Suzanne Robinson (32 page)

“Serath,” he said, not raising his voice. “It was a good effort, my lady, but now it is done. Come back. My patience is ended.”

And since she did not move, he reached through the brush and grabbed what was there—a mass of cloth, the woman beneath it erupting from the branches and dead leaves with complete and sudden fury, striking at him, struggling as he wrapped his arms around her and tried to contain the unexpected strength of her. It was a strangely silent battle, no sound from her other than the raggedness of her breathing, and his own harsh gasp as she landed a blow to his cheekbone.

“Enough!” Finally he had her restrained in front of him, her arms pinned, her tousled head held just below his.

“Enough,” Rafe said again, more subdued, and held her there until she was still at last, that blanket of silence about her shrouding them both.

There were leaves in her hair. They stood out against the black even in this dim light, papery ovals, a few twigs enmeshed in otherwise glossy locks. Her panting was slowing but the heat of her body seemed to grow against him, uncomfortably warm.

Rafael scowled again, fighting the unexpected appeal of this, a soft woman so near.

“Will you obey me, Serath Rune?” he asked her, his voice rough.

Slowly, slowly, he felt the tension from her body begin to fade, begin to melt, ever so slightly, against him. His own body responded with a completely unwelcome rush of hunger for her, for the sweet curves and ebony hair and the scent of some unknown spice that haunted her.

This was bad. He could not allow himself to feel for her, not even this basic, overwhelming lust. He could not allow anything so petty as passion for a woman to disrupt his plans, no matter how fair or enthralling she was.

“Will you obey?” he asked again, gritting his teeth.

And at last she nodded her head, just once, a short jerk. He turned her around in his arms, not releasing her completely, because he didn’t trust a nod.

Her head lifted; she shook away the curling strands of hair. Rafael found himself staring into a pair of blue eyes pale with moonlight, a face of such delicate and unlikely beauty that it left him winded for a moment, mute himself.

I know you
, Rafe thought, shock running through him.

Aye, there was a profound and telling recognition in him at the full sight of her, those eyes, that look. It was as if he had just discovered a part of himself in this person, a missing part that only now pained him for its loss.

He stood there gaping at her, knowing how inept it seemed, unable to help himself. She was a vision from a forgotten youth, a young woman with a face of timeless sorcery, dark brows, perfect nose, full lips, eyes surrounded by thick, black lashes. Her skin was utterly colorless in this light, her gaze the color of silver on heaven. She was the sun and the moon together, she was smoke and desire made real.

She had the face of an enchantress, yes, but the blue of her gaze told him something more: she had pride, and spirit—and what might have been fear. Rafe fought his reaction to that, the desire to comfort her.

He became suddenly, acutely aware of his hands on her, the burning heat of his palms against her upper arms, where he held her. The firm but giving flesh of her, so close her body nearly brushed his. He felt a kind of insanity from it, realizing all at once that here in his grip was more than a prize he had won; this was a woman, warmth and familiar succor, and he wanted nothing more than to pull her the rest of the way to him, to feel the whole of her pressed to his body. To bury himself in her.

It
was
a spell—a mortal spell to be sure, but a terrible and disastrous one, and Rafael of Leonhart was, for the first time in his adulthood, helpless to combat the emotions that raged through him.