A shadow appeared above her, wavering through the rushing water. This was it. The Ancient Father had come to take her soul. He grabbed her wrist, jerking her hard against the fast-flowing water. Fire raced through her shoulder. Another jerk and he grabbed her under her armpits. Her head broke the surface and she gasped, choked, and coughed water.
The water pulled at her legs and torso. She tried to get her balance but her feet skittered against the slippery rocks. He hefted again but stumbled and lost his grip. Hot panic shot through her and she threw her hands out, grabbing his ankle before the river swept her away.
His hands clamped around her wrist and with a great heave, his yanked her up on top of him. She collapsed where she was, sucking in ragged breaths, her head pressed against his chest. His heart pounded in quick succession, a match to her own, and the heat from his body seeped into her cold wet clothes, warming her.
“How can such a little woman weigh so much?” the man asked between sharp inhalations.
“It’s not me; it’s all the water I’ve swallowed.” She lifted her head to thank him and met his gaze. Depthless brown eyes stared back at her, filled with determination and grace, scarred by sorrow like Mac’s but with a strange hope. Around his eyes was a chiseled face, and a strong, clean jaw. And through the rough wool beneath her hands, she could feel the hard plains of tight muscle. He was breathtaking.
A new heat flooded her, rushing to her face and pooling low in her gut. She scrambled off him thankful that in the darkness he couldn’t see her blush. The sudden movement reignited the pain in her body and she winced against it.
“Are you all right?” Now that he’d caught his breath, she could hear the music in his rich tenor. He had a voice fit to sing Mac Theselon ballads.
She nodded, refusing to make eye contact again and not trusting her voice. Her skin still burned with the thought that she’d been on top of him, and liked it. She had no idea if she had any experience with . . . men. By the way Mac talked about her she was still a child, of course from his perspective she probably still was. But at the moment she didn’t feel like one and she certainly wasn’t thinking like one either.
More heat flooded her, and she hugged her knees to her chest for fear her body somehow betrayed her feelings.
“Anything broken?”
Now that was a silly question. She wouldn’t have been able move without crying in pain if she’d broken anything. She glanced at him. He wasn’t making eye contact either, which probably had nothing to do with why she was embarrassed.
“No.”
“You have a–” He reached a tentative hand toward her head but didn’t touch her.
She brushed a hand across the ragged scab against her temple, and pushed her limp hair behind her ear. “That’s old.”
“I see.” He stood and brushed himself off, his manner abruptly brisk. “We should get you to your camp.”
“My camp?”
“Do you think you can walk or should I carry you?”
“Carry me?” She leapt to her feet and dizziness swept over her. She threw out her hands to catch her balance and suddenly he was there, beside her, holding her up, his muscled arms wrapped around her.
“Carry it is.”
“No, please. I’m fine.” How could some stranger make her feel more off balance than her missing memory had? She couldn’t think beyond the heat simmering in her.
It was the scare in the river. That was all. If she could just get a moment, she’d be fine.
“You don’t look fine.”
“I am.” She shoved him away and managed to keep her balance this time. “Really.”
Mac crashed out of the underbrush and froze, his gazed darting from her to the stranger. Two of the soldiers came to a halt on either side of him, hands on the hilts of their swords.
“Kaelyn?” With just her name she knew he asked if she was injured and in danger.
“I’m fine. This”–she sucked in a quick breath and forced herself to look at the stranger–“this gentleman saved me.” The heat he inspired wasn’t as strong this time, but was definitely still there.
“Thank you,” said Mac. He held out his hand to her and she shuffled to his side.
“You look like you need to dry off,” said one of the soldiers to the man who’s saved her.
“So I do,” said the stranger, “and I bet you have a campfire you’d like me to sit beside. Lead the way.”
Mac leaned close to her. “You see,” he said, his voice low. “That’s how you deal with armed guards.”
“Escape by drowning isn’t a viable option?”
He snorted. “No. And you can’t tell me Theselon did it, because I know he didn’t.”
“To difficult anyway. Strange men are always rescuing me.”
He shook his head and they followed the soldiers to their camp. By the time they reached it, Kaelyn couldn’t control her shivers and she hurried to the fire’s edge and plopped down. As much as it was summer and the days were hot and sunny, there was a hint of fall in the nights.
The stranger stood beside her. She was sure it was an appropriate distance, but it felt too close and yet not close enough.
Mac threw a blanket over her shoulders and put a bowl of stew in her hands then turned to thank their host, a portly, middle-age man.
She paid them no heed and instead watched the stranger out of the corner of her eye. He introduced himself as Talar, a minstrel.
“A minstrel,” exclaimed a woman who rushed to the side of their host and clung to his arm. Swathed in green silk, she was the image of a lady from the Mac Theselon tales: golden hair piled high in complicated braids, bright green eyes, and smooth pale skin.
“My daughter, the Lady of Newalden,” said their host.
“We haven’t heard a minstrel since we left for Mythnar. Come, tell a tale of adventure to me and my ladies. It will be your payment for sharing our fire.” She grabbed his hand and led him to the other side of the fire. A frown flashed across his features, but he followed without hesitation and was greeted by two more women, just a beautiful.
Kaelyn wrung water out of her hair. It hung limp around her head and even if it were as beautiful as Lady Newalden’s she still wouldn’t know how to do such a fancy coif.
The women giggled, drawing Kaelyn’s gaze. Lady Newalden touched Talar’s arm with her perfect, delicate hand. He smiled at her and ran a hand through his hair. His sleeve fell back from his wrist, revealing thick black marks. The lady brushed the tattoo and stepped closer to him.
Kaelyn ground her teeth and forced her attention to the bowl of stew in her hands. Really, what was she thinking? The Lady of Newalden was stunning. In comparison, even when not looking like a drowned rat, Kaelyn couldn’t compete. Her clothes were plain, they didn’t even fit. There was nothing delicate or beautiful about her. She was not the type of woman bards and minstrels sung about–or even sung to. Those women were tall, with curves and ample bosoms. They had hair the color of honey or midnight black and their eyes were always striking. Last time Kaelyn had looked, her eyes were muddy brown. No. Songs weren’t written about the likes of her. No one would pay any attention to her. Certainly not a handsome minstrel.
