I’m not! Rega wanted to scream.
Her fingers began to tremble, and she snatched them away, fumbling in her kit. What’s wrong with me? He’s an elf! His money, that’s what we’re after. That’s all that’s important.
“I’ve got some salve, made of spom bark. It’s going to sting, I’m afraid, but you’ll be healed by morning.”
“The wound I’m suffering will never heal.” Paithan’s hand slid over Rega’s arm, his touch soft and caressing.
Rega held perfectly still, allowing his hand to glide over her skin, up her arm, lighting fires as it passed. Her skin burned, the flames spread to her chest and constricted her breathing. The elf’s hand slid around to the small of her back, he drew her near. Rega, holding onto the bottle of salve tightly, let herself be pulled to him. She didn’t look at him, she couldn’t. This will work out fine, she told herself.
The elf’s arms were slender and smooth skinned, his body lithe. She tried to ignore the fact that her heart was beating so she thought it might crash through her chest.
Roland will come back and find us … kissing . . . and he and I will take this elf … for everything . . .
“No!” Rega gasped and broke away from Paithan’s embrace. Her skin burned, inexplicably she shook with chills. “Don’t . . . do that!”
“I’m sorry,” said Paithan, immediately drawing away. His breathing, too, was coming in short, deep gasps. “I don’t know what came over me. You’re married. I must accept that.”
Rega didn’t answer. She kept her back to him, wishing more than anything that he’d hold her in his arms, knowing that she’d pull away from him again if he did.
This is insane! she told herself, wiping a tear from her eye with the heel of her hand. I’ve let men I don’t care two stone for put their hands all over me. Yet this one … I want him . . . and I can’t . . .
“It won’t happen again, I promise you,” said Paithan.
Rega knew he meant it and cursed her heart for shriveling up and dying at the thought. She’d tell him the truth. The words were on her lips, then she paused.
What would she say? Tell him that she and Roland weren’t husband and wife, that they were really brother and sister, that they’d lied in order to trap the elf into an improper liaison, that they were planning to blackmail him? She could see his look of disgust and hatred. Maybe he’d leave!
It would be better if he did, whispered the cold, hard voice of logic. What chance for happiness do you have with an elf? Even if you found a way to tell him you were free to accept his love, how long would it last? He doesn’t love you, no elf could truly love a human. He’s amusing himself. That’s all it would be. A dalliance, lasting a season or two. Then he’ll leave, return to his people, and you’ll be an outcast among your own kind for having submitted to an elf’s caresses.
No, Rega answered stubbornly. He does love me. I’ve seen it in his eyes. And I’ve proof of it-he didn’t try to force his advances on me.
Very well, then, said that irritating voice, so he loves you. What now? You marry. You’re both outcasts. He can’t go home, you can’t either. Your love is barren, for elves and humans can’t reproduce. You wander the world in loneliness, years pass. You grow old and haggard, while he remains young and vital . . .
“Hey, what’s going on here?” demanded Roland, leaping unexpectedly out of the brush. He stopped dead in his tracks.
“Nothing,” said Rega coldly.
“I can see that,” murmured Roland, edging dose to his sister. She and the elf were standing at opposite edges of the small clearing in the jungle growth, as far apart as possible. “What’s going on, Rega? You two have a fight?”
“Nothing! All right! Just leave me alone!” Rega glanced up into the dark and twisted trees, clasped her arms around her and shivered. “This isn’t the most romantic spot, you know,” she said in a low voice.