In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy) by Sarah Zettel Page A

like amber, but neither of these. It appealed, like the scent of a good meal just cooked, or, even more the scent of a woman close by.
    Harrik shook his head. It was distracting. If they left him his hands, whoever brought him here, they would learn they should not, even though they had thought so far as to deny him his sword.
    He got himself to his feet, but before he could take a step, the pavilion opened to reveal a woman. The rich scent grew suddenly sharper, as if she carried it with her and for a moment, Harrik felt dizzy. Then he recognized the slim form and the golden hair. This was Wulfget’s woman. What was her name? Had he even heard it?
    But it meant that Wolfget held him, and it meant he must be careful still what he said.
    The woman, however, spoke first. “Welcome Harrik, Hullward’s son,” she said and her voice was low and clear, and truly did seem full of welcome. Her eyes that reflected the firelight also seemed to hold welcome, but of a very different sort.
    Harrik reminded himself again that he was not a boy nor a fool and pushed himself to his feet. He towered over her. She had not seemed so small nor so delicate when he had seen her before as she did now, moving to a table where cups waited with a skin of wine. Harrik stared, fascinated. He had not remembered her skin being so fair either, nor her hands so supple as they lifted the skin and deftly poured the wine, red as blood, red as her gentle mouth, into the cups for them to share.
    “Why have I been brought here?” he remembered to ask. “Where is Wulfweard?”
    “My husband will be along presently.” She lifted a cup in her pale hand and held it out to him. She seemed luminescent, absorbing the firelight and returning it softened and a more pure white than it had been. Her mouth was so red … had she already drunk some wine? Was that what stained her lips and turned them so inviting a shade?
    She saw where his gaze lingered. How could she not? Harrik cursed himself and tried to look away, but she moved toward him with the grace of a doe. Her dress was simple, a plain fawn wool. It outlined her round breasts and flat belly that had never yet known children. The braided belt served only to draw the skirt more tightly over her full, smooth hips that swayed ever so slightly as she approached, bringing all the scents of wine and spices, smoke and amber with her.
    “Will you drink with me, Hullward’s son?” she asked softly, her eyes dipped, almost shy as she held out the cup. He should not take it. He must not. There was something wrong here, in the air, in his blood, in this woman’s presence. He tightened his hands into fists. If only he could think what it must be. If only her perfume were less strong, if only she herself were less lovely.
    “Surely there is no harm in sharing what is offered?” she said with a small smile. “I shall drink myself and you will see.” She lifted the cup to her full and smiling mouth. Harrik could not help but watch the way her tongue parted her red, red lips just a little in anticipation of the wine’s touch. She sipped delicately but long. He watched the way light and shadow played across her throat as she swallowed and his fisted hands ached to trace the wine’s path down between her breasts to her belly and lower yet, to know what she kept between her round thighs, to hear what she said in love …
    “Now, you drink for me, Harrik.” She held out the cup and looked boldly into his eyes, her mouth still parted just a little so he could see her white teeth. A drop of wine clung to the corner of her mouth. It shimmered there like a ruby and he stared at it, mesmerized.
    The woman noted that his gaze lingered there on her mouth, and her eyes widened, playfully, knowingly. With her free hand, she reached up and wiped the drop away, then held up the tip of her wine-stained finger before him.
    “Drink, Harrik,” she murmured, her voice rich with promise. “Let me know what manner of man you