respect the privacy of her grief. But then, in the midst of it, he heard a sudden exclamation.
“No, no, noooo!”
He heard something slam and he jumped up, dripping. For a moment he felt as if he were weaving—a reaction from the, alcohol content in the wine. Swearing, he reached for his towel and wrapped it around him. He staggered from the tub and steadied himself. He found his Colt on the chair where he had set it when he’d stripped. Colt in one hand, towel in the other, he was about to bound out into the hall and find out who or what had assaulted his hostess when he realized that there was a connecting door between the two rooms.
He strode pell-mell to it, tried the knob, and found it locked. Afraid that she was in real danger, he rammed the door with his shoulder.
A far flimsier door than the main one below, it gave readily—the lock simply breaking from the hinge. His impetus took him, towel around his waist, gun in hand, into the center of her room.
There was no one there. Not in the room.
Rhiannon sat in a whitewashed wooden swing out on her balcony. If not for the moonlight, he wouldn’t have seen her. Barefoot, in a long cotton gown, she sat, knees curled into her chest, rocking. Her ebony hair was loosed from its coil and streamed down her back like a silk shawl. She looked very young, a lost waif, a magical creature indeed, caught by the pale glow of the soft moonlight.
She should have heard her door break open, but it appeared that she hadn’t even noticed his arrival.
Stunned, he started walking toward her. He stopped suddenly as he stepped in liquid. Looking down, he realized that he had just missed stepping on the remnants of a shattered glass. A small pool of wine lay next to it.
He stepped around the glass and walked toward the balcony. When he had nearly reached her, she heard him at last. She leapt to her feet, spinning around to face him, startled and afraid.
“How dare you sneak up on me!”
“I hardly snuck up on you, considering the fact that I broke a door apart to reach you.”
“What in God’s name are you doing in here?”
“Trying to rescue you.”
“Rescue me?”
Her eyes skidded over his body, taking in the towel and the gun. Her eyes widened.
“Rescue me—you’re aiming a gun at me!” she said indignantly. Then some emotion passed through her eyes. “Are you going to shoot me?” she inquired a little breathlessly.
As if there might be a reason he would consider shooting her.
“Why would I shoot you?” he inquired.
“Because—” she began, and broke off. “You’re—carrying a gun. It’s aimed at me.”
“I thought you were being attacked. And I’m not aiming at you.”
“Attacked? By whom? Your men?” she queried.
He gritted his teeth, growing impatient and feeling very much a fool. His head was still swimming. He was standing in her room with a towel and a gun. “You were crying—then you screamed,” he explained.
“Don’t be absurd. I didn’t scream.”
“You did.” Damn her. He hadn’t drunk that much wine.
Suddenly her gaze slipped from his. Her words and tone faltered. “I’m—I’m sorry. I must have been dreaming, it was a ... nightmare, perhaps ...”
And then he knew.
There was something not quite right about her. Her eyes, when they met his again, were widely dilated. She held one hand behind her back, like a child hiding a forbidden toy. He frowned, stepping forward. “What have you got?”
“Nothing.” She backed away from him in such a way that he was determined to persist. He cast his Colt to the foot of her bed and reached for her, drawing her to him. She stiffened at his touch, her body trembling. She struggled to free herself, but he caught her wrist, wondering what it was she was so determined to hide. A gun? A knife? Had she been planning on entering his room and murdering him while he slept?
“Give it to me!” he commanded harshly. He slid his left arm around her waist, forcing her hard against the
“No, no, noooo!”
He heard something slam and he jumped up, dripping. For a moment he felt as if he were weaving—a reaction from the, alcohol content in the wine. Swearing, he reached for his towel and wrapped it around him. He staggered from the tub and steadied himself. He found his Colt on the chair where he had set it when he’d stripped. Colt in one hand, towel in the other, he was about to bound out into the hall and find out who or what had assaulted his hostess when he realized that there was a connecting door between the two rooms.
He strode pell-mell to it, tried the knob, and found it locked. Afraid that she was in real danger, he rammed the door with his shoulder.
A far flimsier door than the main one below, it gave readily—the lock simply breaking from the hinge. His impetus took him, towel around his waist, gun in hand, into the center of her room.
There was no one there. Not in the room.
Rhiannon sat in a whitewashed wooden swing out on her balcony. If not for the moonlight, he wouldn’t have seen her. Barefoot, in a long cotton gown, she sat, knees curled into her chest, rocking. Her ebony hair was loosed from its coil and streamed down her back like a silk shawl. She looked very young, a lost waif, a magical creature indeed, caught by the pale glow of the soft moonlight.
She should have heard her door break open, but it appeared that she hadn’t even noticed his arrival.
Stunned, he started walking toward her. He stopped suddenly as he stepped in liquid. Looking down, he realized that he had just missed stepping on the remnants of a shattered glass. A small pool of wine lay next to it.
He stepped around the glass and walked toward the balcony. When he had nearly reached her, she heard him at last. She leapt to her feet, spinning around to face him, startled and afraid.
“How dare you sneak up on me!”
“I hardly snuck up on you, considering the fact that I broke a door apart to reach you.”
“What in God’s name are you doing in here?”
“Trying to rescue you.”
“Rescue me?”
Her eyes skidded over his body, taking in the towel and the gun. Her eyes widened.
“Rescue me—you’re aiming a gun at me!” she said indignantly. Then some emotion passed through her eyes. “Are you going to shoot me?” she inquired a little breathlessly.
As if there might be a reason he would consider shooting her.
“Why would I shoot you?” he inquired.
“Because—” she began, and broke off. “You’re—carrying a gun. It’s aimed at me.”
“I thought you were being attacked. And I’m not aiming at you.”
“Attacked? By whom? Your men?” she queried.
He gritted his teeth, growing impatient and feeling very much a fool. His head was still swimming. He was standing in her room with a towel and a gun. “You were crying—then you screamed,” he explained.
“Don’t be absurd. I didn’t scream.”
“You did.” Damn her. He hadn’t drunk that much wine.
Suddenly her gaze slipped from his. Her words and tone faltered. “I’m—I’m sorry. I must have been dreaming, it was a ... nightmare, perhaps ...”
And then he knew.
There was something not quite right about her. Her eyes, when they met his again, were widely dilated. She held one hand behind her back, like a child hiding a forbidden toy. He frowned, stepping forward. “What have you got?”
“Nothing.” She backed away from him in such a way that he was determined to persist. He cast his Colt to the foot of her bed and reached for her, drawing her to him. She stiffened at his touch, her body trembling. She struggled to free herself, but he caught her wrist, wondering what it was she was so determined to hide. A gun? A knife? Had she been planning on entering his room and murdering him while he slept?
“Give it to me!” he commanded harshly. He slid his left arm around her waist, forcing her hard against the
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