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yours.”
    Golde searched his severe, pock-ravaged features. His comment stung and . . .
    Nay. She was no longer a child. Never again would such hurtful taunts affect her.
    She glanced over her shoulder at the great entrance doors. The urge to run through them and return home was so acute, her muscles twitched in anticipation.
    Instead, her legs carried her straight to the baron. ’Twas impossible to deny him. Despite the macabre scene her demented thoughts had just conjured, she could not forget the comforting feel of his body atop hers. Never had she experienced such soul-snatching awareness.
    Nor have you known such terror,
a voice whispered in her head.

S IX

    I AM NOT too slow,” Alory huffed at Ronces, his cherubic features acquiring a mulish cast.
    “Papa is no baby to crawl up the stairs like you,” Ronces returned hotly.
    If the baron heard aught of his sons’ squabbling, he gave no indication. Golde glared at the boys’ backs. She would not be surprised to see horns growing from their heads.
    Upon gaining the head of the stairs, Delamaure paused. “Is Hesper caring for Nicolette?” he asked, his head swiveling in the direction of the girl’s chamber.
    Before Golde could respond, the redhaired serving maid appeared in the doorway. “’Tis Edna, yer lordship.”
    “Aye . . . Edna?” The baron appeared nonplussed.
    “I be Hesper’s niece,” the girl supplied.
    Delamaure’s face cleared. “Well, then, Edna. Keep a close watch, and should you need aught, the ha—er, the witch . . .
    Golde folded her arms over her chest as the baron stammered.
    “That is, mistress here,” he nodded over his shoulder, “will be in my chambers.”
    With that, he nudged the boys forward, and Golde followed the threesome down the corridor.
    She halted just inside the baron’s chamber door, distracted by the tapestries that hung on the walls. In one, men in flowing white robes galloped dun-colored horses across a background of swirling, cream-colored—was it sand? Faded red, blue, and gold streamers trailed from ornate headgear, which resembled nothing that English men wore. Another scene depicted whimsical buildings with round roofs perched atop columns.
    She moved closer, inspecting the images. Though fresh, salty air drifted through the unshuttered chamber windows, she caught a whiff of some night-sweet, smoky scent she could not define. ’Twas obvious the wall coverings had absorbed the odor, but from what?
    Suddenly the hair crawled along her nape. The tapestries appeared exactly as they had in her . . .
    She’d had a vision! She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Praise the Goddess Danu. And God, too. She crossed herself. She was not mad. Mimskin would be thrilled.
    Abruptly her good cheer fled and her eyes snapped open. If her swevyn was accurate, a beautiful woman had been brutally slaughtered in this very room. Who was she?
    A tingle of apprehension climbed her spine. Her gaze swept past the dark lord and his children to fix on the great four-posted bed. A gold-embroidered scarlet coverlet covered the bed. The material looked to have been spun from rubies—or blood.
    Her gaze leapt to the lord’s broad shoulders as the boys led him across the room. She studied his thick black hair, unfashionably long where it fell to his shoulders. With a few braids, he would resemble exactly a barbarian chieftan of yore.
    Could he have committed such savagery against a female? He appeared most capable. Or was the woman from some other time, an image from the distant past, or mayhap, the future?
    Again she recalled the feel of the man as he’d lain atop her, his hearbeat pulsing through her body. She’d felt so protected.
    Nay. She blinked. It could not have been a vision. She had seen the tapestries last night and been too busy ogling the naked Delamaure to note them. After that, her attention had been so focused on Nicolette, she’d noticed little more than the tub.
    The dead woman was no more than a figment of her