his life, her heart beating in the delicate flesh against his tongue, his will controlling her climax, setting her free to soar. And no mistakes, well, not then. He’d been so careful, ensuring she couldn’t touch more than his hair, inspecting every word before it came out of his mouth. This time, he’d held to his purpose. No Voice.
Gods, the rewards! He hadn’t even been touching himself and he’d come so hard he’d almost drowned.
It was after that he’d fucked it up.
Despite the warmth of the sun, the wet trews clung cold and clammy against his skin. He shivered, and regret and fury swept over him. He’d ruined it. Her opinion was clear enough. Not a man for the long haul. He glared at the wet braid snaking down her back, almost hating her. How dare she offer him a glimpse of paradise and then snatch it away?
Erik’s lips tightened. He didn’t have time for a long haul, whatever that was, but he’d hold fast to what remained of his honor and make do with what she’d give him of her own free will in the brief time they had. He’d just done exactly that. In the battle for Prue McGuire, this round went to him, not the Lady. Determination firmed inside him. He’d win the next one too.
Mind you, honor didn’t mean he wouldn’t push Prue’s boundaries as far as he possibly could—he’d already shown he couldn’t resist, even if he had to walk the very edge of risk. He thought of her helpless, delicate wrists bound in jade silk and his balls tightened with mingled lust and apprehension.
His frown darkened. The physical pleasure he’d given her was nothing in comparison to the body blows he’d dealt her proud spirit. Which meant he had a responsibility to heal what he could—if he could. Erik stifled a sigh. He’d have to be careful—not only with Prue, but with himself.
Gods, he’d hurt her.
As they passed a fountain, tinkling into a grotto of pierced and fretted rocks, Prue grabbed his arm, bringing them both to an abrupt halt. A few yards ahead, a man kneeled on the path, a huge dark flower cupped tenderly in both hands. He was crooning to it, tunefully enough.
“Dai,” said Prue. “What are—?”
The man held up a warning finger. Finishing the song, he patted the blossom the same way he’d pat a woman’s cheek. Then he rose, dusting off the knees of his trews. All his garments were black and superbly cut, the shirt finished with fine silver buttons.
Erik recognized the beautiful face, like a wicked angel. Yesterday, he’d seen it on a barge, laughing at him. He glared, pleased to discover he was at least six inches taller.
The man slanted a twinkling glance in their direction. “I’d ask,” he murmured, “but then I’d have to hear the answer.”
“Dai, what are you doing? Where’s Walker?”
“First things first, Mistress Prue.” The man nodded at Erik, the ruby drop in his ear catching the sun like a crimson tear. “You’re still all wet, my friend. What are you? Part fish?”
“What I am not is supper,” growled Erik. “Just so we’re clear.”
Prue shot him a startled glance. “This is Erik Thorensen,” she said to Dai. “The singer.”
Dai’s considering gaze traveled from Erik to Prue and back again. His lips twitched. “So I see,” he said obscurely.
Prue hitched her towel more firmly around her shoulders. “If Walker catches you in his bed of dark roses, you’re a dead man, Dai.”
But Dai shook his head. “He sent me, said I was to keep them company for a while. I’m to take his classes as well.”
“But why?”
The other man’s merry face clouded. “He’s back at the House of Swords, Mistress, with a fever you wouldn’t believe.”
“Walker? But he’s never sick.”
“Isn’t Walker the swordsman?” asked Erik. Dai wore a long dagger at his waist, but Erik had no doubt there’d be another half dozen weapons concealed about his trim person. He looked that kind of man. Casually, Erik shifted closer to Prue, resisting the temptation to tuck her under his arm.
“Walker’s many things,” said Dai. “He was a shaman once. Now he’s a gardener.” He gestured at the flowers, their satiny petals a purple so dark it was almost black. “He bred these blooms for Mistress Rose. He’s a genius with any kind of blade, not to mention purely incredible with a quarterstaff.”
Shaking himself out of a moment’s abstraction, Dai touched Prue’s arm. “What’s wrong, Mistress Prue?”