand on her shoulder.
“Nikki.” The companion threw the king a shirt. He shrugged
into it and then pulled her back against him. Sera swayed,
grateful for the support.
“He’s in league with them all right, but we’ll never prove
it,” the king said. “These guards died fighting to protect us, so
he’s got his claim of innocence. But it’s the courtesan we must
thank. She alone saved us.”
Courtesan! Of all the stupid, illogical, Outlander
assumptions! Sera felt the room spin out of control. She sank
sideways against the Outlander, and the whirlpool sucked her
into the dizzying darkness.
***
Nicholas felt the woman slump against him and swept her
up into his arms. At the same time, he heard the heavy footsteps
of several soldiers in a dead run toward his door.
“Damn, this just gets better and better.” Andre lunged
forward to shut the door.
“Wait. It’s Hadar, come to view the bodies. I want to see his
face when he sees which ones lie in this room.”
Iman Hadar rushed forward at the center of a troop of his
guards. He wrung his plump hands as he passed the guards lying
dead in the corridor, his silken shoes making slippery shuffles
on the marble floor. As Hadar got closer, Nicholas held the
woman tighter against his chest.
He looked down at the slave. She was very small in his
arms. The veil fluttered loose, revealing her face. She was, quite
simply, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Long lashes,
blond at the root and darker, like bronze at the tips, curled against
her cheeks. Her nose was small and straight and her lips were
full, soft, and naturally inclined to curve just a little into a half
smile. For some strange reason, she looked oddly familiar, but
his first concern was her pallor. He knew how much blood she
had lost, and she might even now be dying from it.
He bit his lip, awash in guilt. While he had been dreaming
of her, she had faced death alone.
“We leave now,” said Nicholas, purposefully fixing Hadar
with a look that made stronger men than Hadar quail before
him.
Hadar’s fat face took on an expression of distress and fear,
Nicholas noted. He bloody well should look fearful, for Nicholas
was seriously thinking of starting a border war with the turncoat.
“Truly, I don’t know how this terrible thing could have
happened, my friend,” said Hadar in a soothing voice. “Surely
you will allow me to make some reparation for this outrage,
both to you and to my honor as master of this palace. Name
what you wish, and it will be yours.”
Nicholas’s lips curled in distaste. “Your slave,” he said.
“Were it not for her, I’d be dead, and my council would vote for
war against Jehanna. I wish her papers, immediately.”
Hadar clapped his hands twice, and a servant scurried out
of the room, bowing as he left. A short time later, the servant
returned, bearing the bill of sale for the woman. Andre accepted
it and gathered their belongings, for Nicholas would not let go
of the woman.
“Surely there must be something else you wish from me,”
wheedled a still frightened Iman Hadar. “Jewels? Spices? The
brightest, most delicate silk and fine porcelain from the China
trade? Name it, and help me to erase this shame upon my
reputation.”
Nicholas felt a weak tug on his shirt. The woman’s eyes
were open, blue and limpid as a spring sky. He bent his head to
her bloodless lips.
“In the stables, there is a blood red chestnut with flaxen
mane and tail. Take him, for there is no finer horse in your
kingdom, or any other in your world.”
Nicholas froze in place for one moment, intently studying
the woman in his arms. He nodded sharply and gave his demand
to Hadar, who reddened, but nevertheless gave a command to
fetch the stallion. Nicholas stalked down the corridor, now
surrounded by his men, who had gathered at the door of his
chamber while he spoke with Hadar.
The little concubine lay trustingly against his chest. At the
base of his neck, his skin rippled with a small shiver. Here was
a mystery within a mystery, a Hill slave who spoke with the
cool, pleasing accent of a noblewoman—in Nicholas’s language.
When Nicholas reached the stable yard he stopped dead in
his tracks. The Hill woman had spoken truthfully. Torches
rimmed the area, and in the flickering light stood a magnificent
stallion. The chestnut reared, striking out at the grooms who
were straining at the ropes they held. He let out a scream of
rage, pawed the air again, dropped with lightning swiftness and
lunged to the left, snaking his head as he attempted to bite a
shouting groom.
“It’s obviously my lucky day,” Nicholas said to Andre. “My
plans for unity are destroyed, but I’m now the fortunate owner
of a rogue horse and a slave who orders me about like the kitchen
boy.”
The woman stirred in his arms. In a voice filled with urgency
and insistence, she said, “He is no rogue to a man who deals
wi
th him properly.”
Nicholas’s lips quirked upward. “My apologies,
Mademoiselle.” He grinned at Andre. “One out of two, anyway.”
“Kindly quit dithering and take me to him.” The slave’s
voice was sharp. “Quickly, for I have little strength.”
Nicholas startled himself by obeying the woman’s arrogant
order. Slowly, carefully, he carried her toward the horse. As
Nicholas approached with the woman in his arms, the tall stallion
sniffed the air, tossed his golden mane and turned to stare straight
at them. By the time he’d reached the horse, it had settled quietly
enough for the woman to hold her hand right beneath its nose.
The stallion sniffed, bowed its head and turned as docile as an
elderly maiden aunt.
“Tzirah,” whispered the slave, smoothing her palm over its
muzzle and up its cheek. “Beautiful boy.”
“Tzirah?” said Nicholas.
“His name. It means Wind Rider. You must help me mount,
and then swing up behind me. I take it you are not quite a novice
rider?”
“Didn’t they teach you to soothe a man’s pride in Hadar’s
concubine academy?” muttered Nicholas, lifting the woman
onto the horse’s back, where she swayed and sucked in her
breath.
“They may have taught, but I chose to ignore that lesson.”
The stallion wore no saddle and only a halter. Taking a deep
breath, Nicholas swung himself up behind her and gathered her
close to his body as the horse began to prance. She slumped
against him and sighed, then patted the bay, whispering soothing
words in the Hill tongue. The horse stood at rest, its ears pricked
forward.
Andre mounted and moved his stallion up beside Nicholas.
His men urged their horses forward until they flanked their king
and waited, eager, Nicholas knew, to be gone from this place
and across the border before dawn. Nicholas took another deep
breath and gathered the ropes of the halter in his left hand. His
right arm encircled the woman, pulling her closer against him.
He nodded once and squeezed the stallion into a slow canter.
With a clatter of hooves, they passed through the high gate of
the palace, leaving Iman Hadar and his treachery behind them.
***
When they crossed the border into Laurentia, Nicholas