She followed it like a beacon, sidestepping piles of rubble and clambering over short walls until she reached a long rectangular field surrounded on three sides by levels of stone seating. In the center, the Undying King exhibited his battle prowess, and Imogen forgot to breathe.
Man-sized effigies made of woven straw littered the field, hewn into pieces. Those that remained standing awaited their fate as Cededa spun and leapt, swinging the long glaive with as much ease as if he wielded a feather. Rivulets of sweat streamed off his bare torso, carving shining lines into alabaster muscle and plastering his pale hair to his shoulders and back. His dark trews stuck to his legs, the damp fabric delineating the long line of thigh and calf. He was moonlight and grace, speed and power. To Imogen, he danced on the air, lighter than a butterfly, faster than a striking viper. The glaive’s blade shone in the sun as it sang a metallic song and clove its straw victims into pieces. The thwapping noise had been their dismemberment.
Imogen shuddered and hugged herself. How many intruders into Tineroth had met just such a fate?
Still, she couldn't help but admire his masculine beauty. She was an innocent in body if not necessarily in mind. Niamh didn’t believe in keeping her child ignorant of the ways of people, even if she kept her isolated from them. Imogen had often watched the villagers and townspeople those few times she accompanied Niamh to market day, swathed in both concealing cloth and illusion. She’d admired some of the men, idly wondering what kind of husbands they might make. With no hope of ever forming any attachment with a man, she’d kept any longing at bay, forming no infatuation for any she glimpsed.
There were some so handsome as to make any village maid swoon, but none equaled the man standing before her. She dragged her gaze up from a slim waist with muscles tight enough she’d bet she could bounce a coin off them, to a sculpted back and wide shoulders. She didn't have to see his face to be reminded of those exquisite features. He must have broken scores of hearts when he ruled a living city.
A few more breathtaking spins and arcing cuts from the glaive, and Cededa came to a standstill.
“Good morning, Imogen,” he said before turning to face her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Imogen of Leids hovered near the practice field’s entrance, watching him. He’d heard her approach long before she made it to the field and wondered idly how she’d managed to find her way out of the palace. He didn’t hold her prisoner, but the spirits that lingered in his home had a wicked sense of humor and a protective streak as strong as his when it came to guarding Tineroth. They would have held her there until his return. What had convinced them to let her go?
A flutter of movement, the swirl of skirts, told him he’d startled her. He walked to one of the enclosure walls to retrieve a cloth and rest the glaive against the stone.
“Good morning, Sire. I hope I’m not intruding.”
That cool, measured voice revealed no hint of her surprise, and her composure impressed him once more. He wiped his face on the towel before passing it over his shoulders and chest. He gathered his damp hair into a queue and tied it back with a leather strap. Even now, so early in the morning, the air hung humid and heavy, promising another lethargic day.
The usual numbing dread of dull sameness didn’t afflict him this morning. This morning was different. He had a guest, one uninvited but not necessarily unwelcome. For the first time in more years than he cared to count, Cededa felt a measure of eagerness, of excitement. He’d host Death in his abandoned city and welcome her with what little hospitality was available to him.
“No, you’re not intruding. I do this each morning. You’re welcome to observe if you wish.”
He caught the focus of her gaze—directly on his bared chest and stomach. He’d not been named Cededa the Fair as a lark. Before the Waters changed him, women and men alike lauded him as a man blessed with august features. He’d been used to admiring gazes from both sexes, along with many come-hither stares. Imogen wore that same admiring expression, though she wore it for the man who no longer bore a resemblance to the humanity that had deserted him thousands of years earlier. The colorless Undying King had lit the appreciative spark in her eyes. This surprised and beguiled him almost as much as the knowledge of her terrible curse. His eyebrows rose in amusement when she blushed at being caught. Her chin rose and she refused to look away.
“I don't mean to stare,” she said in her sure, even tones. “But you are the most beautiful man I've ever beheld.”
Her bluntness rocked Cededa. Spoken plainly, with no lascivious undercurrents, her straightforward compliment created ripples across the still pond of his emotions, igniting an already growing fascination.
He’d misjudged her solely on her appearance, so much more subdued than Niamh’s. But this regal girl matched her mother in every way. Equal, only different. In his more debauched past, he might have indulged in some flirtatious response. No longer. He’d changed, and her statement was far too dignified in its delivery to deserve a provocative reply. He settled for a quiet “Thank you.”
She nodded. “You’re welcome, Sire.”
He noted her change of clothes—no different from yesterday, except her garb now was dull brown instead of faded black. She’d foregone the hat, but not the gloves. They concealed those magnificent hands, protective armor to shield others from her touch.
Her gaze flashed wariness when he closed the space between them, but unlike the previous night, she didn’t give ground. He didn’t reach for her, only stood close enough that he heard the hitch in her breathing.
“Do you want to touch me?”
The blush painting her cheekbones a rosy hue deepened and spread to her neck. The proud stare lowered, and her chin dipped. The flutter of her fingers across the folds of her dress revealed her disquiet as she mulled over his request.
The silence stretched between them until Cededa coaxed her to look at him with a finger under her chin. “Do you want to touch me, Imogen?”
She raised her eyes to his. “Yes, I do.”
Decision made, she peeled off the gloves and tucked them into a spot at her waist. Cededa drew a quick breath as she raised those fair, deadly hands. Imogen paused. He grasped one hand, shuddering as the remembered black lightning surged up his arm. The sensation intensified as he laid her palm against his chest. “There’s no danger to me, Imogen.”
She inhaled sharply, and Cededa fancied the heavy drum of her heartbeat vibrated through her palm. Her hand was hot against his skin, the delicate fingertips tracing the silvery patterns now etched along the slope of his shoulder and line of his collarbone. “You’re wearing the key,” she said.
He was the key. She had simply returned that small part of himself he’d left with her mother years earlier. He said nothing, content to let her explore him as the atavistic power of her curse flowed from her fingers to surge through his bones. Her shoulders shook with a visible shiver, transmitting down to her hand until it too quivered as she explored his torso. She gulped audibly, her eyes growing wider with each passing moment.
Cededa stood as motionless as any of the statues gracing Tineroth, letting her grow used to the notion of touching another. Had he not lived so long in near perfect isolation, the expressions of terror and wonderment that flashed across her features might have puzzled him. Even then, he still had no concept of what this simple moment must be like for a woman who’d never known the pleasure of touching another human being without the armor of her gloves or the fear of killing.
He shivered lightly under her caress, and muscle flexed beneath her palm. Cededa watched her, enthralled by her ever changing expressions—curiosity, fascination, puzzlement—as she continued her study of his body. He stifled a sharp gasp when her palm brushed his nipple. Unlike the cold lightning that razored through his veins from her curse, this touch started a slow burn that radiated out from his chest until it suffused him from head to toe. Desire, an emotion he thought long dead, awakened and bade his body remember.
