by Ann Lawrence
The man, garbed in all black, had no arm rings or visible weapons, but this was the land beyond the ice fields. Vad did not know what laws applied here, nor what enemies he might encounter. Legends told of strange people, strange customs, and stranger weapons to be found if one could but cross the ice fields.
He went on guard. His burning eyes swept the long chamber he’d entered. Colors warred with light bouncing off glossy surfaces. Nothing looked familiar. Glass windows, impossibly large and clear, ran with rain. In sharp contrast to the room, the world outside looked strangely washed of color. He stifled a moan as the pain in his head rose with the crashing sounds that pulsed through the chamber, drums and cymbals. They came from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Vad forced himself to concentrate on where the immediate danger lay, the dark-haired man. He gripped the hilt of his knife. The double-edged blade was sharp enough to sever a man’s arm from his body—even snake-protected arms. The man might be a slave without arm rings, but he wore a symbol of evil and temptation about his upper arm. What significance the symbol carried here, in the lands beyond the ice fields, he did not know. But in Tolemac, the snake was feared. It struck swiftly, its poison deadly. His blurry vision settled on the symbol on the dark one’s shirt. A death’s-head, wielding a strange weapon.
The little female jerked him from his thoughts. “Vad, meet Neil. Neil, meet Vad. Vad’s a little under the weather.” The woman touched the snake man on the shoulder. “Do you mind getting the shop ready while I take him upstairs?”
Unbelievably, the snake man nodded and silently went to stand behind a long table. The woman gave orders to the man? Vad watched warily, but the man made no threatening moves.
“Yo, bud. Are you going with Mrs. Marlowe or not?” The snake on the young man’s arm writhed as he leaned surprisingly strong-looking hands on the table. “The shop will be opening in a few minutes.”
“Sh-shop? Msssmrlow?” He glanced around, bewildered by the man’s words.
“Make up your mind.”
Make up his mind. Vad felt as if his mind had slipped into madness. He found nothing familiar on which to anchor his senses.
He closed his eyes and groaned. A sharp blade of pain twisted through his skull. He could not let it gain control of him. He opened his eyes and sought the only familiar thing in his sight—the woman.
She stood in a rear doorway, held out her hand, and beckoned him to the strange gray world outside—a world with the comforting scent of the sea.
She had beckoned before, called him to her. His bone-deep fatigue warred with the hot pulse of desire that surged through him. The ice woman had invaded his dreams—and his reality. The image of her seemed burned into his mind. The woman before him could not be her. He raked the boyish female with his gaze from gold-capped head to blue-clad legs.
The wind pressed her men’s garments against her body. How could he have ever doubted she was a woman? In his mind, her garments dissolved into white gossamer robes draping lush, female curves.
Vad concentrated on the pain behind his eyes and followed her. He had no time to study his surroundings. The woman held open another door but a step from her shop. He had no strength to do more than follow her up a narrow set of stairs.
It took most of his remaining concentration to ignore the woman’s buttocks in the tight breeches as she climbed the stairs before him. His thigh muscles ached with fatigue from the endless time of trekking across the ice.
At the top of the stairs she opened another door and stood back so he could enter. Her master must be poor, he thought, to live in such a place. The chamber was long and narrow. A thin rug covered the center of a wooden floor. The only furniture was a tall wooden cupboard, a padded bench with a high back, and several straight-backed chairs about a round table. All looked old. Dishes and bright fabrics were piled on every surface. Didn’t her master require her to keep his chambers clean?
“Where is your master?” he asked her, edging slowly from the doorway, one ear cocked for male footsteps.
“Sit down. Relax.”
He ignored her invitation and paced the long room. The ceiling was low. It would be hard to fight in such a space. Two other doors led from the chamber. One, amazingly made of glass, faced a small balcony and the gray world outside. He rubbed his eyes. Even the roiling waves were gray. They should be dark purple in a storm such as this one. Staring at the dazzling white of the ice fields must have damaged his eyes. Slowly he moved close to the glass door. It looked pathetically weak, the glass fragile and thin. He could be through it in an instant and gone, should danger threaten.
“Where do those doors lead?” He pointed to the far end of the chamber.
“My bedroom and the bathroom.” She flitted about, grabbing the scattered, colorful rags from the padded bench and the dishes from the chest, then swept a curtain aside and disappeared. Ah, he thought, a hidden chamber. He peeked inside. The room was very small and cramped, naught but an alcove, too small in which to even swing a sword. It was filled with cupboards and a white basin into which she dumped the dishes.
“Out of here.” She pushed him—pushed him!—one hand flat on his chest.
Outrage surged through his body. He gripped her wrist. “A female should not touch a man without invitation.” He emphasized the final word so she would know he held her in contempt. Only women of pleasure were so bold. He held little esteem for women of pleasure.
Her face flushed. She wrenched her wrist from his grip. He stared as pink colored her cheeks. The urge to touch her face made him whirl away. Many a warrior had used a woman to lure his enemy. Alone, a woman offered little threat. Women might lure a warrior to destruction, but a man would deliver the death blow.
The memory of how seductively she had called to him from the ice made him redouble his efforts to steel himself against temptation now. How he had conjured her into his dreams he did not know, but until he met her master and took his measure, he could not let down his guard.
In a careful inspection he studied everything in the room. His mind flooded with questions. But a warrior did not reveal his weaknesses to a possible enemy. With every footstep, pain throbbed in his head. His cheek had begun to burn.
The woman came near. Her flowery scent came with her. He shook his head.
“Why don’t you sit down and explain to me how you got into my shop? Are you here for the war conference?”
Vad stiffened. Her words confused him. “War? Conference?” A conference meant a discussion. A war conference meant planning and strategy—and other warriors. “What conference?”
“The one in Atlantic City.”
The wan light from the glass door gleamed off her short cap of hair. “Why are you disguised as a boy?”
“Why are you disguised as the Tolemac warrior?”
He sneered. “I am a Tolemac warrior. No man may claim to be the Tolemac warrior.”
“You stink, you know?” She wagged a finger at him.
He felt chastised and ashamed. Never in his life had he been accused of uncleanliness. Never had his skin crawled so with the urge to scratch. “There are no bathhouses on the ice fields,” he spit back.
She giggled. The sound, lighthearted and sweet, sent a shiver down his spine. Her amusement annoyed him.
“Suit yourself.” She sank onto one of the wooden chairs.
Suddenly his stomach felt none too steady. Would he shame himself before her? He forced himself to breathe slowly and carefully, to remember every lesson he’d learned about control from his awareness master.
His mind became acutely aware of the many discomforts of his body and the strange world around him. The stormy sea churned so close by, and yet it was all but silent. He heard the continuing sounds of drums and strange instruments beneath them in her shop of many colors.
The woman’s soft scent of summer flowers filled his head. “Why are you garbed as a man? Where is your master?”
She bent her head—to hide a smile, he suspected. Indignati
on overshadowed his pain. When she looked up, the smile she gave him was kind, not mocking.
“Look, Vad. Here, beyond the ice fields, we have no masters or slaves. I can dress any way I like, and I feel very comfortable in men’s garb.” Boldly she met his eyes. “Could I fix that cut on your cheek?”
“No,” he snapped.
“Have it your way.” She shrugged and bit her lip.
He regretted his abruptness, but something warned him to maintain a distance from this unusual female. His stomach shamed him by growling loudly in the silence that followed his words.
She shot to her feet. “You’re hungry. Why don’t you tell me how you got into my shop after I make you some soup? Sit down.”
He remained standing. She disappeared behind the curtain. As soon as she was gone, he grasped the knob of the glass door. It wouldn’t turn. He shook it. As frail as the door had looked, it held fast beneath his hand. The sea—and escape—lay beyond a wide, wooden road that stretched as far as his eyes could see along the shore. Wind and rain lashed the wooden boards. He caught a glimpse of a man, or possibly a woman, hurrying along, wrapped in bright yellow. He did not relish going into the storm in his weakened state.
If he stayed with the woman, he would be fed.
He must prepare a satisfactory answer to her question. If only he knew what was satisfactory in this place. Turning, he dumped his fur cloak onto the long, padded bench and circled the room until he came to one of the closed doors. Did she pleasure her master in her bedchamber? The woman was humming behind the curtain. He gripped the hilt of his knife and eased one door open—a bedchamber.
The space was gloomy, the curtains drawn. A raised bed stood against one wall. Decadent amounts of lace pillows and covers lay in disarray on it—a bed of pleasure. Garments were strewn on every surface. He grazed his fingers on the dust on a standing chest. He’d sell a slave who kept such a slovenly place.
Delicate slippers littered the floor. He shoved them aside with his boot as his eyes fell on a flowing white garment draped across the disheveled bed. Giving in to temptation, he lifted it and pressed it to his face.
Sweet summer flowers—her scent. The garment had pieces he could see right through and trailing ribbons of silver. He crushed the gossamer fabric in his fist. The gown would tempt the most stalwart warrior.
A bell chimed in the other room. He cast the garment to the bed and strode quickly and quietly back into the front chamber.
Just in time.
The woman came through the curtain carrying a tray with a bowl on it. “Sit,” she ordered him.
The rich scent of meat wafted from the bowl—it was a simple broth with chopped vegetables and meat, but not much of either. Without thought, he sank onto one of the chairs at the table. His mouth watered. For a moment, hunger overpowered his aching head and his wariness.
Without ceremony she plunked the bowl before him and handed him a silver spoon. He turned it about in his hand. When his hand trembled, he dropped the spoon. He could not show weakness to this female. Her chambers might appear poor, but the gold-rimmed bowl and the silver spoon bespoke some former time of greater prosperity. Or perhaps they were from her master—gifts for her services.
The woman settled across from him. She had a sweetly heart-shaped face with a stubborn little chin. Her nose was small, her mouth full with soft lips. Her teeth were good and her eyes the color of new ale. Except that she’d shorn her hair like a boy child’s, she was perfect for a pleasure slave. A man liked a wide mouth and large breasts. He also much enjoyed well-cushioned buttocks.
She interrupted his thoughts with more prattle. “Now, how’d you get into my shop?”
Lifting the bowl, he gulped the broth and promptly scalded his mouth. He thought of at least three ways to improve the broth, the first of which was to add more meat.
Slowly, to avoid her unanswerable question, he finished the broth, then searched for something with which to wipe his mouth.
She flapped a square of cloth at him. “Is this what you’re looking for? I’m glad to see you have some manners.”
He snatched the cloth and wiped his hands and mouth. “Manners? Where are yours? You sit next to a warrior as he eats?”
The crack of her hand on the table pulsed through his head. He moaned.
“I’m sorry!” she cried. In an instant she was standing, reaching for him, touching his forehead with her small, smooth hands. Her chest was dangerously close to his face.
It took all his awareness training not to lean in and rest his head on those lush breasts. He shook her off and rose.
“I will leave now.” He retrieved his cloak.
“And where are you going?” She stood before him, fists on hips, a small, insignificant barrier to the outside.
“You said there is a gathering of warriors.”
“You are not leaving until you give me some answers.”
Her chin went up and her eyes snapped fire.
A man also liked a little heat in a woman.
He briefly touched his three arm rings, concealed by his shirt. “I am a warrior. I command an army of Tolemac warriors, the least of whom would strip you naked and flay your back for your impertinence.”
Gwen did not move. While she’d microwaved the soup, she’d thought about this man’s uncanny resemblance to the warrior in the poster. She had to have him at her ball. If Video Game magazine sent a reporter and photographer, her ball was sure to make the cover with him—if she could get him cleaned up.
She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and blocked his exit. She could not let him get away, but he stood there stubbornly, silently daring her to move away from the door.
“Look. You can’t meet other warriors looking like that. No offense, but you’re a mess.”
He touched his cheek. A crust of blood lay on his beard.
“No one will believe you’re the—a—Tolemac warrior if you don’t clean yourself up. Neil can take your clothes to the cleaner. You could bathe, maybe shave. You’d look more like Vad if you lost the beard.”
His chin jutted out. His hand went to his knife—a very authentic-looking prop. “I am Vad.”
“Sure you are,” she said, humoring him. It was really difficult to think a guy this gorgeous could be dangerous. Nutty, maybe, but not dangerous. His gaze kept darting from door to door. “There isn’t anyone here. No one will disturb you.”
“The man in black?”
“That’s Neil. And no. He wouldn’t think of coming up here without permission. He might look like a hell-raiser, but he’s really a gentleman. Anyway, he has to watch the shop.”
She decided to take matters into her own hands. She left him looming and glowering in the center of the living room, and flipped on the bathroom light. Hastily she swept several damp towels and a pair of panties into the hamper. A sound behind her made her yelp.
The man paid her no attention as he shoved past her, his gaze riveted to the full-length mirror on the wall. She watched as he reached out and touched its surface. “By the sword, ‘tis magic. I must truly be beyond the ice fields.”
The wonder on his face and in his voice made her frown. He must have hit his head. He no longer seemed to be playing a role.
The bathroom felt small and crowded with him at its center. The bathroom was the only thing she liked about her apartment, other than its convenience to the store downstairs. Once a spare bedroom, the bathroom was tiled white. A whirlpool tub sat in the corner on a raised, tiled platform. The toilet sat behind a privacy screen she’d fashioned from a tall bookshelf crammed with plants. Her late husband had been shamelessly immodest and laughed at her need for privacy. He might not have minded sharing the facilities, but she had.
The man stared up at the rain drumming on the skylight overhead. His posture drew attention to the long lines of his throat and the perfection of his profile. Her own throat dried.
A thought entered her mind and spilled out of her mouth. “Why don’t I fill the tub for you? You co
uld soak and even shave, if you like.”
He impaled her with a suspicious look.
“Okay.” She held her hands palms outward. “Stay that way. So what if you smell like a dead goat? So what if—”
“Enough, woman. Draw the water.” He turned and left the bathroom. She watched him pace and stride from one end of her apartment to the other. The black leather of his trousers hugged every inch of his well-muscled thighs. She knew he was in pain. His hand sought his forehead far too often. A muscle beneath his eye twitched.
Gwen turned on the faucets. The water thundered into the tub as hard as the rain drummed on the skylight. The sound drew him to the doorway, where he stood and stared at the tub as if it might bite.
Impulsively, Gwen lit a candle. The soothing scent of lavender filled the bathroom. She arranged several thick white towels on the tiled ledge at the head of the tub. Anything else he might need stood at hand: bottles of shampoo, shower gel, washcloths, pink plastic razor. She giggled. She was sure a Tolemac warrior would be heartily insulted to use such a feminine-looking device.
She turned off the taps and dug out two aspirin, glanced at his size, and decided to offer him the whole bottle.
“These are for your headache,” she said, tugging at his arm. When he made no move to take the pills, she sighed and put the pills and a cup on the edge of the tub. “Give that cut a really good scrub. I’ll give you some ointment for it later.” Whatever she had expected him to say, it was not his next few words.
“Are you planning to help me bathe?”
Gwen nearly swallowed her tongue. “No. Not likely. Wouldn’t think of it.”
Vad grinned as the woman flew out the door, slamming it behind her. He had evaded her questions and rid himself of her presence with little effort.
In a moment he had stripped naked. He sighed with relief at finally being free of his malodorous garments, yet shame filled him anew. A warrior should take as good care of himself as he did his weapons. He tossed his filthy clothing from the room to the floor outside the bathing chamber. He unsheathed his knife and slipped it under the edge of his cloak, which he laid nearby on the floor with his boots.
