Chapter 16

The numbness lingered the next day. She awoke wrapped in Dante's arms, just as she feared she would, but the cold calm in her veins insulated her from any embarrassment. She simply rolled away and rose from the bed without looking at him. It didn't take long to gather her cloak and walk to the main part of camp where her seat on the cook pot awaited.

No one spoke to her, although Rami watched her with a worried expression and twice seemed about to say something before he changed his mind. His silent offering of food to break her fast was rejected. The men ignored her completely until her horse was saddled and ready. Dante knelt next to the horse on one knee so she could use his other knee as a step to reach her saddle. She did so without her usual word of thanks.

The only thing that gave her pause was when he handed her the reins without explanation. Did they think she no longer contemplated escape? If so, they were sadly mistaken.

The countryside flowed past her in a blur of lush landscapes that left no more than faint impressions of greens and blues. Her thoughts were focused on entirely different scenery, the image of a chamber that looked remarkably like one of the cells in Coleway's dungeons, roughly hewn from the castle's stone foundations, cold, damp, windowless darkness. If a chamber such as this was her future, she wouldn't last the year.

She knew she should put more thought into an actual plan for escape, but there was still nowhere to run. Aside from being easy prey on the open road, where would she go?

She thought of the fairs at Coleway when people crowded into the castle from every corner of Lord Brunor's lands, the crush of crowds near the gates and in the streets of the village. Surely London would be that crowded all of the time. If she slipped off her horse and ran, it would not be so hard to become separated from her captors and be lost in the sea of humanity. She had to believe it was a possibility. Only she could not see what would happen beyond her initial escape. Where would she run to in the city? No one would give her sanctuary against the king, not even the Church.

A solution to that problem came to her midmorning, a solution so obvious, so simple, so perfect that she wondered why it hadn't occurred to her earlier. Avalene de Forshay could not seek sanctuary, but a woman unknown to anyone could do as she pleased. She would use a false name and concoct a plausible story that would explain why she was at loose ends in London.

She would be a poor knight's widow who had been turned out of her home by a cruel lord. Aye, she would tell this fantastical tale to the first kindly-looking person she came upon and beg them to help her.

Her skill with a needle and thread was exceptional. If she could find someone who could direct her to the tailors' guilds, surely she could find a kindhearted seamstress willing to accept her as an apprentice. Surely someone would recognize her talent and take her in?

The firmer the plan became in her head, the lighter her mood turned. The future was not so bleak after all. It might not offer the comforts she had once assumed would always be hers, but compared to dying in prison, meager poverty would be a large step up in the world. It was not the life she was meant for, but she would make the best of whatever her new life offered her. She always did.

"Are you hungry?"

Dante now rode next to her whenever the road allowed, but this was the first time he had spoken to her since last night. She shook her head without looking at him.

They rode awhile longer in silence. Agnes was a nice name, very common, very competent sounding. Her dead husband would be Sir Percival, of course, but she could not decide if she would paint him as the most wonderful of men or the worst. The lord who turned her out would be the worst, she decided, while Sir Percival would wear the title of "wonderful" in her tragic tale. He would live on in her memory in all his chivalrous glory. Live on figuratively, that is, since he had so recently died a tragic death. A painful , tragic death. A lingering , painful, tragic death. Oh, how her poor beloved had suffered!

Her flights of fancy actually made her smile. Who knew she had such an entertaining imagination?

"Is there something wrong with you?"

She turned to look at Dante and her humor fled. The heat of the day had melted away some of her numbness. A tentative flash of pain rippled through her chest, testing the waters. She drew a deep breath and pushed it away. "Nay."

"Have you been in the sun too long?" he asked. There was a concerned look in his eyes. He must have orders to deliver his prisoner in good health. "Do you want a drink of water?"

"Nay."

"Why were you smiling?"

Because I was thinking of ways to describe your death to others. Come to think of it, you might have some good suggestions on the subject. Would you mind sharing the details of a few lingering, painful deaths? Her smile returned. "I was just thinking pleasant thoughts."

He looked dumbfounded. "About what?"

Apparently captives on their way to a lifetime of imprisonment were not expected to make the journey looking quite so cheerful. The last thing she needed was for him to suspect she was plotting an escape. She tried to think of something that would distract him from her odd behavior. "Are you going home to Venice, or are you from some other part of Italy?"

He continued to stare at her in silence, his suspicion clearly aroused.

She lowered her gaze and pretended great interest in untying the knot in her reins. It was a stupid question. None of her business. Why should he—

"I am going home."

Relief washed through her, but he still watched her with a wary eye. Keep him talking. "Why?"

"Do you remember the story I told you about my uncle," he asked, "the uncle who seized everything that my father owned when my parents died?"

"Aye." She remembered the tale, one she had dismissed as another of his lies.

"The story was not far from the truth, except that it was one of the king's advisers who took in my brother and me when we reached England, rather than your father. I also left out the fact that my uncle ordered my parents' deaths and I was never able to prove him guilty of the crimes. He died recently and I am returning to Venice to reclaim everything that he stole from us while he was alive."

Ah, so it was not to be the pleasant journey that she had imagined. She glanced over to find him gazing at some point on the horizon, his profile the same as the one she had so recently sighed over and admired, his expression suddenly unreadable. Why was he telling her about his family? More to the point, why did she want to know more? The need to keep him distracted was as good an excuse as any to keep him talking. "What were your parents like?"

Surprisingly, he told her. He spoke hesitantly at first, but soon the words began to flow freely. His father was a wealthy merchant who met his mother on one of his journeys to England. She was the youngest daughter of an English baron who was more interested in the rich dower Dante's father provided than the fact that his daughter would be wed to a dreaded foreigner. However, his mother had loved Venice and never felt any desire to return to England.

He made mention of his mother's preference for Venice several more times in slightly different ways, as if this were an important part of his stories. She could not understand its relevance and dismissed the oddity. She found herself drawn in to his childhood world as he told her things that made her feel as if she knew his parents personally.

And then he began to tell her about Venice. He painted such vivid pictures with his words that she could almost hear the water rippling through the canals and feel the Adriatic breezes that cooled the city. She found herself reluctantly fascinated by the tales of a land so vastly different from her own, yearning to hear more about a city she would never see.

The more he talked, the harder it was to remember that they would soon be parted, that he intended to abandon her in London. He even spoke as if they would see the sights of Venice together, a mistake that eventually ended the tales of Venice. It happened while he described one of the more exotic foods of his homeland, one made of moscardino , a sea creature that sounded truly gruesome. When she made a face, he laughed and said she would have to try the dish before she decided it was not to her liking.

Their gazes met as they had the previous night and she saw the same wariness in his eyes, as if he were waiting for her to correct his mistake. She would never eat moscardino , never see his city, never marvel over its riches. The look he gave her made her think he might be starting to feel guilty about his role in her undeserved fate. And that led her thoughts right back to what awaited her in London. The Tower, or a dangerous escape to an uncertain life.

As if he had guessed the direction of her thoughts, he abruptly changed the subject. He declared that he was tired of monopolizing the conversation and started asking questions about her family. He wanted to know more about her life at Coleway and the people who had been a part of it, who and what she liked and disliked, how she spent her days. She tried to answer his questions with as few words as possible. The source of his interest remained a mystery and she distrusted his motives for being so friendly, so…so much like Sir Percival.

However, there was nothing better to do with her time and it was easier to answer his questions than listen to him pester her until she provided the details. Soon she would never be able to talk this freely with anyone about her life, whether she was in prison or living under a false name as the widow Agnes. He seemed especially interested in stories about Coleway's steward, and she quickly warmed to the tales of John's manipulations and deceits. What surprised her most was whenever he laughed at one of her stories or made some jest. One did not expect a sense of humor in an assassin. She had certainly never expected to be laughing with him again.

Her friendly behavior toward him was a ploy, of course, a deception to keep him from suspecting she had a plan to escape. At least, that's what she told herself. Their conversations also kept her mind occupied with far less bleak thoughts. By unspoken agreement they both avoided any subject that might lead toward talk of his time at Coleway, or Faulke Segrave, or her fate once he abandoned her. Surprisingly, she had little trouble finding subject matter. Their conversations were interesting yet cautious, a careful dance marked by frequent glances to gauge their partner's reactions.

Her prayer that she would begin to find him repulsive went unanswered. Instead she caught herself marveling that she was chatting so effortlessly with her enemy, the man who had hurt her, a man rumored to have murdered scores of people. She really should fear him, but it was becoming pathetically obvious that she enjoyed his company. He was not some crazed killer. He was simply a man. An excessively handsome man who could be every bit as charming as Sir Percival, when he put his mind to it.

She was a little surprised when they made camp for the night in yet another deer-trampled meadow. It didn't seem possible that the day was already spent and yet the lengthening shadows told a different story. Their conversation continued to flow easily enough from the time they ate their meal until they were ready for bed, but there was a new note to the underlying strain, as if they both realized their false camaraderie must soon end.

Again she settled onto the very edge of the furs and turned away from him as he went through the ritual of removing his weapons. Eventually she heard him lie down next to her and she closed her eyes, wishing fervently for sleep to claim her. Her breath caught in her throat when she felt his hand on her shoulder, and then he insistently pulled on her arm until she rolled onto her back.

Looming above her, his eyes were intense. "Tell me about your plan to escape."

"W-what?"

He waited.

She tried to inject just the right tone of affronted innocence into her voice. "I have no plan to escape."

He shook his head. "Last night you were full of suggestions and bribes to avoid your fate in London, and I explained why they were impossible. Then when I suggested the most logical alternative, you turned your back on me and went to sleep.

"This morning you were wrapped again in your anger, but then you smiled and asked me about Venice. It finally occurred to me that my suggestion last night might have been too subtle, that you had only just realized what I meant. So today I cast the bait in more obvious ways and still it remains untouched." He scowled down at her. "And that means I was wrong about your smile. The only other explanation is that you have come up with some plan for escape that you think can work."

Oh, good Lord, his mind was devious. And he was exactly right. But she only understood half of what he said. "What bait?"

"Venice, of course," he said dismissively. "Now, tell me your plan. I do not want you to get hurt, and whatever escape plan you have come up with will only put yourself in danger. It definitely will not succeed, but you could be injured in the course of its failure."

"Venice is bait for what?"

A crease appeared between his brows. "It was just a suggestion, one that is apparently of no interest."

She gritted her teeth. "I would have to be aware of a suggestion before it would lack interest."

"Are you truly unaware of what I offered?"

"I am truly unaware." She carefully enunciated each word. "What are you talking about?"

"Venice," he said again, now looking bewildered. "I thought you understood. Edward will never allow you to marry anyone who will be a threat to him in Wales. He does not want you anywhere near England or Wales. Soon I will cease to have any interest in Edward's politics. I will be half a world away in Venice, and I have no plans to return to England."

"Aye, you told me that last night." Her voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. She was beginning to suspect what he was going to tell her. It made no sense. She was mistaken. This was another—

"Would you like to come with me?"

"What?" She all but screeched the word. She clapped a hand over her mouth as she sat up, and then managed to ask in a much quieter voice, "What are you talking about?"

"Venice is a very long way from England," he said, speaking in slow, measured tones. It sounded as if he were trying to explain a very simple concept to a child. "As long as no one knows where to find you, exile to Venice would accomplish the same goal as imprisonment in the Tower. 'Tis possible you would be allowed to sail with me."

Her breath caught in her throat and her heartbeat became erratic. Speech was beyond her. She was as stunned as when the lightning bolt had almost killed her. This was the bait he had been casting all day? How had she missed it?

"Of course, I would have to swear that you would disappear as completely as if you had been imprisoned in the Tower, provide assurances that you would never again be a threat to the king." His eyes were fathomless pools of green, as compelling and hypnotic as any predator's. He was her enemy, and yet he was offering her an escape. "No one would know you in Venice. You could begin a new life there."

He expected some sort of response; that much was obvious in his expression, but she couldn't trust anything she might say. She stared at his mouth, certain she had heard him wrong. His offer sounded too much like her plan to start a new life in London. How had he known? This was some new deceit, some new lie. Was he hoping to trick her into revealing her plan?

His gaze narrowed. "You don't believe me?"

"Of course not." How could that even be a question in his mind?

"If I were telling the truth, would you go with me to Venice?" He watched her carefully, as if her answer were of vital importance.

Surely there was a trap awaiting her, but would it spring forth with the lie or the truth? Yes was the only sensible answer. Who in their right mind would say no ? However, yes could confirm his suspicion that she was planning an escape of the same nature. No could just as easily confirm the same suspicion. Why would she want to stay in England to rot in prison?

"Is the choice really so difficult?" he asked in a soft voice, his eyes fierce.

"I am trying to decide why you would even ask the question." She shook her head and struggled to sound casual. "You obviously have some purpose in mind. Does it have something to do with your notion that I have a grand plan to escape? Or, do you think I will be more malleable on the journey to prison if you make me believe there is some hope of a reprieve?"

"I deserve that," he murmured, as a crease formed between his brows. "Is it really so hard to believe that I would want to keep you with me?"

"Aye." She made an unladylike sound. Did he really think her so gullible?

"My feelings for you have not changed."

She wasn't certain what his feelings for her were in the first place. Guilt? He had to know that she would not survive long in a dungeon, just as he knew she had done nothing to earn such a punishment. Did he intend to right that wrong, defend her from whatever false charges Edward would use to imprison her? What if he were serious about taking her to Italy? "The king would never agree to such a plan."

"'Tis possible I can make Edward's adviser see the logic of the idea." He rolled onto his back and stacked his hands behind his head to look up at her. "I can be persuasive, when I wish to be."

Oh, she knew that fact all too well. Indeed, she could provide her own testament to his skills at persuasion. Or was this another of his jests? Would his lips suddenly curve into a smile as he laughed at her gullibility? He had never struck her as an intentionally cruel man, but there was still much she did not know about him. She could not allow herself to hope until she was certain this was not another lie.

"Why?" she whispered. "Why would you do such a thing for me?"

"I should think the reasons are obvious."

She gave him a skeptical look. She refused to believe he had any feelings for her in particular that any woman in general could not bestir in equal measure. "You do not have the sort of reputation that lends itself to gallantry toward women."

"My reasons have nothing to do with gallantry," he agreed. "Indeed, they are entirely selfish."

She bit her lower lip and tried to think what other obvious reasons there might be. Nothing obvious or even obscure came to mind. Why was he staring at her mouth?

"You think me strange," she pointed out, deciding it was time for brutal honesty. "And I know you only pretended to…like me as part of your deception."

"I think you are unusual," he corrected. "Indeed, you are unlike anyone I have ever known, and I know my fair share of unusual people." He reached out to smooth a loose tendril of hair near her temple, and then his fingers slowly, purposely, trailed along her cheek until her lashes lowered involuntarily and she shivered. "You never react to anything as I think you will or as I know you should. I am a dangerous man, Avalene. Never forget that."

"As if I could," she muttered. One casual touch and her soft, silly heart had fluttered to life again. Anger over his betrayal was her last defense, the last solid wall around her battered heart. That wall would never survive if he turned his charm loose upon her again in full force, if he actually meant to rescue her from the Tower. She spoke as much to herself as to him. "I would bargain with the Devil himself to avoid spending the rest of my life in a prison."

"Hm. Now I am akin to the Devil," he mused. "And I cannot decide if I am flattered or insulted that you might find my company preferable to prison."

His casual dismissal of her emotions hurt. She was tired of him finding humor in her humiliation, tired of pretending she felt nothing. "You know well enough that I found your company preferable to any other. Just because your feelings for me were not real does not mean that mine were false. I made no mystery of how I felt about you."

He went very still. "Your preference was for a man who does not exist."

"He is before me now," she said, waving her hand toward him. "When I look at you, I still see Sir Percival. When you speak, I hear his voice. I cannot separate Dante Chiavari from Sir Percival in my mind. You are not Sir Percival, and yet you are. Every time I look at you I see the man that I—"

Oh, she would not say those words. They were not true. She had fallen in love with Sir Percival. In that regard, he was absolutely right; that man did not exist. This man had used her, and felt no regret at all over his actions.

On the other hand, he had also saved her from the steward, and then saved her from a treasonous marriage to Faulke Segrave, and now he was offering to save her from the Tower. He was her champion, and then he was her enemy, and now he offered to be her champion again. Little wonder he had her so confused. Her thoughts were spinning tangled webs faster than her mind could sort through them.

"I am not the sort of man you seem to think I am," he said in a quiet voice. "I am no chivalrous, high-minded knight. I am not even an honorable one."

She studied his face in the fading light and wondered if she only imagined the regret in his voice, even a trace of wistfulness. That was silly. He was the most self-assured man she had ever met, even when he was wrong.

"No matter what you call yourself, no matter what you have done, you are an honorable man in your own way. Why else would you make me such an offer?" That had to be what this was all about. He felt guilty because he was helping imprison an innocent woman. Perhaps his code of honor was not so different from Sir Percival's as she had imagined. Or perhaps this was still some bizarre part of his deception. "No matter your reasons, you cannot expect me to forgive you for deceiving me and making light of my feelings."

He sat up and leaned closer until his warm breath fanned across her face and brought with it his intoxicating scent. She began to feel light-headed. "I would never purposely make light of your feelings, Avalene. If I have done so inadvertently, you have my apology."

"I was not asking for an apology." She sat up straighter and tried to lean away from him without being obvious about it, holding herself stiff. She felt exposed and foolish for having brought up her traitorous feelings in the first place. What was she thinking?

"There is one other thing you are wrong about," he said, his face still so close to hers that she had trouble concentrating on his words rather than the enticing shape of his mouth as he made them. "My attraction to you was not part of the deception. That was the one thing I never lied to you about."

Oh, no. No, no, no. She shook her head, even as she felt the first cracks forming in the last wall. This was not good. "You lied to me from the moment we met. About everything."

"I wanted you from the moment we met," he said, "but my ardor cooled each time you called me ‘Percival.' I wanted to hear my name on your lips. Can you imagine your feelings if I kissed you, and then called you… Jane?"

She shook her head, only because it seemed to be the expected thing to do. This was some fevered imagining on her part. Perhaps he had drugged her again.

"I was certain you would be horrified once you learned my true identity." He rubbed his thumb across her lower lip, sending a fresh set of shivers through her. How did he do that? "Is it possible you would still come to me willingly, knowing who I really am, knowing I lied to you? How can I still be someone honorable in your eyes?"

"Stop this," she whispered. She rolled her lower lip between her teeth to stop the tingling sensation his touch had ignited, but she did not turn away. "I cannot think straight when you make me feel this way."

"What way?" he asked, as his thumb stroked her chin.

Safe, secure…seduced . The words popped into her head unbidden, but they were the truth. She had a formidable reputation for being the most clearheaded, sensible woman among all those she knew. Suddenly she was the most gullible girl ever born. All he had to do was touch her and every rational thought left her head. Well, not every rational thought. "Is this another of your deceptions?"

He shook his head even as his eyes burned with sincerity. "There are endless reasons why I should leave you alone and let you believe my desire was an act, but I know the thought that I deceived you in that way hurts you." He lifted his hand and stroked the backs of his fingers across her cheek. "I do not like to hurt you, Avalene."

Some shred of self-preservation kicked in and she leaned farther away from him. "Why should you leave me alone?"

"Because you are an innocent," he said, "and I am not. Just knowing me will corrupt you, damage your soul in ways you cannot imagine. If I were a truly honorable, compassionate man, I would walk away from you." He placed his fingers over her lips before she could argue. "But I am a selfish man, and I want you too much to let you go. I am yours, if you want me."

Before she could think of anything to say to that astonishing announcement, he lowered his head and kissed her, gently at first, and then with more insistence.

She had almost forgotten how good he tasted until his mouth touched hers, just as she had forgotten about the strange melting sensation. His tongue glided over the seam of her lips and her heart turned traitor. He effortlessly opened her to his seduction, using all of his skill to make her forget everything but his kisses as her body both yielded and strained toward him at the same time. The fabric of his tunic felt soft against her palms, but his chest was the familiar wall of warm stone, the only solid thing to cling to, the only thing that kept her from falling under a wave of desire so strong it made her heart ache.

This is what she had missed, what she had mourned when she had learned of his betrayal; this sense of rightness, the feeling that everything was perfect so long as she remained in his arms. She wanted to lose herself in the heady emotions. However, this time her sensible side refused to be silenced. Reality intruded all too quickly.

He was not safe, and this was madness. She forced herself to turn her head away and then shivered when he trailed a line of kisses down her neck. "This is not right."

"I know." He placed his lips over a pulse point on her neck and gently suckled.

She had trouble maintaining her train of thought. "I—I do not want this."

"Aye, you do."

"Nay, stop. Please." She pushed against his shoulders until he stopped kissing her. He lifted his head and looked down at her, his eyes watchful as she spoke. "I cannot do this again. I know you are lying to me."

His smile was sad. "You have little reason to trust me, but in this I am telling the truth. I want you, and I know you want me, too. Will you deny it?"

She wished she could. "You know I cannot."

He studied her face. "Is that really such a bad thing?"

"Aye." She could be sucked under by his spell again to drown in all the emotions he stirred inside her. How easy it would be to pretend that he felt something special for her. But she could not survive it if he made her believe his lies again, if she allowed herself to hope and it all turned out to be another deception.

"Will you make me one promise? A promise that you will not break, no matter what?" The words sounded foolish even to her own ears. She was asking an accomplished liar not to lie. Her heart rate accelerated. Stupid, stupid, stupid .

His expression turned wary. "That depends upon the promise."

She drew an unsteady breath. "Promise that you will not give me false hope."

"What do you mean?"

Ah, the explanation. This should be roundly humiliating. She reached out and placed her fingertips on his lips, as much to enjoy the sensation of touching him as to prevent him from interrupting her. "When you kiss me, I forget what is right and wrong. You make me forget what a good liar you are. 'Tis obvious you can still seduce me. I have little will to resist you. And yet you claim that you do not want to hurt me. If that is true, then do not tell me lies about your feelings for me. Do not make me hope for a future that can never be. Swear that you will not make me any promises that you cannot keep."

He took her hand from his lips and turned it over to press a kiss into her palm. " Gesù , I do not deserve you, but you have my word. I will not make any false promises."

She tried to smile. "I am not so grand a prize, but you will not have to put up with me for long."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you do not have to lie about taking me to Italy." It was hard to keep her voice steady. "I understand that you must do your duty and turn me over to the king. Perhaps Segrave is wrong about the Tower. Who knows? Rather than prison, I may be allowed to live at court with all the fine lords and ladies." When hell freezes over .

He took her face between his hands and then tilted her head back, forcing her to look up at him. Above him the sky was a luminescent shade of indigo blue, casting him into silhouette against a blanket of emerging stars. "You have my promise that I will never allow anyone to imprison you."

She tried to shake her head but he would not allow it.

"You have my promise that you do not have to barter your honor for your freedom to leave England with me. You have my promise that no matter what does or does not happen between us, I will take you to Italy and I will take care of you."

She tried to find the lie in his eyes, but saw only fierce determination. Was it possible he was telling the truth? Could she actually trust him?

Impossible.

She struggled to make her voice sound skeptical rather than breathless. "You would still take me to Italy if I refused you?"

"Aye," he said, without a moment's hesitation. The sureness of his response stunned her.

"Why?" she asked again. "Why would you go to so much trouble, so much risk for me?"

He needed time to think that over. At last he said, "Fate has taken away much in my life. You are a gift I did not expect but one I will selfishly take, even if there is a price I must eventually pay for my greed. You are worth the consequences, Avalene."

He thought she was a gift?

"I intend to court you," he warned, "in ways that are far beyond the bounds of what is proper. I will leave you chaste if that is your wish, but I will also take advantage of every opportunity to seduce you, now that I know you still want me."

"I cannot trust you again so easily," she warned, while her heart raced. She would never be able to resist such a courtship. She pulled away from him a little. "I have not forgotten your…deception."

"I had my orders," he said simply. "If I had not arrived when I did, if the real Sir Percival had entered Coleway while you were still there, you would likely be wed to the steward by now. Even if the real Percival managed to take you away from Coleway, he intended all along to turn you over to the Segraves and you would have found yourself wed to a traitor."

"Segrave told me the same story," she said, with a defeated sigh. "But surely you can understand my…anger over the complete success of your deception. You fooled me so easily, how can I ever again trust you without question? I never doubted you for an instant as Sir Percival. I can never trust you for an instant as Dante Chiavari."

"I lied to you about my identity," he admitted, "but I did not betray your trust in my intentions nor did I deceive you in the ways that matter most. From the start I have protected you, kept you safe from your enemies and the enemies of the king. The only pretense about my feelings for you is that I have done my best to disguise their depths. When Segrave captured you—"

His mouth became a hard line and he had to take a deep breath before he continued. "You were right about me last night, when you compared what I do to the job of an executioner. I had never viewed it in quite that light before, but it is an appropriate analogy. I do not kill for sport or bloodlust, but when Segrave touched you, when he spoke so crudely of his plans to bed you, I wanted to kill him where he stood."

"Did you kill him?" she whispered. Despite his claims otherwise, he'd had the perfect opportunity when they were all disabled by the poison.

He shook his head. "Segrave has not yet committed outright treason, and the king wishes him to live. I gave my word that he would not die by my hand, although it is a promise I have already come to regret. Just the thought of you as his wife, that he has any rights where you are concerned…Segrave is luckier than he knows to still be alive."

She took a moment to absorb the possibility that he was jealous.

"I will not let him have you," he vowed. "I will do everything within my power to make you mine. If time is what it will take to regain your trust, you will have it. What else will it take to restore your faith in me?"

What else, indeed? Was it even possible to turn back time, to return her heart to a place where her trust in him was absolute? Was anything he said true, or was all of it true?

The voice of reason laughed at her yearnings. This was how he had deceived her in the first place, by playing upon her own weakness for him. He made her fall in love with a lie. She couldn't risk making the same mistakes all over again, but, oh, how she wanted to.

"I do not know what to say." She gave a mirthless laugh. "I do not even know what to feel. My whole world is turned backward."

"You do not have to say anything for now." There was a trace of disappointment in his voice, but he cupped his hand behind her head and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "We are nearly two days from London, and then we have at least a fortnight before my ship sets sail. You have time to think through my offer. You have even more time to decide if I am worthy of your forgiveness and what I must do to regain your trust."

She had no idea how to answer, and wisely remained silent.

"We will be on the road early again tomorrow morning. We should both try to get some sleep."

All she could do was nod, suddenly exhausted, overwhelmed by all he had told her. She did not resist when he urged her to lie down again, or when he tucked their cloaks around them, or even when he drew her closer. She lay in his arms without protest, his embrace inescapable and yet somehow comforting.

After a long time, she felt the tension in his arms begin to ease and her own body began to relax as well. Finally she drifted into a restless slumber, not truly asleep, but never fully awake. She was certain the nightmares would revisit her. They always did when she was particularly upset about something. This certainly qualified as "something." Instead she dreamed of Sir Percival, and then she dreamed of Dante, and then he became Sir Percival again.

Sometime during the night the two men became one. She wasn't entirely certain what that meant.