Taken by Storm (ROMANTIC REALMS COLLECTION) by M.J. Schiller Page A

his find. Carrying the log left pieces of bark on his shirt, and long, smeared lines of gray to go with the red streaks of blood. Whether they were from their earlier fighting, or her own wound, she wasn’t at all sure.
    He would have looked almost comical if he weren’t so darn good-looking, she thought. His right sleeve was ripped from shoulder to forearm, and, as he shifted his hands so they were underneath the wood, she could see the ripple of his biceps and felt an unwanted stirring in her blood. Tahj straightened his arms out over his head with very little effort, and the display of strength had her fighting back a sigh. He dropped the log to the ground with a dull thump and rolled it with his feet until he got it where he wanted it, near the fire. He planted a boot on it triumphantly.
    “Our couch,” he said, bending and waving his hand gallantly along its length.
    He approached and reached down, sliding his large hand behind Bashea’s good shoulder to help her up. She scrambled to her feet, shying away from his touch as much as she welcomed it. After she was comfortable by the log, he sat down next to her, crossing his legs in front of him. They sat quietly at first, surrounded by the night rhythms of the forest, the lazy sound of crickets chorusing with the popping of some of the greener kindling the fire consumed, and the deep bass of Radeem’s snores. The pair soon was enjoying the soothing sensation of fire-roasted faces and clothes, even as the cool air chilled their backs to balance out the heat.
    “How’s your shoulder?” Tahj asked after a while.
    “A little sore,” she said hesitantly, “but, all in all, I think it could have been a lot worse.”
    He nodded in agreement. “Where are you from, Bashea?”
    She liked the way he said her name, with care. She stared into the leaping, yellow-blue flames and sighed. “We call it Tamook. It’s just a little village near the bottom of Mount Sabalan, to the north. My people are a nomadic tribe,” she explained. “We herd sheep and move from place to place to find pasture.” She felt embarrassed to be a mere sheepherder in the presence of a real prince, even though in her own tribe she was considered a princess, the daughter of the chief. But it was hardly the same, princess of a wandering land full of sheep dung, compared to prince of the glorious city of Avistad. She’d heard wondrous things about the city and all the goods that could be found there, all the things that could be done there, for the right price.
    Tahj picked up a stick and idly played with the fire, trying to find a way to form his next question. “I’m sorry…” He stopped and started again, laying the stick aside and turning to her. “They took you away from your home, those men ?”
    Even in the firelight, he could see her cheeks flush. She quickly looked away from him, staring blindly again into the dance of flames. After several seconds had passed, she answered. “Yes.”
    “We will take you home, then, tomorrow.”
    She looked at him, her eyes wide. “You’d do that?”
    “Of course.” Reading the surprise on her face, an idea occurred to him and, his voice a bit panicky, he questioned, “You didn’t think I ordered, or had anything to do with what those men—”
    “No,” she said quickly. “I didn’t think that.”
    But he could tell it was a lie. He studied her profile in the flickering firelight. She still didn’t trust him entirely. Her face still held the cuts and bruises from her tormentors, but it was no less beautiful, with a sense of pride and strength, framed with those tumbling black curls. She was unusual, this girl, and he found himself longing to unlock the secrets of her heart.
    She drew her knees up and rubbed her arms. Tahj rose, and her eyes darted in his direction, still cagey and frightened. “I’m getting you a blanket.” She nodded, but didn’t speak again, going back to gazing into the depths of the fire. What was she thinking? Was