Alibad screamed a warning to her, bade her run as the dragons turned upon her, snarling with venomous glee.
"And then..." Ashleen bent forward, her face mysterious, unearthly in the firelight.
Garret strained to hear, abashed to realize his pulse was racing.
"And then," Ashleen's clear voice rippled out, "the woman cast a spell on four small children and made them all fall into a deep, deep sleep."
Garret swore, his fingers clenching so tightly about his bit of charcoal that it snapped in his hand. He wanted to bellow at her to finish the damn story, joining the clamoring of Renny and Liam and Shevonne that she go on just a little longer.
But he clenched his teeth and, gripping one of the bits of charcoal, set to work with a vengeance. Even so, Ashleen O'Shea's story held him spellbound, seeping into his consciousness until it seemed there was no room for anything else.
It was much later that he was startled by a footfall beside him. In an instinctive movement that had saved his life countless times he grabbed for his pistol, whipping it from his holster.
He half expected to see a purple-scaled dragon with claws as long as a church spire and fangs like a rapier. Instead his gaze fell upon a delicate enchantress's features, and he knew how poor Alibad must have felt when he had first seen the harp maiden in the cave.
Though apparently a little shaken by finding a six-gun aimed at her chest, Ashleen gave a wobbly laugh, raising her hands skyward. "I surrender, Mr. MacQuade."
It was tempting to join her good-natured amusement, but Garret felt as if he'd been running on a knife blade of tension since the moment she had stormed into his life.
"Do you know how dangerous it is to sneak up on a man with a gun?" Garret snarled, holstering his weapon. "I could've killed you."
"You didn't kill me. And I didn't sneak up on you." Her voice was laced with that infuriating calm she used when dealing with Renny's temper. "I called out to you once, but you were so engrossed in your work that you must not have heard... oh, my!"
Her pleased cry made the rest of Garret's tirade fly out of his head. She plunked down on the ground beside him, leaning so close he could smell the scent of his berries still on her lips, could feel the excitement bubbling through her.
Her fingers strayed out, touching the piece of paper that lay forgotten upon his drawing board.
Garret made a move to shield it from her gaze, but it was too late. He looked down at what was supposed to be a picture of eagles soaring in a cloudless sky and was astonished to find the birds had somehow developed scales and giant claws, bulging dragon eyes fixed upon the small figure of a slender woman.
Embarrassment blazed a path through him, leaving him flustered, defensive, and totally speechless.
"It's Princess Niamh!" Ashleen enthused, holding up the lantern so the light spilled more brightly onto the page. "And look! I can just see Alibad behind Gobmora's legs."
"Gob—who?"
"The dragon, of course."
"Of course," Garret echoed wryly.
As if spurred by his show of interest, she raced on. "Gobmora is the mother dragon, you see, and these"—she pointed to the other sketchy figures—"these two are her sons, Macedón and Ripannia. They're not really evil—the sons, I mean. It's just that the mother has lied to them, told them that Alibad slew their father. But really it was Gobmora who killed him when he joined Alibad in his quest for peace between the Underworld and the World Above."
Garret allowed himself a reluctant laugh, his earlier irritation fading as he reveled in the sparkling delight in her eyes, the loveliness of her animated features. "This time I surrender! All I want to know is whether or not Gobmora here is going to have Princess Niamh for supper."
"A herd of wild horses couldn't drag that information out of me before tomorrow night, my fine sir." Ashleen tipped her head at a mischievous angle, exposing the graceful line of her throat. Four buttons at the prim collar were open, baring a V of lily-pale skin to the cool breezes. He would have given a fortune just to press one kiss on that throbbing pulse beat.
Garret moistened his lips, feeling a sharp stab of desire. He made an effort to divert his attention with a heroism that would have made Sir Alibad proud. "Where do you come up with—with these things?" Garret asked. "Dragons and princesses and harps."
"Enchanted harps," Ashleen corrected with obvious relish. She shrugged. "I don't know. It began when we were at sea. There was a storm—waves crashing, tossing the ship about until I almost thought..." She hesitated, shaking herself, and Garret could almost feel the fear that must have coursed through her that night, and the terror that must have gripped the four children.
"Anyway," Ashleen continued, her voice soft with reminiscence, "that was when I first began tormenting poor Sir Alibad. I must confess I used him ill that night. He was pitted against a Cyclops then, as I remember, who gave him a potion to make him blind. That was when he met Gobmora's mate, Illitar, who restored his sight and"—with a self-conscious wave of her hand, she laughed—"at any rate, the children so loved Alibad that I've been making him miserable ever since."
Simple, so simple and unassuming the words were, free of any sense of the wonder she had wrought. Squeezed between the lines were innumerable pictures of children scared out of their wits, clinging to the single bit of security in their small world, and Ashleen... alone, little more than a child herself, cocooning them with her love.
Garret sucked in a shuddering breath, unable to tear his gaze away from her.
Did she see the look in his eyes? Sense the need jolting through him as the loosened strands of her hair were tossed on the fingers of the breeze to brush against his jaw? Did she know how badly he wanted to bury his hands in her hair? How much he wanted to crush those laughing, ripe lips with his own?
How could she know? With her innocence, that openness of heart that embraced everyone around her?
