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  The major sat stunned, resembling a man bolted to his seat. He stared at Nicodemus in horror. His wintry eyes reflected a stark intensity she’d never witnessed before, despite viewing the major in some of his grimmest moments.

  The numbness that had stolen over her during the telling of the tale paralyzed her as well and froze her brain, the only conscious clarity provided by the man seated next to her. His chilly presence seemed to suck the heat from the tent, but nevertheless enveloped her in a soothing blanket of calm. Having his formidable body beside her helped her regain the ability to focus her thoughts. How did he turn such a frigid, frightening demeanor to the world while managing to warm her so?

  “What the fuck are you saying, old man?” he demanded, spitting each word like an icy bullet. “That she started this long fuckin’ war?” His accusatory outburst lodged bricks in her belly. Words of denial quickly formed on her tongue until she recognized his defensive posture. The major did not blame her. As always, he shielded her, tried to protect her. From Nicodemus? The message underlying the tale? From the truth?

  “No. She did not.” Nicodemus said.

  Rosina released a breath she hadn’t known she’d held.

  “She’s a Brierly, isn’t she?”

  “’Tis not the Brierlys to blame.”

  “Who then? And who is she? Margaret? Flora?”

  During the telling of the tale, the major had grasped her forearm, tighter and tighter, and his fingers now dug into her sleeve, bonding her to his side, unready and unwilling to relinquish her. But despite his rough grip, the closeness of him, and his sensual male scent—which somehow remained clean and fresh and thrilling despite his day of hard work—sent such tremors of delighted excitement through her, she barely felt the pain.

  He turned to examine her face. “Princess?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve never heard this before?”

  “No, not any of it.”

  “How do you do such a thing?” he hissed at Nicodemus. The gnome’s cryptic expression remained an enigma. A hint of amusement danced in his eyes, but his beard hid the twist of his lips.

  “Why, she’s Rosina, of course,” the little man said, watching both of them closely, like a mad scientist examining strange growths in his petri dishes. “Isn’t that what you call her? When you don’t call her ‘Sandrina’? Or…princess?”

  “Enough of your riddles, damn you. Speak.”

  “Well, she’s not one hundred years old, if that be what yer askin’.”

  “Who is she?” The major unleashed an anguished roar, suddenly loosening his hand, freeing her of his harsh, possessive grasp as he bounded from his camp chair to loom over the little man. “Did someone manage to spirit the baby away? Michael? Margaret? The sorceress? You will explain. Or you will not leave this tent tonight. Not alive.”

  “More powerful men than you have threatened me, Major Worthington.”

  Worthington. The storyteller had mentioned the major’s family, too. More than mentioned. They were an integral part of the tale, it seemed.

  “And who were the Worthingtons?” Rosina asked, narrowing her eyes to survey Nicodemus anew. “When Margaret tells Paisley of King Arthur and Camelot, of Michael and Link….What happens when the sorceress appears?”

  “Yes, what of my people?” Clay demanded.

  “A tale for another night.” Nicodemus shrugged, apparently unconcerned the major towered over him, fists clenched at his sides. His expression remained nonchalant as he patted the blue tarantula on his shoulder. The many-legged creature scurried back into the ancient beard and hid. “Should I live that long.”

  “You won’t, if you don’t answer my questions,” the major snarled.

  “Then you’ll never have what you seek,” Nicodemus said, apparently amused by the dilemma he’d posed.

  The major took her hand and laced his fingers through hers. He’d touched her more this one night than in all the weeks they’d been together. Had his flinty looks been the equivalent of touches when he’d stared at her across the burning sands, watching her silently? The odd light in his wintry eyes then had been a rare form of heat. Was that the only type of desire of which Clay Worthington was capable? A forlorn sigh escaped her.

  “See what you’ve done, old man?”

  “I’ve done nothing but tell a tale.” The dwarf shrugged. “Will ye have the rest of it or no?”

  Good, then. He’d not finished the story after all. Rosina burned to know what happened to Margaret. To Flora. My ancestress?

  “Now.” The major barked the word, like the orders he was so used to issuing. “And don’t try my patience.”

  Nicodemus gestured toward his empty mug. “Wet me whistle, major. From the bottle under your cot, this time.” He waited until his mug was filled and then took a loud slurp. “Ah.” Shutting his eyes, he tapped his pipe against the side of the trunk on which he perched then returned it to his pocket. “Ye remember who brought Rosina to ye in the first place, do ye not, me belligerent lad?”

  The major raised a dark eyebrow, waiting, exhibiting both impatience and a surprising amount of calm forbearance.

  “And why is it, do ye suppose, that ye call her ‘princess’?”

  “I—” The major broke off and gazed down at her, his callused thumb stroking a random pattern over the back of her hand. “I just do.”

  “Not because yer soul recognizes hers?”

  “Please stop discussing me as if I am not sitting right here,” Rosina interrupted. “And just tell me what you know.”

  “Have I not protected ye, princess?”

  “I don’t know that. Not anymore than I know anything else, it seems. And it is time for me to know.”

  “Mayhap so.” He held out his hand. “Yer locket, if you please.”

  “I do not please.”

  “You will not extort her,” the major said. “Tell me your price. I will pay it.”

  “I just did.”

  Rosina remained torn. Her hand went to the thin silver chain around her neck. For years she’d thought the locket the only link to her past. But if Nicodemus knew more…how could she not pay what he demanded?

  “Look at the engraving on the back,” he urged.

  She unclasped the necklace and turned the locket over in her hand. She’d seen the inscription many times before, but tonight it took on new, added meaning.

  The Keepers of the Brier Rose

  “I am the Brier Rose,” she breathed.

  Nicodemus nodded. “And did I not keep ye safe for a time, princess?” he asked softly.

  “All right. Yes. I suppose you did.” She turned the pendant over. “Will you allow me to remove one of the little roses before I put the locket in your hands?”

  “No,” the major snarled. He took her hand in both of his and curled her fingers over the locket in her palm. “Not his hands, sweetheart. Mine.”

  She looked at him in surprise, but he glared at Nicodemus. The little man did not seem the least disturbed by either the harsh stare aimed in his direction or the odd turn of events. In fact, he nodded.

  “He gave you to me for safeguarding,” the major reminded her. “Isn’t that so, old man?”

  “’Tis so.”

  “Then the locket remains with the lady. For she remains with me. And I am now Keeper of the Brier Rose.”

  “No, I am,” Rosina argued. “As I have been for decades. I’ve worn the locket for years. And for years I’ve been able to look after myself.”

  “Prickly thorns, she has,” Nicodemus muttered.

  “As is only fitting,” the major said.

  “The last royal blood of the House of Brierly.” The old man turned toward her. “Princess.”

  She sat stunned, unable to breathe, choking on the gnome’s words. How could that be? What did it mean, anyway, when chaos and turmoil claimed the world, when roving bands of warriors battled starving marauders for the last cursed crust of bread?


  She scrambled to her feet, clutching at her throat, words and images suffocating her. “Air. I need air.”

  Her gait unsteady, she stumbled across the tent to the closed flaps and ripped them apart, gulping for oxygen.

  The major leaped to his feet. “Wait, Rosina!” Brushing past her into the night, he tested the weather. Like a royal taster might sip his king’s wine for the faintest tang of poison. “All right,” he said. “The rain has stopped.”

  The rain that slants across the sky, burning my flesh like acid. Rain that had no effect on anyone else. Flavian’s curse, still potent after all these years.

  She turned back toward Nicodemus. “Why doesn’t it kill me?” she demanded. “Isn’t that what he said?”

  “Ah.” He took out his pipe, refilled it then set it aside and sipped from the tin mug until she thought she might scream. “But ye didn’t let me finish my story, did ye now?”

  “Then end it.” She straightened, her spine stiff, her bearing regal. Or, at least, the most commanding posture she could muster. Once again, the major had her back, standing as close as possible, lending her his strength, his muscular length and breadth like a stone wall between her and the chaotic world, the warmth of his body seeping into her.

  Nicodemus wavered. Would he tell them? Protest? Demand more payment? Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and took up the tale once more. “When Margaret fell and Flavian vanished in his puff of purple smoke, another stepped forward. A powerful witch who had kept to the shadows. Her family had fallen into disfavor with Brierly, but her strength remained formidable. While she could not completely undo Flavian’s curse…she tempered it.”

  “Tempered it how?” the major demanded.

  “Her manner was twofold. She replaced ‘death’ with ‘slumber.’ And she decreed the Brier Rose would always have a protector…one of the witch’s own.” He met the other man’s eyes and held them. “Someone from her line. Someone like you, Major. A Worthington.”

  Chapter Five

  “By the thorn,” Rosina breathed. She whirled around and stared at Clay in anguish until he thought his nuts would shrivel and freeze. “I have had enough of this. Of Brierlys and Worthingtons. Of cryptic gnomes. And twice-damned curses.” Placing a delicate hand in the center of Clay’s chest, she pushed him aside and fled the tent.

  “Wait!” He raced after her into the night.

  Her energy surprised him. He’d thought she’d be drained by the events of the day, the startling, life-changing revelations of Nicodemus.

  But she ran a considerable distance from the camp, her way lit only by the handful of determined stars pricking the night. The black sky fell around them, thick and dense, like a slick of oil. He could barely see without his night goggles and nearly stumbled over her where she’d collapsed at last in a heap on the sand.

  By the thorn! If anything ever happens to her….

  He lifted her and set her on her feet. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

  “I don’t know,” she muttered. “What am I supposed to do now? What am I supposed to think? That a curse on my family triggered this abominable war that I do not know how to stop? That anything I touch the wrong way might send me to my death…or into a long slumber from which I’ll never wake?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “That will never happen. That is why I am here.”

  “You don’t know that. You can’t be my constant shadow. My bodyguard. I won’t let you. You have other duties.”

  “But apparently none more compelling. You are my sole duty, it seems.”

  She covered her face with her hands. “I don’t want to be such a burden. Not to anyone. Least of all to you.”

  “Jesus.” He fell to his knees before her, a fist over his heart. “Don’t you realize yet there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you, Rosina? Not because you are a Brierly. Not because I am a Worthington. Because…I…burn for you. Hotter than any sun. I’ve wanted you since the day you arrived in my camp.”

  She stared down at him in shock, trying to tug him to his feet. “You have hidden this smoldering flame well, Major.”

  “I’ve had to. I must lead. Be an example to my men.”

  “I’ve given you opportunities. Openings. I do not know how to flirt. But I’ve tried to…with you. You’ve ignored me. Or worse.”

  “I can’t give in to my lust or I endanger us all, foment strife and enmity within the ranks. But when I see the way some of the men look at you …I go insane.”

  “None of you have seen a woman in a long—”

  “It’s you,” he interrupted. “At least for me.”

  She sucked in a breath and tottered under the impact of his words. Had he so blown her away by expressing them at last? “When I dream….” she murmured. “The two of us….” She didn’t finish the thought, but her face reddened furiously.

  Are they erotic, those fantasies of hers? Jesus. His balls tightened and ached, his cock filling, stiffening, surging toward his waistband with an insistent jerk. As erotic as mine?

  She gazed at him in a way that plumbed his soul. He thought of all the times he’d dragged her from her dreams. Waked her from slumber. Over and over. As if it were his destiny.

  “You—”

  “Come to me.” His harsh growl interrupted whatever she’d been about to say. He gripped her hips and dragged her to him, pressing his face against her belly. “I can’t wait anymore. I’m done trying. By the thorn! You can feel the heat between us, can’t you? Say you feel it.”

  “I do,” she mumbled. “You know I do.”

  “I want to taste you, to be inside you.” He tugged her hand until she bent toward him, then guided her palm to his groin, where his erection throbbed, his balls drawn tight and his cock so thick with desire it pained him. She rubbed her hand over him until he thought he’d lose it, her fingers stroking him through the worn fabric of his fatigues. He had to stop her before he embarrassed himself by coming in his pants.

  “Say you want me, Rosina.”

  “I want you,” she whispered. “But I….”

  He didn’t wait to hear more. Flicking open the button at the waistband of her trousers, he eased the material over her hips, down her legs, cherishing the smooth, silky flesh of her thighs. Her scent enveloped him, her fragrance sweet, growing muskier with her arousal. Like a rose, he suspected. The last rose left on earth. His cock grew harder than it had ever been.

  He groaned, running his hands over her lush skin, prying her thighs farther apart. Dipping his head closer, he worshiped her sex, running his tongue over her swollen folds. Lapping at her with it, flat and broad at first, he stroked back and forth gently, wringing urgent mewling from her before he delved inside, more insistent, to savor and nibble.

  The gasp he drew from her crazed him. Shaking with lust, he dug his fingers into her flesh, struggling to go slow, to remain in control. She teetered on her feet, vibrating with sexual need, sending her hands first to his hair, then gripping his jaw, framing his face to hold him to her. But there was no chance in hell he’d let her go.

  She cried out when his exploration of her grew fiercer, when he sucked her sensitive bud against his teeth, swirling his tongue in circular patterns of rhythmic play.

  “Clay.” The first time she’d ever said his name.

  He shuddered.

  Jesus. He nearly came then and there. He had to pause to adjust his trousers, his balls aching, his cock nearly bursting with need, the abrasive scrape of the material over his sensitized dick shooting him into a red zone of lust.

  “By the thorn! Clay.” The sound of his name on her lips burst through him, setting him aflame, like a burning arrow striking true to his heart. “What are you doing to me?”

  Through the crimson haze of his urgent desire, it occurred to him she truly did not know. He paused, shaking, and lifted his mouth from her wet heat. “Have there been other men before me, my rose?”

  She shook her head then let it fall back, the picture of a woman in the throes of sub
lime rapture. She arched her spine, and her mouth dropped open, her lips rounding in an expression of abject ecstasy. “Only you. Only you, Clay.”

  A sharp pang of possessiveness stabbed him, so powerful and poignant, his hands shook. No man had touched her before him. He wondered if he was worthy. Vowed he would be. That he would be enough. The one. That no one would ever come after. But as much as he wanted to claim her, to brand her as his, a wave of protectiveness seized him in its grip, so fierce he knew he would lay down his life for her.

  Perhaps that was his role. Protector, not lover.

  He shouldn’t take her in the sand like this. She deserved more. So much more than he could even begin to offer. He was just a grunt, after all. A penniless foot soldier in an endless war. And she—if Nicodemus were to be believed—was royalty. A princess for whom he’d leap in front of a bullet.

  Clay began to pull back. He should have known there had been no others. Screwing his eyes closed, he sucked in a calming breath, struggling for control. He could not take her virginity. But the thought of someone else capturing the treasure she offered nearly destroyed him.

  “I must stop,” he muttered. “You deserve better than this, princess. Better than me, a careless, insignificant brute who knows only war. You deserve silk and satin, a soft bed.” His lips twisted, his gut wrenching with pain. “A prince. Not a broken wretch like me.”

  “No. No!” She grasped him tighter, trying to push him back where he’d been. “It’s you I want. A man so much better than he believes. A man who thinks he is heartless and has more compassion than any man I know. A dedicated man who keeps striving, even when the outcome of his endeavors is in such doubt. The man who tries so hard to safeguard his men, at grinding cost to himself. The man who has protected me, kept me from the rain. Only you, Clay.”

  “I cannot accept such a gift, princess.”

  A tear slipped from her eye. “You do not want me?”

  “I could die of wanting you.”

  “I’d rather you lived.” She swayed on her feet as if she might dissolve in a puddle of sexual need. “And used your mouth for something other than talking.”