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head. “You do nae understand; this, us, canna be.”
    She turned to leave, but he reached out, caught her wrist.
    “I should nae have come,” she said.
    Nor should he keep her here, but ’twas as if a man drowning, he needed to know. “What did you dream about?”
    Catarine’s hand trembled within his.
    Throat dry, he swallowed hard. “Did you dream of my kissing you?”
    For a long moment she watched him. Then, hesitantly, she nodded.
    And his last defense tumbled. Trálin claimed her mouth, and heat stormed him at her taste. At her soft moan, at how she pressed her body flush against his, he took the kiss deeper, his tongue taking, commanding hers to respond, and she gave. Images of him stripping her, touching her everywhere, roared through his mind.
    “Release her!”
    At Atair’s brusque voice, Trálin’s mouth broke free, then he stepped back.
    Guilt swept her as she stumbled away, glanced toward her senior fey warrior. “’Tis naught what it seems.” Nay, ’twas more. Never before had a man made her feel so much. God in heaven, had her friend nae interrupted them, what would she have allowed?
    His face drawn in a fierce frown, that of a protector—or a lover—Trálin stepped to her side, held Atair’s cool gaze. “Leave us.”
    “Nay,” she rushed out, struggling to find a rational explanation. As if such was possible? ’Twas she who’d stepped across forbidden boundaries by nae departing before.
    Trálin’s eyes riveted on her. “We are nae finished.”
    The rough desire in his voice shook her further. How she wished it was true.
    Hand on the hilt of his blade, Atair walked closer. “Catarine wishes to return to camp.”
    The Scot rounded on the warrior. “Bloody hell—”
    “I am betrothed to another,” she blurted out, damning that she’d allowed their time alone to deteriorate to this moment—and, against the Otherworld laws and her promise of marriage, wanted Trálin still.
    Shock widened Lord Grey’s eyes, then they darkened to anger. “Betrothed?”
    At the condemnation in his voice, anger that she deserved, she nodded. “Given the circumstance, ’twas wrong of me to come here. I am sorry, more than you could ever know.”
    “Sorry?” Trálin cursed. “And that is supposed to make what happened between us right?”
    “Nay,” she whispered.
    “Catarine,” Atair said, his voice gentle. “Go. I will speak with Lord Grey—alone.”
    “She will remain,” Trálin snapped, the irritation in his tone making it clear he wanted her to face the chaos she’d created.
    The warrior stepped forward. “If she chooses—”
    “Why come here this morning aware that I want you?” Trálin demanded of Catarine.
    “I did nae mean for this to happen,” she said.
    “Catarine,” Atair said, “leave us, I beseech you.”
    Hand on his sword, Trálin stepped toward the warrior. “And what will you do once you and I are alone?”
    “Enough, both of you,” Catarine said, frustrated at the entire situation.
    Both men glared at her.
    As if she didn’t deserve such? “I have wronged him, and I owe Lord Grey an apology. And, another to you, Atair.”
    “Regardless,” her fey warrior stated, “’tis done.”
    Heart aching, she shook her head. “Nay, I forgot my place, my promises made.”
    Her friend’s mouth tightened.
    Thankful for his silence, Catarine exhaled, focused on the earl. “With my thoughts muddled with sleep, I didna weigh the possibilities of my actions.”
    “Why did you come here?” Trálin demanded.
    “To talk,” she replied. “Aye, it sounds foolish now, but as I explained, I heard you tossing and turning throughout the night. With your wounds, and knowing you struggled with the loss of your men, I wanted to check on you. Then, when I saw you and . . .”
    Atair muttered a curse. “’Tis unseemly for you to be alone with this man.”
    Hands on hips, she faced her senior fey warrior. “As if I am nae alone with five men on regular occasion?”
    “’Tis