The Lone Warrior by Denise Rossetti

nobility, Serafina glared down her sharp nose in silence. Then she pointed an imperious finger at a sink full of crusted pots and hot soapy water.
    Mehcredi’s stomach grumbled. It had to be part of the torture—the swordmaster intended to starve her until his revenge was complete. Unless, of course, Dai found a way to kill her from flat on his back or Serafina worked her to death.
    Morosely, she wiped a sweaty palm on the simple shift she wore. It was modest enough, resembling a large linen sack that hung to below her knees, but already limp and grubby. She’d been up since dawn, first in the kitchen, then in the laundry. Even her blisters had blisters. She’d spent her childhood trying to keep out of the way, but it was no use in Walker’s House of Swords. The premises were small compared with a rambling keep, and anyway, Serafina seemed to have more than the usual complement of senses. The bloody woman was a witch.
    Mehcredi scowled. If Dai refused his lunch, the housekeeper would have her up beyond midnight, scrubbing floors with a nailbrush or something.
    It had been a week before the swordsman could produce more than thin, mewling noises, let alone rise from his bed, but by the third day, Mehcredi knew his body as well as she knew her own. His smooth, muscled limbs left her unmoved, though a part of her knew he was beautiful. On the fourth day, he ripped the sponge from her grasp with a silent snarl and pointed to the door. Even a great daft lump could work out what that meant. Get out, bitch, and give me my privacy.
    His mind she knew not at all, though he followed her always with his eyes as she lumbered about in sullen silence, scrubbing, sweeping, polishing. The bright unblinking focus unnerved her almost as much as Walker’s grim silent presence.
    If it weren’t for the godsbedamned Mark . . .
    She’d tested its power to the absolute limits of her endurance. Four times, she nerved herself to walk through that damned gate and four times, she’d known beyond a shadow of a doubt her heart would explode in a messy shower if she took another step. After the last attempt, late one night, she’d had to retire to her tiny attic room, shaking so hard she stopped twice to rest on the stairs. Gods, no more. Walker had said the Mark would also prevent her from harming Dai. Not that she particularly wanted to, though the man’s silent hate-filled stare made her guts cramp. She blew out a gusty breath. With any luck, he’d eaten some of his breakfast.
    Before she could lose her nerve, Mehcredi shouldered Dai’s door open.
    The bed was empty. The swordsman stood with his back turned, hunched over something he held cradled against his chest. He rocked back and forth on his heels.
    “Dai?” she whispered. “Dai, are you—?”
    His head jerked up and he whirled around so suddenly he nearly pitched over. At the last second, he grabbed the edge of the dresser with one hand; in the other he clutched the neck of a small stringed instrument. His eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks wet.
    Dai’s mouth contorted, but only an agonized gargle emerged. A second later, he launched himself forward, reaching for her with clawed fingers, snarling, barely human. The instrument fell unheeded to the floor.
    Mehcredi dropped the tray so she could shield her face. Despite his current weakness, Dai was nonetheless male to her female and a master swordsman at the peak of his powers. She had no hope of evading the blow, but at the last moment, he pulled it and what had started out as a punch capable of breaking her jaw became an open-handed slap that rattled her teeth.
    Mehcredi’s heel caught on the rug and she tripped, landing hard on her back, Dai following her down. Another slap had her seeing stars. Desperately, she gripped his wrist with one hand, her strength equal to his. “Shit! Stop it, stop it! Don’t—”
    Her flailing hand encountered an object with a jagged edge. A shard from a broken plate. Instinctively, she closed her