by Nora Roberts
He’d always stood alone.
He advanced toward her, his gut clenching when instead of retreating before him, she held her ground.
“Then let the battle be joined, my imp.” He spoke with resignation. “Tomorrow, at dawn.” His voice lowered, roughened. “But for now the hour is late. For tonight and tonight only, I propose a truce.”
Before she could respond, Blaine caught her in his arms and drew her close. “Do you consent?” His breath ruffled her hair. “A truce until the morn?”
Willow wavered. She ought to pull free, stalk away, warn him to keep his distance until dawn, when the quest could begin again—for each of them. But she yearned to stay right here where she was. How warm and safe and snug she felt in his arms, as if she belonged there for all time.
How could that be? He was a man who cared for no one, nothing, only his own interests. And he was her enemy.
Surely it was wrong to want to kiss your enemy…
“I agree to…a limited truce. Tonight only,” she conceded, keeping her tone steady with an effort. Without being able to stop herself, she reached up and touched the soft thickness of his hair. Being close to him always seemed to have an unsettling effect on her, and just now, in the firelit cottage with the wind and snow pummeling the forest beyond these four walls, and with his eyes so alight and keen, looking at her as no man had ever looked at her before, that effect was even more pronounced. A powerful current surged between them. Thinking clearly was a challenge, and pulling away seemed out of the question.
“Tonight only,” he agreed, and with wonder she realized that his voice was no steadier than hers. His strong warrior’s hand cupped her chin, gently but firmly, sending tingling sensations all the way down to her toes. He tilted her head up so that she could not have looked away from his penetrating eyes even if she’d wanted to. “As long as we’re negotiating, there is something else to decide. Another kiss.”
“You said just one. And then you took two,” she murmured breathlessly.
“Indeed. Because I found it quite enjoyable. Did you?”
“It was…somewhat enjoyable.” Willow swallowed, feeling herself drawn against her will into a kind of mesmerizing spell that she was powerless to break. “Perhaps not…as enjoyable as…climbing a tree, but—”
“Ahhh. You wound me.” A wicked smile lit his face. “I suggest we try it again and see if we can improve.”
“Improve?” Truth be told, Willow couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful than the kisses she’d shared with him, but as he leaned slowly down toward her and she realized he was going to kiss her again, she felt panic. And a hot jolt of desire. Blaine ignited feelings in her that no one else—even Adrian—ever had, and she didn’t know what to make of that. She wasn’t sure she liked it and…
He’s going to kiss me again, she realized and made one quick, futile effort to pull away, but he slid those iron arms around her and held her even more closely and kissed her before she could squeak a protest.
And kissed her…and kissed her…
Before, she had been cold, but now she was hot. The snow and ice and wind might not have been raging outside the tiny cottage at all; the small, rough chamber might have been carved of gold; the very night might have been blazing day, for all she knew of anything but the power of his kiss, the need that rushed through her, the pleasure that ran from the top of her hairline to the underside of her dainty little toes. Sweet, hot, dizzying pleasure.
Her arms flew around his neck, and she found she was kissing him back. Ardent, hungry kisses that burned from her soul to his.
Somehow, as the fire flickered and the blue-orange flames cast their shimmering light across Blaine’s strong-boned face, she found herself being swept up into his arms and cradled against his chest. It was not the first time this had happened, but it was the most delightful, for this time his lips never left hers as he carried her across the room to the pallet against the wall.
He had spread his cloak upon it earlier when the fire began to blaze, and now he lowered Willow to it as gently as a fresh spring leaf.
“Is this still not as enjoyable as climbing a tree, Willow?” he asked as he leaned across her, lifting his mouth from hers only long enough to gaze down into her eyes.
“I…shall try to decide.” She gasped and pulled him down to her, her mouth seeking his with a boldness she’d never known she possessed. Her very blood seemed to be on fire as he stroked her hair and her throat with tender caresses, and pressed gentle kisses upon her cheeks and eyelids.
Despite Blaine’s strength and his powerful body, she wasn’t at all frightened by his hungry touches. She was lost in a world of vivid sensations, of sweeping pleasure, as a hot, demanding need began to throb deep inside her feminine core.
“Blaine, this might prove…even more enjoyable than…jousting against King Felix’s…men-at-arms,” she whispered with a small laugh, and he laughed along with her.
“It will be far more enjoyable, imp. You will joust with me—in a battle unlike any you have ever waged before.”
A delicious battle. Her fingers twisted through his hair even as her lips parted to admit his tongue, which challenged and swept against hers, drawing her into a dark, dusky game of sensuous war.
When his hand found her breast, she gasped with pleasure; when he stripped the woolen layers of her cloak and her tunic from her and kissed her bare shoulder just above the bandage he had put in place, she pulled him down to her and began to tug at his garments with a wild insistence.
A tremor shook her. He was splendid—bronzed, magnificent. She wanted him, all of him, this man with his searing kisses and gentle touch, this man who professed to care for no one but who had saved her life and found her shelter and carried her to this bed with such tenderness. She wanted him with a desperate hunger that came straight from her heart, with a sureness that came not from reason or logic but from a magical knowing place inside her soul.
“Blaine…Blaine,” she said softly, cherishing the sound of his name upon her lips. She moaned when his tongue found her breast, teasing her sensitive, swelling nipple. As his hands stroked her hips and her belly, slowly, lingeringly, igniting torturous tingles everywhere he touched, she writhed with a fire that would not be denied.
The world spun away. The forest, the cottage, the snow, and wind. There was only the fire—their own raging fire as, naked and twisting together upon the pallet, they touched and kissed and discovered each other. There was no yesterday, no tomorrow, only tonight and this fever that gripped them.
Blaine made love to her, filling her with himself, with his strength and his power. She was so beautiful and seemed so fragile he was fearful of hurting her, but there was no hint of pain between them, only a desire that ran quick and hard and deep within them both.
Her hair smelled like flowers, Blaine thought in wonder as he thrust inside her with long, deep strokes that made her gasp with pleasure. Like sweet summer flowers. Her desperate writhing and those long, slim legs wrapped around him rocked him like thunder.
“Willow. Ah, Willow.” He could barely speak, for he was hoarse with the wanting and the taking of her. Despite her delicacy, her passion was as fiery and all-consuming as his own.
Blaine groaned and pressed harder, drove deeper, raining kisses on her as he took them both to the edge of the world.
Locked with him, their bodies melding, clinging, fitting as though made for one another, Willow knew only that he obliterated everything else, air, color, light. There was only Blaine—his muscles taut and sheened with sweat, his eyes darkened with a desire that filled her with joy. He smelled of earth and spice and musk, tasted of wine and sizzling fire, filled her with wonder and an exquisite tension exploding at her very core.
Swept into a storm of their own making, they gave themselves up to roaring kisses and a passion that whirled beyond reason and doubt. Their lovemaking was as beautiful and pure and wild as the night that raged beyond the cottage, and as they clung together they rode
the high, wild crest, shuddering in the joy and the pleasure. Release came with a dizzying fulfillment. Their bodies sweetly tangled, they shattered and became one, holding one another with every ounce of their strength, knowing for that fleeting eternity the splendor of radiant joy.
Then, spent and dazed, they curled in each other’s arms—and at last slept.
It was hours later when the dream came to her.
At first it was all the same, exactly the same as before, except for one thing. This time as Willow saw the dim great hall of the Troll’s Lair, and the looming staircase that dominated it, she noticed something she hadn’t seen earlier. A doorway in the wall at the middle of the stair-way—an invisible doorway that creaked open and in a shimmering burst of light revealed the chamber where the treasure was stored.
She awoke with a start.
Artemus!
He must have suddenly remembered the door from his long-ago journey into the Troll’s Lair. He’d sent it to her to further guide her search for the necklace.
Her heart pounded as she realized something else. Blaine had not shared in this dream. Lying on the pallet in his arms, her head cushioned against his chest, she knew that the dream had been hers alone. Either her father had sent it only to her, or, if he had expanded the energy to direct it also to Sir Dudley, it would this time have reached the real Sir Dudley in his fine gold cloak.
Not Blaine.
So he didn’t know about the hidden door. And she now had an advantage—a strong one—in the contest ahead.
Pondering this, she raised herself up and gazed into her sleeping rival’s handsome face. The emotion that rose in her filled her with wonder. For years she’d thought she loved Adrian, and Adrian alone, that there was no other man in the world for her. Now she knew that what she’d felt for Adrian had been a pale illusion, as different from love as sea mist is from hard, driving waves.
Blaine of Kendrick was real and solid. He had saved her life, made her laugh, and taught her the power of a single kiss. He infuriated her and fascinated her. She felt a strange tenderness for this man who claimed to need no one.
What was happening to her? She must not fall under his spell. She must keep her mind and heart focused on the prize.
Yet, as he slept, she couldn’t help herself. She reached out to gently touch that rough, stubbled jaw. At once his eyes opened.
They warmed as he saw her, and, grinning, he reached out to clench her velvet curls in his fist. “Ah, my beautiful imp.”
His deep voice wasn’t the least bit groggy. “Ready for another round of jousting?”
Before Willow could say a word, he pulled her down atop him, and it all began again.
7
WHEN DAYLIGHT CAME, Willow and Blaine rode out from the cottage into the brisk, frozen beauty of a clear, blue-skied day. Willow had abandoned her boy’s disguise and her torn tunic and had donned the plain blue wool gown in her pack. She’d chosen to let her hair ripple freely down her back and had noticed Blaine’s gaze lingering on her while they partook of a spartan breakfast before setting forth. Before they left the table, he’d surprised her by offering a proposition: that they travel together and extend their truce until they reached the Troll’s Lair.
Willow had searched his face long and hard before nodding agreement. She was in no hurry to be at odds with him once again. Yet she knew with a heavy heart that it was only a matter of time. The closer they came to the Necklace of Nyssa, the more apart they must grow from each other, for they had separate goals and equal determination, and neither was willing to accept defeat.
For hours they rode, their horses’ hooves crunching on the hardened snow. Memories of the dream returned to each of them as they passed marks and signs they had seen before. They compared what they remembered of the path that had been shown to them, and each wondered in silence what destiny this day would hold.
“Did you dream last night?” Willow asked at one point when they halted to rest and to eat.
“Only of you,” Blaine replied, smiling, helping her down from the pony. His hands lingered at her waist. “And you?”
Willow did not answer, except to pull his head down and kiss him until they both forgot all about the question.
It was nearly dusk, and they were weary when the ground began to change. The horses’ hooves sank in a boggy marsh, and they knew they were drawing close to the Troll’s Lair. As the sun dropped and lavender shadows hugged the sky, they at last came to an opening in the wood and there, before a wall of jagged cliffs, towered a bloodred stone fortress that loomed like a dark, terrifying monster against the sky.
It was a good thing the Troll King was dead, Willow thought as Moonbeam reared and she struggled to get her under control. Bad enough that his evil spirit inhabited the place—she would not have liked to have to fight the Troll himself.
But she would have done it if she needed to. Now she had only to fight the dangers of the fortress—and Blaine.
“Moonbeam, hold steady,” she urged as the mare tried to balk at the muddy path. All about was ooze and slime, with dead trees stranded in the midst of shifting gray bog. “Do as I say. Forward!”
To Willow’s vexation, Blaine’s destrier showed more mettle. Though she could see the whites of his eyes as he sensed something dismal and dangerous in this place, he did not balk or rear, but continued stolidly. Blaine pulled ahead of her.
“Wait,” she called to him, spurring the mare forward, but Blaine was staring intently ahead and did not slow his pace or glance back at her.
She gritted her teeth and drove the mare on. So, the truce is ended, she thought bleakly. He will give no more thought to me. He seeks only to enter the fortress first.
Don’t look back. Blaine gave himself a rigid order. The mantle of preparedness for battle settled over him like a shield. This brief interval with the sorcerer’s daughter had been entertaining, he conceded, but it was time now to bring it to an end. He had set his sights on a prize hidden within those seemingly impregnable stone walls and he was going to see his mission through. Willow was resourceful and bright, he told himself as he narrowed his gaze on the forbidding fortress before him. She would find another way to free Artemus the dreamer.
As his black destrier moved stalwartly forward, Blaine could have sworn he felt the ground beneath him start to quake.
He left the destrier in what had once been the keep’s yard, now a marshy open space choked with weeds, and spared one quick glance over his shoulder as he strode toward the door.
Willow rode doggedly on, despite her mare’s skittishness. In the fading light, her lovely face was set and grim—and sad.
Something tore at his heart. He hardened it deliberately.
This is for the princess, he told himself. For the prize. Don’t let anything turn you aside now.
Swiftly he entered the keep and stared at what had once been the Great Hall. Now it was naught but a towering ruin.
By the time Willow tethered Moonbeam within the decaying courtyard and hurried through the great doors, her cloak whipping in the breeze, the sun was nearly set and a strange amethyst darkness shrouded the yard.
She entered the keep and found no sign of Blaine. But oddly, torches and candles glowed within the cavernous Great Hall, casting long, wavering beacons of light around the dank stone walls.
She turned slowly, her throat dry. There was something evil and horrible in this place. The spirit of the Troll King inhabited the very air of the fortress, every bit as much of a presence as the long-tailed rats that scurried through the corners.
She wanted to call out for Blaine, but bit back his name.
She was on her own now. As was he.
Remember the dream, she told herself as she moved cautiously toward the stairway. It looked the same as it had in the dream. As she set a foot upon the first step, she listened to the deep silence of the once beautiful castle. Where was Blaine?
It didn’t matter. Only the Necklace of Nyssa mattered now.
Halfway
up the stairs, she paused and studied the wall to her right, where the dream had shown her a door. Now, in the flickering torchlight that so eerily lit this place, she saw only the old red stone, rough and unbroken. There was no sign of a door.
She closed her eyes and recalled the dream once more. In her memory, she counted the number of steps before the door appeared.
Eleven.
She returned to the bottom and retraced her steps, this time counting.
Here. Willow placed a hand upon the wall. She felt a warmth beneath her palm. Studying the stone, she saw, waist high, a faint circle that began to glow. She pressed on it and the door swung open.
The long chamber inside was exactly like the one in her dream. She stepped into it, and the door closed behind her. But she was not in darkness, for here, too, candles flickered from sconces high above, throwing light wildly through the chamber. They illuminated the draperies of rich scarlet and gold, the marble floor, the huge gilt furnishings.
This had been the chamber of the Troll Queen. And there, on a raised dais at the far wall, sat the box inlaid with gold and silver, its lid adorned with rubies in the shape of a troll.
Willow approached cautiously and touched the box with trembling fingers, scarcely daring to breathe. When she lifted the lid, she saw the necklace at once.
Ten shimmering crystal stones on a strand of glittering gold. Within the heart of each crystal glowed a perfect ruby.
The Necklace of Nyssa. She touched it, a shiver racing through her. When she lifted it, she was startled by its cool, airy lightness.
But even as she took it out of the box she felt a strange quivering beneath her feet. The entire fortress began to shake. Terror swept through her as the floor swayed beneath her and the very walls trembled. It lasted only a moment, and then all was still, but it was enough. Her heart pounding, Willow clenched the necklace tight within her fist and dashed toward the door.
She pressed the glowing circle, and the door swung in toward her. With a cry of thankfulness she rushed out—but charged straight into a wall of iron.