“No. I cannot,” he said. “But you reek of fear. It’s unnecessary.”
“Considering your men attacked mine on the road, through a massive hole in the sky no less, I think I’ll beg to differ.”
He stroked his chin, expression considering. “I’m surprised you survived that attack.”
A cold child skittered down her back. She pictured her pallet in her tent, the camp where her body lay sleeping, but when she tried to send herself there, she came up against a hard wall. He was keeping her here. And the twitch of his mouth for a second time said he’d felt her attempt to flee.
“I have a drake,” she said. “I have five drakes. I won’t be easy to kill.”
“Who says I mean to kill you?”
“Don’t you?”
“No. Quite the contrary.”
She blinked. “What doesthatmean?”
He leaned forward, and she leaned back in automatic reaction. “Give me your hand.” He extended his own, large, elegant, and long-fingered. White as fresh cream.
She’d rarely seen something more frightening.
“No.”
His fingers curled and uncurled in invitation. “Come now. If I wanted to harm you, I wouldn’t need your hand to do so.”
“Then what do you need it for?”
“I want to see something.”
Her grip on the chair arms slipped, and she closed her fists tighter around them. “You can see.”
“No.” Again, he beckoned with his fingers. “Your hand, please, my lady.”
She found it both hilarious and terrifying that he was so mannerly. How many nations had he invaded? How many men had he slaughtered? His soldiers were slaves born into captivity, forced to fight, and yet he saidplease.
It was curiosity rather than obedience that finally lifted her hand and placed the back of it in his palm. She didn’t think he could hurt her here—though, truly, she had no idea of what hewas capable. But she wanted to see what he would do. What he wanted tosee.
He bent forward, so that his hair slid off his shoulder with a sound of silk-on-silk. It swung forward in a bone-white curtain and brushed her knee. Though fabric separated true touch, she shivered.
He hummed, and lifted his other hand to trace the lines on her palm with the pads of his fingers. His skin was cool, almost cold, and impossibly smooth. If she hadn’t seen the subtle rise and fall of his chest and known he was a living, breathing thing, she would have mistaken the touch for that of a marble statue.
“What?” she asked. “What are you looking for?”
In answer he flexed his thumb and dug his nail into the center of her palm. A sharp sting of pain heralded the welling of blood, and by the time she snatched her hand away, he was already withdrawing, holding up his first finger to show a blood drop there, round and gleaming.
Her heart throbbed wildly, and her head spun. She lifted her injured hand for a closer look, and couldn’t decide if she felt about to swoon because he’d frightened her, or because his sharp thumbnail had been laced with poison. “What did you do to me?” she demanded, voice shaking.
“Nothing,” he said, mildly, then lifted his finger, and licked the blood off its tip.
Amelia did swoon then, and the blackness was welcome.
7
Oliver threw off the covers and scrambled to his feet. He was forced to close his eyes against a nauseating wave of dizziness. His body flushed hot, sweat springing up under his arms and down his back and chest. He felt stricken with marsh fever again, and clutched wildly for something against which to catch his balance. He felt cool porcelain—the washstand—and when he slapped at the wooden surface, he wound up shoving it instead. It hit the dirt floor of the tent with a crash of broken crockery.
Oliver opened his eyes, the inside of the tent see-sawing madly around him, and saw the smashed bowl and pitcher lying amidst tufts of weeds.
Off to his right, a flurry of movement signaled Erik’s waking. He let out a wordless bellow, threw the covers off himself, and drew his sword from the scabbard beside the pallet with ashinkof steel on leather. He leaped to his feet, bare-chested, loose-haired, chest already heaving for breath. He settled into a ready stance, feet braced apart, sword held before him.
