Part 9 (1/2)

With infinite care she turned her head to the side.

Warlord stood there, fierce and furious, staring into her eyes.

No. Oh, no. It wasnat possible. How did he find her so quickly?

”You would face this . . . rather than me?” he asked.

”What do you think?” Her insolence was instinctivea”and misplaced.

For deep in his eyes that red flared, and he said, ”I think youave made a terrible mistake.” He grabbed her.

For a long, bitter moment she thought he was going to throw her into thin air, and she was going to die. Die as she had died every night in her nightmares.

Instead he twirled her around, shoved her back to the meadow, and manhandled her to the ground, face-first. Her cheek crushed the green gra.s.s, and her eyes filled with disappointed tears.

But not for long. She breathed deeply, got control.

Karen Sonnet did not cry. She did not complain. She did not whine.

She had failed to escape. She would take whatever punishment he handed outa”and when she got the chance, she would run again.

He picked her up and moved her around as if she weighed nothing, pulling her arms behind her and snapping cold metal around her wrists.

Handcuffs.

Setting her on her feet, he shoved her up the path shead so recently descended. Karen knew rebellion, fear . . . and a mortifying relief that she didnat have to continue down that narrow, dangerous, fracturing track.

What did that say about her? She would rather not know. ”Listen,” she said.

”When we get back.” Warlord walked so closely behind her his heat and rage seared her skin. He held her arms, controlling her firmly.

”I donat want to get back.”

”Too d.a.m.ned bad.” He walked a little too quickly for her, b.u.mping the backs of her legs with his, making her stumble.

”Itas ridiculous to think you want me enough to commit a crime.”

”I would never have thought you were a stupid woman.”

She flung herself off the edge of the path and around to face him. ”I am not stupid.”

He spanned her waist with his hands, lifted her, and brought her close enough for their faces to touch. ”What do you call a woman who doesnat recognize a man in rut when she sees him?”

She took a long, terrified breath as she fell into the flames in his dark eyes. ”Men may be animals, but they do not rut.”

”How many men have you slept with? One? Did you pick out the most anemic dweeb in your high school to perform the deed?”

”College!” she gasped, because she thought the dweeb was less dweeby if he was older.

Then Warlord laughed, a husky purr of lethal amus.e.m.e.nt, and she knew shead made a mistake. ”Of course,” he said. ”No glorious rush of adolescent hormones for you. You waited the proper amount of time, picked your man, and f.u.c.ked him without an ounce of pa.s.sion.”

”Thatas not true!”

He wrapped one arm around her waist, brought her close against his chest, and slowly but surely let her slide down his body. ”Itas not true now . . . is it, Karen?”

Her mouth went dry with fear . . . and desire.

d.a.m.n him. She had told herself so many times that the soft emotions and strong pa.s.sions no longer survived within her soul, and he made her feel them all.

He held her long enough for her to feel the heat of his erection. Then he turned her by the shoulders and marched her ahead of him again.

The walk back seemed to go too quickly, and each moment her tension increased.

Was he going to hurt her? Beat her? Kill her?

They reached his tent, and the narrow wooden bridge shead searched for was now in place from the path to the tent. He shoved her across without a single care for her fear and hesitation, through the slit in the tent, and rolled her under the tapestry.

She heard Mingmaas glad cry of, ”Oh, miss!” as she hurried toward her.

Warlord held out his hand in a stop gesture.

Mingma skidded to a halt.

”Tomorrow, make sure you fix this seam in the tent.” He motioned her out.

She backed toward the door, her gaze on him, her expression fearful. She stopped at the entrance, put her hands together prayerfully, and begged him with her eyes.

That, more than anything, sent a chill through Karenas veins.

”I wonat kill her.”

His harsh tone made Karen flinch.

As if that were the best she could hope for, Mingma bowed her head and slipped from the tent, leaving Karen alone with a warlord.

Her handcuffed hands were an insurmountable handicap, but Karen struggled to her knees, unwilling to loll on the floor like a helpless slave.

But when she would have stood, he pressed his hand to the top of her head and held her in place. He pulled a long, s.h.i.+ny blade from his belt, stepped behind her . . .

She closed her eyes in the antic.i.p.ation of pain . . . and suddenly her hands were free.

He pulled her arms from her coat and tossed it aside.

For a second the memory of the icon slipped through her mind.

The Madonna was safe.