Medieval 02 - Forbidden

settled more closely to him. Closing her eyes, shutting out the rest of the world, she savored the purest pleasure she had ever known.
    It was like being suspended in a pool of sweet fire, caressed by warmth, knowing the heart of light.
    And beyond the golden warmth of the pool, knowledge lay in shades of darkness.
    Waiting.
    Amber gave a low cry. She could think of few men who would have such a certainty of their own prowess in battle. Dominic le Sabre and Duncan of Maxwell! were two. A third was Erik.
    A great warrior lies beneath my hand, light and darkness, pleasure and pain, soul mate and deadly foe in one .
    “Amber.”
    Slowly she opened her eyes. The look on Erik’s face told her that he had called to her more than once. Intent, tawny eyes watched her. His concern for her was tangible, and warming. She forced a smile despite the turmoil seething beneath her calm surface.
    She owed Erik so much. His father had given her clothes, the cottage, men to work the land, and land for men to work. Erik trusted her as though she were a clansman rather than a waif with neither parent nor sibling to call her own.
    And she knew she was going to betray Erik’s trust for a stranger who might well prove to be Erik’s foe.
    Having touched the stranger, Amber could not deliver him to death at Erik’s hands. Not until she was certain that the man was whom she feared.
    Perhaps not even then.
    He could simply be a stranger, known to no one .
    The thought was as seductive as a hearth fire on a winter day.
    Aye! A stranger. Other knights have come to the Disputed Lands. I have heard their tales of being tested in the Saracen crucible. They were confident of their own might .
    This man could be such a warrior .
    He must be .
    “Amber?”
    “Leave him here,” she said huskily. “He belongs to me.”
    The temptation to continue touching the stranger was very great. Reluctantly she withdrew her hand. The emptiness she felt at the loss of touch dismayed her. Until that instant she wouldn’t have described herself as lonely.
    Erik let out a long, relieved sigh as he realized that touching the stranger had unsettled Amber, but hadn’t caused her true pain.
    “God must be listening to my prayers,” Erik said.
    Amber made a questioning sound.
    “I need skilled warriors,” Erik said. “The Scots Hammer is only the first problem I must face.”
    “What else?” Amber asked, concerned.
    “Norsemen have been seen just north of Winterlance. And my dear cousins grow restless once again.”
    “Send them to fight the Norsemen.”
    “More likely, they would ally themselves and attack my father’s estates,” Erik said, smiling thinly.
    Amber forced herself not to look at the stranger. Having a warrior such as Dominic le Sabre or the Scots Hammer fighting with Erik rather than against him could easily make the difference between peace and prolonged war for the Disputed Lands.
    Yet she could as well wish to pour sunlight from hand to hand like water as wish the great Norman lord or his Scots vassal to ally with Lord Robert of the North.
    “What is my new warrior’s name?” Erik asked.
    “I’ll ask him when he wakens,” Amber said.
    “Why did he come to the Disputed Lands?”
    “That will be the second thing I ask him.”
    “Where was he going?” Erik asked.
    “That will be the third.”
    Erik grunted. “You didn’t learn much when you touched him, did you?”
    “No.”
    “The stranger’s sleep isn’t natural.”
    Amber nodded.
    “Is he spellbound?” Erik pressed.
    “No.”
    Erik’s eyebrows rose at the quickness of her response.
    “You sound quite certain,” he said.
    “I am.”
    “Why?”
    Frowning, Amber probed her memory. The certainties that had flowed from the stranger into her were unlike any she had ever discovered by touch in the past. His basic nature—fierce, proud, generous, passionate, determined, bold—had been frighteningly easy to discover.
    Yet there were no shifting, chaotic images of the hours or days or weeks or years before he came to the Stone Ring and the sacred rowan. There was no bright sense of purpose stitching like lightning through darkness. There were no faces beloved or hated.
    It was as though the stranger had no memories.
    Without realizing it, Amber reached out to the man again. She willed herself to ignore the pleasure as she once had taught herself to ignore pain. Peeling away petal after petal of beguiling sensation, she searched for the stranger’s memories.
    There