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  “Come,” he growled. “Rain’s here.” He drew her to him, adjusting the helmet on her head as he shielded her with his body. For a brief moment, his lips touched hers, scalding her.

  By the thorn! He kissed me!

  Fleeting as it had been, Rosina hadn’t imagined it that time. The flash of the tiny spark ricocheted within her, dizzying her until her legs wobbled. She’d have toppled had he not been gripping her so fiercely. His taste branded her lips, sharp and heady as contraband whisky. She ran her tongue over her mouth to savor the sip of him, but he snatched her hand and dragged her to his tent, the largest, as befitted his rank.

  Parting the flaps fashioned for a door, he shoved her inside. To her surprise, he clambered in after—he usually gave her space to herself if he could manage it. A muted yellow light drifted from the lanterns hanging from the rafters and, after the harsh glare of the sun, she blinked to accustom her eyes to the gloom. Deep shadows ripped across the sides of the tent. The clouds had arrived with the shower.

  “Do you not wish to play in the rain like the others?” she asked.

  He shook his head. His response did not surprise her since he rarely cavorted with his troops. “Not tonight. Tonight….”

  I only want to play with you. Her heart leapt as she imagined him saying those words. But, of course, he did not. Would not.

  “I will look after you,” he finished instead. An echo of Nicodemus’ words.

  But hearing them in the major’s voice, with its hint of sinful promise, excited her. Not the words she’d hoped for, but thrilling nonetheless. He had never exhibited such a desire before. Except it wasn’t anything erotic, of course. It was another demonstration of how he considered safeguarding her one of his duties. Yet another burden heaped on his broad shoulders.

  She stared back at him and a quick retort rose to her lips. Automatic, but dissolving speedily, the remark went unsaid. The same response she’d thrown at Nicodemus when he’d said as much.

  I do not need looking after.

  But she had no wish to antagonize Major Worthington, so remained silent. Rosina had been looking after herself for almost a quarter century, for most of her twenty-five years. Only the vaguest memory of her parents remained. Some of those years had been very lean indeed. At least the major and his men fed her, sheltered her. While she did not feel precisely safe in their company, she did feel less vulnerable and exposed.

  And, she’d begun to wonder what it would be like to be in the major’s special, exclusive care, his personal responsibility, to be cared for by him. In the way he cared for her in her sizzling dreams.

  “Some tea and stories then?” The gravelly voice, familiar but unexpected, had her swiveling around, switching her gaze from the major to the much older man who perched on a trunk at the foot of the soldier’s cot, his feet dangling a few inches above the floor. He was no taller than a six-year-old, with a face more wrinkled than the shift she’d worn beneath her outer clothes for a week or the tattered map the major poured over at night.

  The gnome-like man stroked a long, twisted gray beard that reached below his knees, almost to the ground. Odd blue sparks crackled as his gnarled fingers combed through the hair on his chin.

  Nicodemus had returned.

  Would he take her away with him again?

  After so many weeks, she’d only begun to get used to things, to feel a precarious level of comfort here. She sidled a bit closer to the major, who drew her to his side, tucking her against his rib cage with a heavy, protective arm slung across her shoulders.

  She did not fear Nicodemus, no more than she did the major. But her heart stuttered at the thought of being wrested away from the rough, tough soldier. She glanced up at his face. Closed and shuttered. As usual, he gave no thoughts away.

  Perhaps that was only to be expected. In a world where everyone bartered, nothing was free.

  Chapter Two

  “What do you want, Nicodemus?” Clay growled.

  The unwelcome interruption frayed his last nerve. Rosina’s taste still flavored his lips. Although the brush of his mouth against hers had been brief, the shock still reverberated through him, leaving his body burning like a smoking ember, ready to burst into flame.

  He did not know what had possessed him to touch her, finally, after so many weeks. For so long he’d smoldered, glowing red-hot when she was near. He hadn’t dared approach her. Instead, he’d shot punishing glares with the promise of much worse at any of his men who did.

  But, by the thorn! His obsession with her, his lust for her, threatened to consume him. It wasn’t just that she was a shapely, comely woman in a vast wasteland where women were few and far between. Sometimes Rosina even seemed too thin to him, especially when rations grew scarce and they all hungered. But he’d begun to admire and respect her, too. Her fortitude. Her courage.

  He’d been besotted with her from the day he’d come upon her standing up to a small band of scavengers by herself without calling for aid. Refusing to be bullied by them, though they loomed twice her size, she’d stood before their pile of stores, guarding the cache with a mound of stones for weaponry. She had good aim, he admitted. She’d spoken to the threatening marauders softly, steadily, her back straight and posture regal. Learning they hadn’t eaten in days, she’d offered them a few foodstuffs and supplies before firmly sending them on their way.

  Another time, she’d doctored one of his men, whose leg had been torn apart by an exploding mine, exhibiting competent skill, though she could barely touch the shrapnel without causing herself injury.

  She had a huge heart, its size in direct proportion to the nonexistence of his own.

  He thought of her as his, a development unhealthy for both of them in this uncertain world. He was fast becoming a mental case, if he wasn’t already. The never-ending war had warped his brain the way it had disintegrated the tattered remains of his heart.

  His thoughts revolved around and consumed him so completely, he’d nearly forgotten the presence of Nicodemus in his tent. He raised an eyebrow, repeating his question.

  “I’m here just to tell you a story,” the little man said. “I won’t even take yer coin this time.”

  Clay hid his surprise. He’d never known Nicodemus to turn down coin, or anything else, and he’d known the traveling bard a good long time. Like women of easy virtue who followed the drum as they had in ancient times when people were still possessed of morals, and armies moved with large trains of tradespeople and prostitutes—Nicodemus often popped up when the men made camp, looking for currency in exchange for a tale.

  Exhausted and more than ready for stories around the fire, his warriors passed around rum and home-brewed moonshine, eager to drink away their cares while they listened to the tale-teller spin a tall one. Clay had seldom met a more grasping individual, though, even in these days of all-pervasive greed.

  And now he offered them a freebie? Clay’s suspicious nature ratcheted up several notches, going on high alert.

  The strange little man patted down his old-fashioned green woolen britches, searching for something, then withdrew a carved ivory pipe from the pocket of the pants and lit it up. He sucked in a breath and puffed out a cloud of fragrant smoke that seemed to wreathe Rosina.

  Clay tamped down his instinct to grab her, to yank her away from the unhealthy gray-white pall now filling the tent, the densest billows circling around her. As if the toxic penumbra engulfing her made her head spin, she turned an unhealthy shade of yellow-green, so unlike her usual fair, milky complexion.

  Normally, a subtle pink tinged her skin in the important places—the crest of her brow, graceful slope of her nose, and most of all, the elegant curves of her cheeks. Where else? Images of sweet breasts, toned legs, and lush thighs, hips that swelled into a perfectly curved, heart-shaped ass, bombarded him. By the thorn! He could not let his mind wander this way! With difficulty, he jerked his thoughts from the mental survey of her body.

  But he still wanted to glide his lips and tongue al
ong the delicate lines of her jaw and mouth, to bring a brighter blush to her skin, to continue what he’d barely begun. Clay settled for running a hand along her arm in what he hoped was a soothing manner. He doubted he still had the ability to soothe anyone, reserving his small and dwindling stores of compassion for the dying and wounded these days. But something about this woman always sparked whatever remained of his instinct to comfort and nurture, the chivalrous streak that seemed ingrained deep in his psyche, despite how forcefully he tried to stamp it out.

  Sometimes, inexplicably, he dreamed of kneeling at her feet. Deep in his soul, he knew he belonged at her side. Protecting her. Serving her.

  Clay shook himself back to the present. “I’ve had enough of your stories, old man. And your twice-damned riddles.”

  Nicodemus gathered the long metal staff upon which he leaned closer and thumped the pole on the floorboards, calling for attention. His eyes narrowed. “A bit battle weary, ye be, mayhap, Major?”

  “Hell, yeah. I’ve been in battle my whole fuckin’ life— three damn decades now—and I’m fuckin’ sick of it.” He swept a hand toward the tent flap and the territory outside it. “There’s nothing left, is there? Just sand. Miles of it. Fuck me if I even know why we’re fighting anymore.”

  “Did you ever?” the little man demanded.

  Did I? The thought froze Clay where he sat. The vision of kneeling before the regal figure of the woman beside him flashed through him and vanished. Uncertainty seized him, rocking him to his foundation, unsettling everything he knew or thought he knew, everything he’d ever stood for. So many men. Lost. He’d sent so many to their deaths.

  His own brother.

  Wandering into what had appeared to be a deserted campsite, despite clear evidence the fire had barely been stomped out. Reaching out for the abandoned backpack leaning on an outcrop of rock. Gone in an explosion of white-light, shrapnel and debris.

  Gone.

  Tearing a jagged hole in Clay’s heart, a wound still raw and bleeding. And what had it all been for?

  Rosina gazed up at him, her color better, but her intelligent hazel eyes reflecting back the questions disturbing him. He itched to tuck a wayward strand of her pale hair behind her ear, to test the softness of its shimmering silk. Instead, he patted her hand, his gesture awkward as he stared back at the other man.

  “No,” he admitted at last, his voice gruff and grim. “Not sure I ever knew.”

  “Well, then,” Nicodemus said, his thin lips twisting into a grin of triumph behind his beard. “Get me some tea to wet my parched throat and gather ’round, gather ’round.”

  He thumped his metal staff on the ground a few times, and more sparks flew. A huge, electric-blue tarantula crawled out of the tangled thicket of his beard and perched on his shoulder, vibrating and chirping, settling in for the tale. “For this is the story of that.”

  “The story of what?” Clay demanded.

  “Of how things came to be.”

  Clay narrowed his eyes. Fuck, yeah. He’d damn well like to hear that. “All right.”

  Leaning sideways, he grabbed the beat-up kettle heating over a folding camp stove fueled by canned fire. Nicodemus waited until he edged the battered pot closer to the trunk and sprinkled dried leaves from a tin box into a chipped mug. Scrounged, like everything else. Every now and then someone stumbled upon a secret warehouse or hidden bunker with stores that had not been ruined—and hoarded the bounty like gold, until some other commodity presented itself for barter.

  He held out a cup to the beautiful young woman by his side, alone in the world, apparently vulnerable, but so strong, so willing to take on anything, even when the threat could prove so fatal, or when she clearly did not understand.

  Rosina pursed her full lips into a taut line. Fuck. He had to stop thinking about kissing her. About her sweet mouth taking his pulsing dick deep, licking, sucking, teasing it and his aching balls until he’d lost his mind. Maybe he had lost it already. He had to stop.

  Her eyes indicated bewilderment as profound as he’d ever seen from her. Like him, she seemed an expert at masking her true feelings. Except on the rarest of occasions. Or when he caught her totally unaware, like when he woke her from sleep. A different woman entirely, then. Soft and drowsy, so very vulnerable. Gazing up at him as if….

  What did she dream about?

  Did she fantasize about him the way he pictured her?

  Of their hot, sweaty bodies, entwined and frenzied, overcome by the passion of sizzling, mind-blowing sex?

  Who the fuck was she? Where had she come from? Did Nicodemus know?

  “Once upon a time….”

  Clay didn’t trust the dwarf any further than he could toss him. But he conceded he could probably throw the tale-teller quite a long distance if he wanted to. Only time would tell whether Nicodemus was good or evil. Or even what side he was on in the lengthy world turmoil that seemingly had gone on forever.

  But the little man could definitely tell a tale, weaving enchantment around his listeners until they were nearly mesmerized, so captivated by the story they forgot all else. Quite the actor he was, his voice spinning a hypnotic spell so hard to break. Clay kept his suspicions to himself as he fixed a mug of instant joe. At least the gnomish creature seemed satisfied with tea this time and didn’t demand coin.

  For now, Clay kept uppermost in his mind the strange creature had brought Rosina to him and dumped her practically into his lap. Fuck him if he knew why. But if he were totally honest, that’s where he wanted her to be. Well, more precisely, he wanted her sensual lips parted, her open mouth warm and tantalizing as her lips and tongue roved over his cock, sucking him to insanity.

  And he wanted her under him. Writhing as he devoured her, drew her pebbled nipples into his mouth, delighting in the curve of her breasts before traveling downward, across her torso, below her belly, his tongue finding her core, hot, wet, and quivering for him in hunger, need, and anticipation. He craved the taste of her, wanted to lap up her juices as if savoring a rare wine, his tongue first flat as he stroked it over her then stiff and more demanding, wringing cry after desperate cry from her, her body shattering beneath him. When he could stand no more, he’d rip open the fall of his trousers, freeing his aching erection, driving his cock inside her again and again, relentlessly, until both of them were panting and gasping, melting and surging into one another, trembling with excitement and lust.

  But that, like all of the other more pleasant aspects of life these days, would have to wait. Whether it was a goal ever to be achieved, he didn’t know. But meanwhile, he could dream. Could use the fantasy to stroke himself to some semblance of relief in the darkest part of the night or early morning hours when no one else was around.

  By the thorn, he was a despicable hound. He hadn’t been around a woman in a long time, not since before Nicodemus brought Rosina to him. But, fuck it all, she was in his care now, and she worked for him, a subordinate, translating this foreign territory when necessary. He should not be using thoughts of her sweet, sensitive skin, her amber-gold hair and hazel eyes, her sensual lips and beautiful image to bring himself off when his balls ached more than he could bear.

  Because hell knew grief and guilt already tore at him.

  And he really needed the burden of more.

  He thought of all the men he’d lost during the last decade. Good men and true under his command. Perhaps needless, all of the deaths. As meaningless as the mission they found themselves on now, stranded in the middle of nowhere, cut off from all support.

  Clenching his jaw, he grabbed the bottle he kept under his cot and poured a few fingers into his coffee mug. Keeping his own fear and anxiety buried within, he showed his calmest face to his troops and kept Rosina-Sandrina-Sandy safe from harm. Safe even from himself. That’s what he was all about, wasn’t he?

  He dared not cross the professional boundary lines except in fantasy. Clay thought of the stolen kiss he’d snatched outside the tent and cursed silently. What a benighted
fool. Her hand crept into his, and she snuggled closer to him as Nicodemus’ alluring voice wrapped around them.

  “Once upon a time,” the tale-teller repeated more forcefully, to ensure he’d fully captured Clay’s attention, “many, many years ago….”

  Chapter Three

  Once upon a time….

  One hundred years earlier….

  “How’s it going, Paisley?”

  “Not very well, Madame President. Not very well at all.”

  The Secretary of Foreign Affairs did a little shuffle on the expensive antique carpet spread out before the massive presidential desk. He looked like a limp, overcooked noodle clinging to the side of an empty pasta pot after the boiling water had been drained off. Normally exceptionally well-groomed, as befit his station, he now paced before her beyond unkempt. Wrinkles, damp with sweat, stamped the linen shirt hanging out of the pinstriped trousers of his bespoke suit. He pulled at the remaining strands of gray hair, sticking up from his head like he’d thrust his hand into an electrical socket.

  “They’re arguing about the size of the table now.”

  “We expected that sort of thing, did we not?” Margaret lifted an eyebrow, mustering the patience and calm for which she was renowned throughout the world. “Have they at least resolved the issue of the table’s shape?”

  “Yes, finally. After quibbling about it all day. They’ve decided it must be round, not square, so no one is seated in a higher position than anyone else.”

  “Yes, King Arthur would be so proud.

  “Arthur, my liege?’ His knitted his eyebrows together until his forehead had more creases than an origami swan.

  It was a minor slip and one she could easily let go. But if she ignored her minister’s error, she feared she’d never break him of the old, ingrained habit. “You mean, Madame President, don’t you, Paisley?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. But you will always be my queen.” His curled fist landed over his heart in a gesture of abject fealty.