judging her to be near his own age or close to it. “Are all the women in Chale as lovely as you and
your sister, Milady Adair?” he asked, staring deeply into orbs the color of emeralds.
“She is quite lovely, isn't she, Your Grace,” the woman beside him sighed. “Ah, how I wish I were still
her age with my whole life ahead of me."
Elga Junstrom, Kaelan remembered of a sudden. The widow of Count Brithe Junstrom. He flashed her a
charming smile. “Milady, your beauty is timeless.” When he saw her run her tongue over her lips, he read
the invitation as clearly as though she had spoken it aloud. Before he could say something that would
make her think him still interested, he dipped his head. “I was on my way to meet your father, Lady
Adair. With your permission?"
“Certainly, milord,” Adair sighed.
He could feel the young woman's eyes on his back as he moved through the crush of the crowd. Holding
his half-empty goblet aloft as he skirted those assembled, he smiled greetings to his father's guests, spoke
a word here and there. When he'd finally moved out of the press of warm bodies and suffocating
perfume, he made straight for the double doors which opened to the long balcony that overlooked the
harbor. As inconspicuously as possible, he ducked out into the chill night air and blended into the night
shadows cast by the soaring walls of the Keep.
“It stinks in there."
Kaelan nearly dropped his goblet in surprise. Spinning around, he peered into the darker reaches of the
balcony. “Stinks from what?” he asked, recovering from the surprise. Moving toward a lighter shape he
saw huddled against the far rail, he thought he recognized the voice of the speaker.
“All that bloody perfume!"
“Ah, the youngest Cree brat!” he chuckled. When he reached her, he looked with amusement at the
man's great cape in which she had wrapped herself. “Aren't you cold, mam'selle?"
“I'm no brat,” she snapped. “And I ain't cold!” She pulled the thick fur collar closer under her sharp
chin. “But I'd wager you are.” Her gaze flicked over his lightweight corduroy jacket and breeches, the
silk of his shirt.
“A bit,” he admitted, draining the goblet. Placing it on the rail beside him, he leaned out over the wrought
iron and gazed down into the crashing waves pounding the lower reaches of the Keep. “But I'm used to
it."
“I'll never get use to this hellish cold,” Gillian snapped. Her lips were trembling.
“Aye, you will,” he answered. He turned and leaned his rump against the rail, crossed his arms and
studied her shadowed face. “You don't like perfume; you don't like the cold; you don't like brown-haired
men with brown eyes."
“I didn't say that,” she defended herself.
“What do you like, mam'selle?” he continued.
“Horses.” The answer was quick and stated with emphatic assurance.
“Horses?” he asked. The right side of his mouth lifted. “Any particular breed?"
“Rysalians are, of course, the most beautiful,” she said, not sure if he was being condescending or not.
“Serenians are the fastest."
“I have a Serenian stallion,” Kaelan told her.
“Revenge,” she threw at him.
Kaelan's left eyebrow lifted. “You've heard of him?"
“Seen him,” she said. When he continued to look at her with that elevated slash of a brow, she shrugged.
“This morning. From the ship."
“Ah,” he drawled. He smiled. “And what did you think of him?"
“He has power,” she said. “He's fast."
“As the wind,” Kaelan interjected.
“How's he at stud?"
The question so shocked Kaelan, he couldn't answer. He simply stared at this waif of a girl standing
there blithely discussing the sexual capabilities of his mount and felt his face turn beet red.
“You've not tried him?” Gillian pressed, unaware of the reaction her innocuous questions had created.
“Not put him to a mare?"
“N ... not yet,” Kaelan managed to stammer. He uncrossed his arms and dug
your sister, Milady Adair?” he asked, staring deeply into orbs the color of emeralds.
“She is quite lovely, isn't she, Your Grace,” the woman beside him sighed. “Ah, how I wish I were still
her age with my whole life ahead of me."
Elga Junstrom, Kaelan remembered of a sudden. The widow of Count Brithe Junstrom. He flashed her a
charming smile. “Milady, your beauty is timeless.” When he saw her run her tongue over her lips, he read
the invitation as clearly as though she had spoken it aloud. Before he could say something that would
make her think him still interested, he dipped his head. “I was on my way to meet your father, Lady
Adair. With your permission?"
“Certainly, milord,” Adair sighed.
He could feel the young woman's eyes on his back as he moved through the crush of the crowd. Holding
his half-empty goblet aloft as he skirted those assembled, he smiled greetings to his father's guests, spoke
a word here and there. When he'd finally moved out of the press of warm bodies and suffocating
perfume, he made straight for the double doors which opened to the long balcony that overlooked the
harbor. As inconspicuously as possible, he ducked out into the chill night air and blended into the night
shadows cast by the soaring walls of the Keep.
“It stinks in there."
Kaelan nearly dropped his goblet in surprise. Spinning around, he peered into the darker reaches of the
balcony. “Stinks from what?” he asked, recovering from the surprise. Moving toward a lighter shape he
saw huddled against the far rail, he thought he recognized the voice of the speaker.
“All that bloody perfume!"
“Ah, the youngest Cree brat!” he chuckled. When he reached her, he looked with amusement at the
man's great cape in which she had wrapped herself. “Aren't you cold, mam'selle?"
“I'm no brat,” she snapped. “And I ain't cold!” She pulled the thick fur collar closer under her sharp
chin. “But I'd wager you are.” Her gaze flicked over his lightweight corduroy jacket and breeches, the
silk of his shirt.
“A bit,” he admitted, draining the goblet. Placing it on the rail beside him, he leaned out over the wrought
iron and gazed down into the crashing waves pounding the lower reaches of the Keep. “But I'm used to
it."
“I'll never get use to this hellish cold,” Gillian snapped. Her lips were trembling.
“Aye, you will,” he answered. He turned and leaned his rump against the rail, crossed his arms and
studied her shadowed face. “You don't like perfume; you don't like the cold; you don't like brown-haired
men with brown eyes."
“I didn't say that,” she defended herself.
“What do you like, mam'selle?” he continued.
“Horses.” The answer was quick and stated with emphatic assurance.
“Horses?” he asked. The right side of his mouth lifted. “Any particular breed?"
“Rysalians are, of course, the most beautiful,” she said, not sure if he was being condescending or not.
“Serenians are the fastest."
“I have a Serenian stallion,” Kaelan told her.
“Revenge,” she threw at him.
Kaelan's left eyebrow lifted. “You've heard of him?"
“Seen him,” she said. When he continued to look at her with that elevated slash of a brow, she shrugged.
“This morning. From the ship."
“Ah,” he drawled. He smiled. “And what did you think of him?"
“He has power,” she said. “He's fast."
“As the wind,” Kaelan interjected.
“How's he at stud?"
The question so shocked Kaelan, he couldn't answer. He simply stared at this waif of a girl standing
there blithely discussing the sexual capabilities of his mount and felt his face turn beet red.
“You've not tried him?” Gillian pressed, unaware of the reaction her innocuous questions had created.
“Not put him to a mare?"
“N ... not yet,” Kaelan managed to stammer. He uncrossed his arms and dug
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