The Lone Warrior by Denise Rossetti

pause. “I guess. Mebbe Erik.” A frown. “An’ I work fer Prue, fer ’em all.” He squared skinny shoulders.
    Deiter snorted. “Boy’s a guttersnipe. But Cenda insisted on bringing him. The gods know why.”
    Florien curled a lip, though Walker noted the trembling hands, the pulse beating in his thin neck. The child was terrified, as well he might be. “Wouldn’t work fer ye, old man. Not iffen ye paid me.”
    But he had balls. Fleetingly, Walker saw another face, a girl with hair as black as his own and a wheedling grin. C’mon, big brother, I’m tall enough now. Teach me quarterstaff. Mam won’t know, I swear.
    Casually, he stepped between Deiter and the boy. “Get Dai to show you the basics, without the knife, mind. When he says you’re ready, come to me.”
    Florien’s mouth dropped open. Then he flushed a deep scarlet, eyes as black as Walker’s own sparkling like polished jet.
    “No,” Mehcredi said immediately. “Dai’s not up to anything like that.”
    Walker ignored her. “Dai?”
    A nod and a smile. Sure .
    “Good.” Walker turned on his heel and headed back toward his accounts.

    Her skin still flushed with warmth after another stolen bath, Mehcredi lit the stub of a candle, lowered herself to the edge of her bed and stared at the swordmaster’s shirt. The moment he’d disappeared into the building, she’d stopped using it as a makeshift towel. And once she gained her room, she draped it carefully over the back of the single chair to dry.
    She was trembling now, with the oddest mixture of excitement and trepidation. All day she’d been thinking of that piece of linen, a secret pleasure that filled her with glee, naughty as a child with stolen candy.
    Biting her lip, she reached out to finger a dangling cuff. It wasn’t a good shirt, she’d done enough laundry to know that, just something he chose for rough work. The fabric was worn and soft, with a couple of neat darns. One of the laces was frayed at the end. Not a garment he was likely to miss.
    Letting out a gusty breath, she rose and spread it out over the bed, patting and twitching it into place as if it were a fine satin quilt. Then she jammed the back of the chair under the doorknob, as she did every night. Without giving herself time to think, she reefed the shift over her head and flung it to the floor.
    Her heart banged about behind her ribs, the sonorous beat so loud it echoed in her ears.
    Now. Sweet Sister, now !
    Before she lost her nerve, Mehcredi grabbed the shirt, squeezed her eyes shut and slid into it the way she slipped under the deep water of her bath, fumbling her arms into the sleeves. Walker was broader across the shoulders and the chest and the cut of the garment was loose, so it slithered down over breasts, hips and buttocks without hindrance, a whispered caress that finished midthigh.
    It smelled of man—not just any man—of him , his skin, his body, his uncompromising masculinity. As if he’d put his arms around her and drawn her close, her nose buried against the soft skin behind his ear. The sensation was more overpowering than she’d anticipated, so much so that she swayed where she stood. When she raised an arm to brace herself against the low ceiling, the soft linen shifted, sliding against the sensitive skin under her arm, brushing the shaman’s Mark on her breast, the curve of her stomach.
    Silvery heat flared low in her belly, so bright and clenching, she doubled over, stumbled and fell back on the bed with a choked cry. Pressing the heel of her hand against the mound of her sex made it worse, even more intense. Gods . Every swirling line of the Mark on her breast tingled. The tender flesh swelled, the skin tightening. Her nipples ached as if compressed between hard fingers. Shaking, she stroked fingertips over the fabric, tracing every line of the Mark beneath. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine it was the swordmaster, hunter’s face intent, Magick flowing from his fingers, soaking into