… no, someone, held her.
Someone was a man. A beast of a Celt—large, rough, and ruddy of complexion, with long red hair and a braided beard. Backlit by the flickering light, his mane glowed about his face like a halo of fire. A single thin plait hung from temple to shoulder, the end secured with a strip of leather. His eyes were a clear, brittle blue, like broken glass.
He had the look of a warrior about him. His broad chest stretched his buckskin shirt to the extremity of its rough seams. Despite the winter chill, the shirt had no sleeves, leaving Clara to stare at the corded muscles of his arms. He was in the prime of his manhood, sculpted like a statue of a god. The import of this observation settled over her like a blanket of frost.
He was not the man she sought.
She stirred, trying to lever herself upright. The fur coverlet slid across her skin. Her bare skin. Abruptly, she lay flat again, all but gagging on her panic. Straw poked through the coarse mattress, scratching her naked thighs and bottom. She was completely unclothed beneath the furs, and the wild man who must have removed her clothing was watching her closely.
He seemed to note the exact instant she recognized her vulnerability. One corner of his mouth twitched, and his gaze sharpened. The rough pad of his thumb scraped almost imperceptibly over her palm.
Clara was unprepared for the sensations the small movement brought. A pull deep in her belly, itching on the tips of her breasts. Something of it must have shown in her eyes, for his blue gaze flared, flicking downward, as if he knew. Though fur swaddled her body, revealing nothing, Clara’s cheeks heated.
To her amazement, so did his.
Quickly, he dropped her hand and averted his eyes, busying himself with a fire that did not need tending. She watched as he prodded the blaze with a twisted stick. Flames leapt, but the heat seemed far away. She was chilled to her bones, to her very soul. She wondered if she would ever be warm again.
A dark sense of hopelessness assaulted her. Had she failed in her quest? She’d been sure the mountain she’d approached had been the Seer’s. She’d followed Aiden’s instructions exactly, but then the storm had struck, and she’d become disoriented. It was all too likely that she’d lost her way.
She wanted to sob her frustration. But she would not do that, here, before this wild stranger. There were scars encircling his wrists, as if he’d once been bound. Was he an escaped criminal? Keeping the blankets carefully wrapped about her body, she struggled into a sitting position, wincing as her tender palm scraped the dirt floor.
“My hands,” she said, swallowing. “And … and my feet. They are afire.”
The Celt’s brow furrowed. “They are … frost.” He paused. “No. Frozen.” He spoke the Latin haltingly, with a strong accent. His scowl deepened as he searched for his next words. “Will hurt … a while longer … but ye will not be scarred, I am thinking.”
“Thank you for your kindness,” she answered in Celtic, trying her best to imitate Aiden’s mountain lilt. If she treated the barbarian like a civilized man, perhaps he would act the part.
A quick flash in his blue eyes betrayed his surprise. “Ye speak the language of the Celts?” he asked in his own tongue.
“Yes,” she replied. “Though the pronunciation of some words eludes me. I learned from one of my father’s …” Her voice trailed off.
He exhaled a sharp breath. “Slaves, ye mean to say.”
The contempt in his voice rankled. His statement was an accusation, one she couldn’t deny. “The lessons were freely given.”
He snorted, the corners of his mouth drawing downward.
She studied him from beneath her lashes. Once again, the sheer size of him overwhelmed her. Again she found herself comparing him to a statue—larger and more perfectly formed than a common man. But he was not sleek and smooth like the statues that graced the forum in Isca. No, this man was rough and solid, with a dangerous look about him. His long red beard and mustache hid the nuances of his mood. With a sudden vengeance, she wished them gone.
She clenched her fists so tightly her fingernails bit into her palms. She hated that she was defenseless before him. Consciously, she straightened her spine. Father had always asserted it was the worst folly to show weakness before an enemy.
She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to inconvenience