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rain, rapidly growing in intensity.
    Etainen dismounted to snatch her from Pompey, placing her firmly at his side. “She’s drunk. Can’t you smell the ale on her?”
    She smelled wine on him. And salt. The rain eased. Why was she feeling just a little calm?
    The general bent to peer at her face as he inhaled. “Your face is all cut up. What kind of a whore are you?”
    “One who’ll do anything for coin, especially with Rome bilking us.” She couldn’t resist adding the last. “I’m sure you realize that some men like it rough. If they pay enough, we’ll go in the wood with them. Or several of them. Whatever they like.” Damn it. He still looked skeptical. “If you don’t believe me, check the box. It’s inside of my cloak.”
    At least I’ll get to find out what’s inside, finally.
    “Hold the woman, Etainen.”
    When the Roman thrust aside her coarse cape, she was very glad she’d worn a plain brown woolen dress.
    “Scrawny thing,” he said, grabbing one of her breasts. She bit her tongue, remembering that she was pretending to be a whore. The rain became steady.
    Etainen removed Pompey’s hands. “You’re not paying her.”
    “The men tell me I make up for being boney by making them, well, boney,” she said cheerfully.
    The General found the pocket with the box easily enough. He opened the lid, and she leaned forward as much as Etainen’s firm grip would let her to see the contents. In the box was a jar of some sort of red salve and a leather covered phallus. Except the object was bent in the center and had a head at each end.
    Oh, she was glad she was in disguise. She could feel Etainen’s chest rising and falling against her spine. He was laughing at her. His breath tickled her ear. A wave of dizziness washed over her. Why this reaction to him? What was wrong with her? Well, what did she expect when, in the space of a few sentences, he’d done more than most people she knew against the Romans?
    “My randy bulls requested that item this afternoon,” she said, adding a dirty laugh. “Now, let this little bird fly away. If you don’t mention a word about this…well, just tell Ulf that Swan owes you one. I wouldn’t balk at a fine Roman blade.”
    “Swan?” The general’s eyes narrowed, his face turning red.
    Ooh, that was stupid, Freya. Don’t be so careless. Of course he’s heard about Swan’s little messages and the freed prisoners. “That’s my whore name,” Freya said. “Much better than my real one. Would you want to use a name like Waldeburg? Would you like to call out, ‘Ooh, Waldeburg, grind those hips?’ Um, have you heard of me? My skills are legendary, or so I’ve been told.” Another dirty laugh.
    Etainen released her arms. She wondered what his reaction was to all this. It didn’t matter, because she was Swan now. Swan the Whore, not Swan the Bane of Romans, as she’d labeled herself.
    “I’d tell the barbarian if he weren’t missing his head,” the general said.
    “Ulf…because of me…Gods.” Rain began to pelt them. Lightning struck a guard tower, sending men fleeing and a red Roman pennant burning to the earth.
    “Whore, I’d like further proof if you’re telling the truth.” The general grabbed at her, but Etainen thrust her behind him.
    She was fey now, right? So why was she letting this Etainen defend her? She was supposed to make mortals quake in their boots—or sandals, which the Romans preferred.
    “Enough, General,” Etainen said in a cold voice, like thunder rumbling above. “I’m aware that Siegfried is assisting King Vercingetorix, but your grudge isn’t with prostitutes.” He gave Freya a shove. “Go.” Under his breath, he muttered, “And next time, try to get yourself caught by a group of eight, not six.”
    “Wait, please.” She stopped. Her eyes met his stormy ones, lightning reflected in their depths. Her heart almost stopped. Very, very out-of-place lust surged into her core. A horse neighed, the distinctive sound of