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in the soft, burred English Madeleine heard all day but hardly understood as yet, despite her lessons with the local priest. Looking as she did, he doubtless thought her one of the castle maids. She must keep up the pretense. He was surely an English outlaw, and if he realized she was Norman he would slit her throat.
    It was hard to believe he was the enemy, however, for his soothing voice smoothed away her fears. The voice, the cloak, the heat of his body behind her, his arm around her, all made her somnolent, as if he were casting a spell.
    Perhaps he was.
    Was he still naked? She imagined him naked behind her, his wonderful body separated from hers by only two layers of cloth. Trembles started which had nothing to do with fear.
    Held as she was, she could see nothing of him, just the path ahead—ground kept barren by the regular wearing of feet, the arch of trees in leaf, yellow and white flowers blooming among the undergrowth. She heard the singing of birds, the humming of insects, and the murmur of his entrancing voice.
    He said something else, and cautiously slid his hand from her lips. She guessed he had told her not to cry out. She licked her lips and tasted him upon them. His hand slid down her neck, then up again to gently press her head back against his chest. Still she could see nothing of him, but beneath her hair she felt cloth. It disappointed her that he was dressed. At that thought heat rose in her cheeks . . .
    He laughed softly and murmured again as his hand stroked down her stretched neck like a trail of fire. Then it traveled further, to rest hot over her right breast.
    Madeleine gave a breathy moan. Even through her kirtle and the cloak she could feel the heat from that hand as if it lay against her bare skin. Her nipple swelled into a point of unbearable sensitivity, and his hand moved in slow butterfly circles as if he knew. She imagined that deep murmuring voice was speaking of love and sinful delights . . .
    She ached with a need to respond, to reach up and hold his hand against her, to turn and kiss him, but she was caught in the cloak. She wanted to speak but dared not, for then he would know she was Norman.
    His right hand moved again, leaving her breast bereft. Now, following the path of her desire, it slid down to the juncture of her thighs, cupped and pressed her there. She made a wordless protest and moved back, but there was nowhere to go, and her wicked body did not really want to escape . . .
    She stifled a betraying plea even as her body moved against his hand.
    He laughed and blew softly over her heated cheek.
    Then he picked up his spells again as his hand slid up her body, over her left breast to her neck. His fingers trailed to her nape, and he lifted her damp, heavy hair. The murmur of his voice stopped. The brush of his lips at her hairline trickled a shiver of delight down her spine as the river water had run down his.
    His tongue against her skin was moist, hot, then cool as the breeze found the trail he left. He was doing as she had imagined and running his tongue down the top of her spine, but the moisture he would find there was not cold river water but hot perspiration.
    Hot. So hot.
    A shudder passed through her, as if she were taken by a fever. The rumble of his laughter vibrated into her. She laughed, too, enchanted into madness. She was going to speak, to turn, to seek the kiss she hungered for.
    Then, “Farewell,” he said. She understood that.
    He flipped the back of the cloak over her head. By the time she had disentangled herself he was gone.
    Madeleine collapsed on the ground. He was surely of the faery world to be able to entrance her so. For all she knew that had been faery language, not common English at all.
    But the cloak in her hands told her he was human and his magic was human, and all the more dangerous for it. The garment was fine green wool, woven in two shades and trimmed with red and a darker green. Not a poor man’s garment. Unlikely in an outlaw