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whispered, and held him close all the night long.
     
    He woke with the dawn, wary as a winter wolf on the prowl. Cursing the weakness that had let him sleep the sleep of the dead, leaving Leyla vulnerable and unprotected, he rolled to his feet. Grabbing the Giant’s sword, he quickly surveyed their surroundings, but all was peaceful. The horses grazed in the tall grass; Leyla was asleep, her hair flowing down her back like a cape of shimmering silver.
    A hand on her shoulder brought her instantly awake, her eyes wide. “Have they found us so soon?”
    “No, but it’s time to move on. We need food and water.” He glanced down at his bloodstained shirt. “I need something else to wear.”
    She nodded in solemn agreement, thinking he looked somewhat like a Giddeon pirate standing there, his long black hair blowing in the faint breeze, his jaw beard-roughened, a sword clutched in his hand.
    Jarrett saddled their horses, lifted her onto the back of the mare and swung aboard his own mount. If he remembered correctly, there was a small town a short distance to the north. If luck went with them, he might be able to barter one of the horses for food and clothing. And if no one would trade with him, he was not above stealing what they needed.
    He pushed the horses hard, constantly looking over his shoulder for some sign of pursuit, knowing he’d rather die than go back.
    They stopped to rest the horses at midmorning. “Leyla, I have a favor to ask of thee.”
    “Ask it.”
    “If we are captured by Rorke’s men, I want your promise that you won’t let them take me back alive.”
    She shook her head in violent refusal, her whole being rebelling at the idea of taking a life, especially his.
    Jarrett took her hand in both of his. “You must promise me,” he said, his hands tightening on hers. “I cannot go back.”
    She gazed deep into his eyes and in their depths she saw the awful fear that tormented him, fear of being lost and alone in the darkness, fear of being helpless, fear of madness. But no fear of pain or death.
    “I cannot go back,” he said again, and she heard the despair in his voice, the faint note of pleading that shattered her resistance because she knew what it had cost him to ask such a thing of her.
    She placed her free hand over his. “It is against all that I believe in, all that I am,” she replied softly, “but I will do it for thee, Lord Jarrett of Gweneth, because I cannot refuse thee anything in my power to give.”
     
    The town lay nestled in the lee of a wooded hillside. There were few inhabitants about as they rode down the narrow street. Jarrett’s stomach rumbled loudly as they passed a bakeshop filled with brown bread, honey buns, cakes and biscuits.
    They rode on until they came to a stable. Dismounting, Jarrett approached the owner, inquiring if he would like to buy the mare.
    The liveryman walked around the bay, checking the horse’s feet, running his hands over the bay’s long legs, checking her teeth.
    “How much d’ye want for the beast?” the man asked.
    “Ten ducates.”
    “Ten!” The liveryman shook his head. “Eight.”
    “Ten,” Jarrett insisted. “And I’ll throw in the saddle.”
    The man grunted, then nodded. “Done.”
    Their first stop was at an outside tavern for food. Leyla watched in amazement as he devoured a whole loaf of brown bread, washing it down with a tankard of potent Freywine, while she nibbled at a hot honey bun and drank a glass of cold goat’s milk.
    Next they walked through the marketplace, buying victuals and a bottle of ale. From there, they went into a rather disreputable-looking clothing store where he purchased a pair of serviceable black breeches, a black shirt and a pair of soft black leather boots that reached to his knees.
    Leyla felt her heart catch a little as she saw him in his new attire. How magnificent he looked, tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair shining in the sun.
    He looked at her speculatively. “Go,” he said,