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her breast.
    “Emric … thank God,” she whispered, stroking her hand down his face, watching as the anger and strain that marked his features in battle slowly receded. The whip had cut fiercely into the skin of his neck. She did not feel the exultation she expected as she looked at Bran’s body and saw the fruit her vengeance. There was only relief. Relief for her and Wareham, and her beloved Emric.
    She bent down to kiss the prince and was surprised to find he had passed into unconsciousness. His breath was shallow and ragged, and the color fled his cheeks. Ominous black veins were visible around the edge of the wound in his thigh as his passion’s blood drained from him.
    When she looked at Bran’s blade, she saw the edge was coated in thick, dark oil. She shuddered, her triumph turning to bile in her throat.

Chapter Thirteen
    L eanna pressed her lips lightly to Emric’s forehead. Fever had made his skin shockingly hot. She dabbed at him with a cloth wrung from a bucket of cold well water.
    The poison coating Bran’s blade had taken an awful toll. Already Emric was so frail Leanna had to listen at his chest to assure herself he still breathed.
    Emric’s men-at-arms had built a makeshift litter by lashing together spears and bedrolls, and had carried the prince to the shelter of the ancient cloister they had ridden past earlier. Most of the roof had crumbled long ago, but shelter could still be found in the far section of the wall that remained standing. The old well was partially clogged, but one of the men succeeded in drawing a bucket of clear water. They laid the stricken prince on a bed of blankets and sent riders out to find a healer.
    That had been hours ago.
    Leanna pressed his hands against her heart while she studied his face, wondering if she would ever see the raging thunder in those magical green eyes again. Would she ever drown in them as she had done so many times in the past? Her heart pounding with fear, she knelt at his side.
    “Don’t leave me, Emric. Don’t leave me now,” she pleaded as if words alone might keep him alive. She wished for Mirabel and her medicine pouch.
    The sun was setting slowly through the age-worn arches, where stained glass hadonce presided, and the ruddy light of the campfire lent Emric’s pallid body some color. Leanna lay down beside him.
    His body, usually so sensual, was now diminished by the wantonness of the poison within him. The dark wound below his hip had angry patterns of scarlet tracing across his belly and groin. He groaned with some horrific nightmare.
    “Do you remember, love, the first time you came to me?” she whispered to soothe him. If the men sitting about the fire could hear her whispers, they gave no indication.
    “You loosened the ribbons that held my chemise and slipped it from my shoulders; you always did like those blue ribbons. I laughed, for you looked at me as though you were afraid to touch me.” She smiled at the memory. “I looked into your eyes and knew that I could trust you with my body … with my heart. Remember, my love? I kissed your fingertips, and when you placed your hand against my breast, my heart beat so wildly I thought it would take flight.”
    Leanna leaned closer to his ear and continued. “You were careful, my love, and gentle.” She kissed him lightly, hoping to see a flicker of movement from his dark eyelashes.
    There was a polite cough. One of Emric’s bondsmen approached with a bowl of steaming broth.
    “You have not eaten today, my lady. It will do the prince no service if you fall ill, as well.” He set the bowl down near the makeshift bed.
    She thanked him and ate a bit, but Emric’s body seemed to heat still more with fever so she put the bowl aside.
    Leanna tended Emric as best she could for long hours into the night. At some point, exhaustion overcame her and she fell into slumber at the side of her beloved.
    Her head came up suddenly. The sleeping men around the fire snored and the lookout walked