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of spring as her warmth began to mingle with his. Her hair was like heavy satin at her shoulder, and her pale skin begged a man’s hand. Desire knifed through him and his flesh hardened, pressing painfully against the constraints of battle armor.
    He cursed. He could not remember hardening so easily or painfully with a maid since his first time at the age of fourteen. And certainly not with one so unwilling, who was also his enemy. Nor was he ruled by his flesh as some soldiers were, seeking conquest of any soft, warm flesh, willing or not. He took his pleasure with women as he chose, but only those who came willing and asked nothing of him but a few coins. He preferred to take more challenging conquests on the battlefield, for only there might he slay the demons that raged as strong as any physical desire.
    Still, the Saxon healer with eyes like the heart of a flame and hair like the molten fire of a sunset, made him feel what others could not, and were it not for the layers of chain mail and leather, his reaction to her would have made itself known, and he could well imagine her frantic efforts to flee then from the sword pressing at her back.
    “ ’Tis not necessary to share your mantle with me, milord,” she said, pushing at the heavy fabric enfolding them.
    “You are wet and cold,” he said gruffly, refusing to loosen his hold. For even though it was torture to have her softness pressed against him, he discovered that it was a sweet torture in the other imaginings it conjured up.
    “I have been wet and cold before,” she persisted, pinned against him, her head tucked  beneath his chin. “I do not mind it.”
    “ I mind it!”
    His breath tingled at her ear and down the side of her neck, causing her to shiver anew with a far different sensation that spiraled through her to settle somewhere beneath the weight of his arm at her breast.
    “And if you persist, mistress,” he warned, his voice harsh with a gruffness she didn’t understand, “then I shall have you bound and trussed before me,” he assured her. “And you will still be wrapped in this mantle. The choice is yours.”
    There was no surrender in her slender body but she didn’t struggle again, and as the hours passed with bone-aching weariness, he felt her sway against him as fatigue overcame her. She startled awake and stiffened, then stubbornly held herself rigid in the saddle before him. But exhaustion eventually won out and her slender chin drooped. She eased against him and did not pull away again.
    Night began to fall and even their slow pace became impossible in the darkness that closed around them. At the edge of a wood, Rorke ordered his men to make camp for the night. As they stopped his captive jerked awake in sudden alarm. He had experienced it many times in the aftermath of battle, when he suddenly awakened, all senses alert but with no awareness of where he was, only the certainty of danger.
    Her slender hands clutched at his arm, her body retreating further into his. His arms closed protectively about her, and he allowed himself the luxury of the feel of her hair, like warm satin, against his lips as he assured her.
    “Sa se bien, demoiselle. All is well.”
    His warm breath stirred gently against her cheek. Exhaustion slowly cleared from her senses. She pushed away from him, her eyes wary and bright in the fading light.
    “What is this place? Where are we?”
    “It’s too dangerous to continue. We’ll make camp here for the night and continue in the morning.”
    He removed the mantle from about them and dismounted. Relieved of his weight the large warhorse stood trembling, its glossy black coat caked with mud, sweat, and lather. Steam rose from the animal’s back, misting the night air. Long powerful legs that had borne two riders over a long distance quivered, the large head sagging with exhaustion.
    The rain had stopped yet Vivian shivered at the sudden loss of his warmth. Her back ached and her legs cramped from sitting at