Gayle Eden by Illara's Champion Page B

started to leave.
    Pagan stopped him. “Envy? For what?”
    “That despite your fears, you took a wife,” Randulf’s voice was quieter and less tense. “You allow yourself to be human, even vulnerable, Pagan.”
    “This, I know.”
    Randulf turned and peered at him. “I want to believe in what you are likely, unconsciously, hopeful of. I would that one of us, had something--besides vengeance.”
    Pagan glanced beyond him.
    Randulf turned too, seeing Illara standing there.
    She glanced between them then stared at Randulf’s face fully and said softly, “I did not mean to intrude, but Lylie sent me down.” Then while still holding Randulf’s gaze. “Don’t feel you must cover your face from me. I have seen more damage and less handsomeness than you retain. Save for your fear someone will connect you with your father on account of them, I would not have you think that I see anything to recoil from.”
    Pagan realized he was holding his breath, still glad for his own mask, because he was not certain that she spoke out of more kindness than truth. Yet he wanted to grab and kiss her for her words.
    Randulf’s fingers went to his brow and dragged down the scars over that side of his face. He raised the wool scarf and covered most of it, walking as if to pass Illara, pausing to say, “I’m to fetch a young man to spar with you. I will return shortly.”
    She nodded and let him pass then stepped down into the chamber, meeting Pagan’s gaze before looking around.
    The torches were set in niches, and lanterns rested on stone ledges. The arched area had rough walls and ceiling, and hard stone flooring. Trickles of water could be heard beyond, where the grates were open, a dozen turns and corner niches hid doors and passages that worked through the castle.
    There was another tunnel, not as high below. It smelled damp here, earthy, but not overpowering.
    Finally, her gaze rested on him. Her eyes appeared darker yet the color was enhanced by the illuminations of flame. She wore no cloak, only the breeches and blouse, and she carried her sword and sheathe in her hand.
    His gaze dropped to her breasts, pushing against the pleating made from the drawn ties of the tunic. Then back up. Pagan wished she had worn the vest.
    “It must have been hell,” she rasped. “But I meant what I said to him.”
    Pagan nodded, fighting the emotions racing through him with the same blood that was heating, causing his senses to be too aware of her, of the smoothness of her lips and the curve of her throat, the sound of her voice, more intimate in the labyrinth.
    She wet her lips and turned, removing the sword from the sheathe, then going through movements that would warm and stretch her muscles.
    Pagan leaned back against the wall, his eyes on her, his mind other places, and both absorbed by the grace of her movements.
    When Randulf entered with young Beroun, they stood for a moment watching Illara, who was finishing her practice. Though Beroun was a head taller, he was the least in bulk of Pagan’s men.
    A young man who had been beaten bloody at one of the Tourneys in Italy for thieving, Randulf had found him behind their tent and nursed him. The boy offered to do anything from Squire to groom. He was parentless, a bastard he said. They took him, and for a while watched him close, until he could be trusted. In three years, he had proved himself. Though trained, he would never have the body of a Knight. He was good with bow and blade, and he served as messenger and any other needed service.
    His hair was a shock of unruly black curls, broad shouldered and lanky, more sinewy and of dark skin and eyes, he still spoke with some thick provincial accent—but Randulf and Pagan liked him. His wit was as sharp as his eyes, and he used it to handle the mockery the other guards and bigger males heaped on him. He also had turned his thief’s skills into amusing tricks.
    Pagan raised his brow when the young man looked at him and gestured toward