‘But you escaped from them.’
‘Yes. No. Another man appeared, in silver armour. We knew him. He fought the demons, killing them, and brought us home. He was our friend. But he does not appear in my dreams now.’
‘Lie back,’ said Angel. ‘Have a little gentle sleep.’
‘No. I don’t want the dream again.’
Pulling back the woollen blanket Angel slid in beside her, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘No demons, Miriel. I shall be here to bring you back if there are.’ Pulling the
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blanket up around them both he lay still. She could feel the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart and closed her eyes.
She slept for a little over an hour and awoke refreshed. Angel was sleeping soundlessly beside her. In the faint light of pre-dawn his ugliness was softened, and she tried to picture him as he had been all those years ago when he had brought her the dress. It was almost impossible. Her arm was draped across his chest and she slowly drew it back, feeling the softness of his skin and the contrasting ridges of hard muscle across his belly. He did not wake, and Miriel felt a powerful awareness of her own nakedness. Her hand slid down, the tips of her fingers brushing over the pelt of tightly curled hair below his navel. He stirred. She halted all movement, aware now of her increased heartbeat. Fear touched her, but it was a delicious fear. There had been village boys who had filled her with longing, left her dreaming of forbidden trysts. But never had she felt like this, the onset of fear synchronised to her passion. Never had she been so aware of her desires. Her needs. His breathing deepened again. Her hand slid down, fingers caressing him, circling him, feeling him quicken and swell.
Doubt followed by panic suddenly flared within her. What if he opened his eyes? He could be angry at her boldness, might think her a whore. Which I am, she thought, with a burst of self-disgust. Releasing him she rolled from the bed. She had bathed the previous night, but somehow the thought of ice-cold water on her skin seemed not only pleasurable, but necessary. Moving carefully to avoid waking him she eased open the bedroom door and crossed the cabin floor.
Lifting the bar from its brackets she opened the main door and stepped out into the sunlit clearing before the cabin. The bushes and trees were still silvered with dew, the autumn sunlight weak upon her skin. How could she have acted so, she wondered as she strolled to the stream. Miriel had often dreamed of lovers, but never in her fantasies had they been ugly. Never had they been so old. And she knew she was not in love with the former
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gladiator. No, she realised, that’s what makes you a whore. You just wanted to rut like an animal.
Reaching the stream she sat down on the grass, her feet dangling in the water. Flowing from the high mountains there were small rafts of ice on the surface, like frozen lilies. And it was cold.
She heard a movement behind her but, lost in thought, she was not swift enough, and as she rolled to her feet a man’s hands caught her shoulder, hurling her to the grass. Ramming her elbow sharply back she connected with his belly. He grunted in pain and sagged across her. The smell of woodsmoke, greasy leather and stale sweat filled her nostrils and a bearded face fell against her cheek. Twisting she slammed the heel of her hand against the man’s nose, snapping his head back. Scrambling to her feet she tried to run, but the man grabbed her ankle, and a second man leapt from hiding. Miriel’s fist cracked against the newcomer’s chin, but his weight carried him forward and she was knocked to the ground, her arms pinned beneath her.
‘A real Hellcat,’ grunted the second man, a tall blond forester. ‘Are you all right, Jonas?’ The first man struggled to his feet, blood seeping from his nose and streaming into his black beard.
‘Hold her still, Baris. I’ve just the weapon to bring her to heel.’ The balding warrior began to unfasten the thongs of his leggings, moving forward to stand over Miriel.