He wore a wide brimmed leather hat, a padded doublet of russet hue, and high black boots that rose above the knees of his dark trews. There was a soberness about him, a taut virility that Ramsay almost recognized, as if he had seen him somewhere …
“The warrior!” he hissed, and prepared to leap through the crowd, but Anora caught his arm.
“All is well.”
“But ‘tis he,” Ramsay rasped. “The armor is gone, but ‘tis he just the same. The one who—”
“The one who made our meeting possible,” she said, and moved closer, so that their bodies just brushed.
Ramsay pushed his instant desire aside, for her safety was all that mattered. “I’ll question him now, learn the truth before he knows we suspect—”
“I have other things in mind,” she said, and slipped her hand into his. “More important things.”
“More impor—”
“More enjoyable,” she said, and rising on her toes, kissed him.
Ramsay’s every nerve sprang to keen edged attention, but he fought for rationality. “You are me wife,” he said, letting the meaning of the words slip to the core of his being and brace him with heady protectiveness. “I’ll not let anything harm you.”
She smiled, dimpling slightly. “You are my beloved,” she said, “and he has no wish to harm me.”
Beloved. He ached to take her into his arms here and now, but duty came first, and he must be cautious, lest he compromise her safety and make his own life unfit for the living. “How do you know he wishes you no harm?” he asked, shifting his gaze from her face to the warrior by the wall.
“I have a feeling,” she said.
“And what if you be wrong?”
“I am not wrong. But if I were, you would save me,” she murmured, and laughed.
Ramsay stood transfixed, for in her face there was neither restraint nor fear, just the soft, kindly trust of an angel in love.
“As you have already saved my heart and my soul,” she said, and squeezed his hand.
Her fingers were as fragile as a song and when he lifted them to his lips, he knew that his dreams had come true. She was his, forever and always, to protect and nurture and cherish.
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
AVON BOOKS
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Copyright © 2001 by Lois Greiman
ISBN: 0-380-81540-0
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Copyright