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All Talia wanted from the goddess Gillian was help in choosing
between two potential husbands, but the goddess wasn't interesting
in seeing Talia settle for a man she doesn't feel passion for.
But when in the normally timid woman's life has she ever felt
passion?
Well once, when the army came through her village and a handsome
soldier saved her from near-rape. Talia had been too frightened
to make the soldier stay with her in spite of her desire for
him. As the goddess said, she's always lived more in her dreams
than in the real world.
When Talia dreams that night of what might have happened had
she invited the soldier Remak into her home, she understands
what the goddess wanted her to know...that life without passion
and true love is not for her. She must find her warrior and see
if another chance could be had with him.
But that day was long ago and to find Remak Talia will have to
summon her courage - and possibly risk her life for love!
And then Talia did remember. One day, years ago, there had been
a man…and she’d felt something she hadn’t felt
before—or since.
It had been a terrible day when the army had arrived in her village.
It was their ruler’s army, sworn to protect their lands,
but the soldiers had spread through the streets and taken what
they wanted without paying for it, their commanders not stopping
the looting…and worse.
Talia had been out delivering her weaving and was caught by three
of the soldiers bent on “worse”. She’d screamed
and cried and fought the men, but they had been larger and stronger
and she’d been overpowered.
Her arms bound by a rope, she’d been dragged into an alley
and pushed to the wall. One had held her while a second lifted
her skirt. The third was pulling off his pants when he had arrived.
All she’d seen was a shadow move in the open end of the
alley, then the man with his pants down had been tossed against
the wall, his head smacking into it with a sickening hollow sound.
He’d crumpled to the ground, stunned but breathing.
The two men on either side of her had gasped, and the one holding
up her skirt dropped it to draw his sword. “She’s
ours, Remak. Go find your own woman,” he said, threatening
with his weapon.
“
I don’t take what isn’t given freely,” the
new man had said quietly, pulling the short sword at his side.
He’d swung with the flat side of the blade and the blow
hit the other man’s arm hard.
The ugly man had dropped his sword, cried out in agony and cradled
his arm. “I think you broke it.” His face showed
his pain.
The other man’s face had remained in shadow, his voice
enigmatic. “Then find a healer to fix it. And on your way,
tell the other men that I said to leave these people alone or
they’ll answer to me. Those in this village aren’t
our enemies and we shouldn’t be theirs.”
The one holding her let her go and she’d stumbled back
into the wall, using it for support while the uninjured man helped
his semiconscious friend to his feet and followed the one holding
his arm into the street. She’d been left in the alley with
her rescuer.
For a moment she’d stared at him, stunned by her near rape.
Then he’d moved toward her, sword in hand, and she’d
shied away, tripping on the uneven ground. With her wrists still
bound she’d have fallen, but he’d caught her with
one muscular arm and cradled her against his body. For a moment
she’d lain against his chest, gazing into eyes that had
blazed at her.
Now she tried to remember. What color had they been, those eyes
that had thrown such heat at her that she could still feel it
now in her flesh? Brown? Maybe, but not the muddy color that
brown eyes usually had. Instead his eyes had golden lights that
brightened them, gold like the streaks that highlighted his dark
hair. The latter was bound at the nape of his neck with a cord,
but some long strands had escaped to trail down his neck and
onto his chest.
She’d wanted her hands free of the rope, just to touch
those wayward strands and see if they were as soft as they looked,
as soft as the yarn she used in her weaving.
His face could never have been called handsome, but there was
something arresting about it anyway. It was all hard lines and
planes, featuring a nose with a ridge across it from where some
blow had broken it. A face well used, like the body holding her.
This was a man who’d lived most of his life outdoors, bronzed
by the sun and hardened by the elements. Hardened by a life of
fighting as well, with his massive fists and the sharp sword
he still carried in his other hand.
A hard man. A soldier. And yet the arm that held her did so carefully,
as if afraid she’d break against him. He was a man who’d
saved her from his fellows and even warned them to stop the harassment
of her village or answer to him.
A man unlike any she’d ever known, and she’d imagined
how it would be to kiss him. For long moments they’d stared
at each other and she’d wondered as his lips pressed together
if he could know her thoughts. Would he kiss her? Would she like
it?
In the pit of her stomach something clenched and then far lower
another part of her woke and she grew warm and wanting. Wanting
his kiss. Wanting more than a kiss.
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