Come Back to Me by Josie Litton Page A

of her identity from her, and then decide how the most exquisitely sensual woman he had ever met would pay for her transgressions against him.
    Scant moments later, Dragon was ready. He rode Grani, who had been called Romulus but was really named for the mount of the god Sigurd, and was followed by Sleipnir, formerly Remus, named for the mighty Odin's own horse. Never mind his dislike of horses, they offered the swiftest way to track her.
    One more quick sweep of the ground in all directions confirmed what he already knew. She had learned from the experience of two days before. There was not a trace of her beyond the few footprints at the water's edge. She had entered the river. He could not do the same without risking the horses in the uncertain footing of the stream bed. He would have to follow as closely alongside as possible, knowing there would be times when the path veered inland through the forest. Yet was there also advantage, for there were only two directions in which she could have gone—upstream or down.
    Upstream meant north, against the current and into the hinterland from which she had fled. Downstream was Hawkforte, its port and the chance, however remote, of escape.
    Grim-faced, the Dragon turned south.
     
    RYCCA STUMBLED, STRIKING HER KNEES YET AGAIN on the treacherous rocks. She bit back a curse, hauled herself upright, spat out a mouthful of water, and went on, just as she had every other time she had slipped and fallen in the hateful, damnable, seemingly endless river. She was soaking wet, half blinded by the hair trailing in her eyes, and hurting in every inch of her body that wasn't outright numb. She was also chilled to the bone, for despite seeming to have swallowed enough water to turn the river into a dry bed, she was still submerged to her waist.
    The temptation to just crawl up onto the bank and lie there in a huddled mass of misery was almost overwhelming, but some part of her, as she observed with a certain dazed detachment, was too pigheaded to give up. No, she would plod on likely to the ends of the earth, slipping and sliding, gasping and groaning, until either the river won or she did. Had she been inclined to wager, she would have bet on the river.
    A soundless laugh broke from her, mute because she had scarcely any breath left. To think she had been afraid of drowning. With hindsight, that might have been merciful if only for being swift, unlike the seemingly endless torment into which she had plunged. She could not even say her heart ached unless emptiness could be said to resonate with pain as a cavern does when sound pours into its void.
    Never to see him again, not even to know his name, how was that to be borne? Yet what else could she have done? He was already at too great a risk merely for being with her and vastly more so now that they had lain together. What poor thanks it was for his care of her to place him in such danger. Yet she had done so selfishly, without thought to his welfare, merely to seize a memory.
    She tasted salt on her lips and knew it did not come from the river. Enough then, what was done was done. Whatever anguish filled her, whatever longings dogged her every breath, she was still driven to live. Step after painful step, grasping on to branches and rocks yet falling many more times, Rycca made her way downstream. Not until she judged that she had covered several miles did she drag herself from the river. Lying panting with exhaustion on the bank, she tried to think. Surely by now she had gone far enough to elude pursuit? Even so masterly a tracker could not follow where there was no trace at all. Could he?
    Best not to think of that, for truly she could not endure the river any longer. Sitting up, Rycca glanced around, trying to gain some sense of where she was. All around was forest, revealing nothing. With a sigh, she rose to her feet and began wringing water out of her tunic and hair. When she was no longer quite so wet, she girded what strength she had