could only guess. The grip of his manacled hands shifted, and for the space of a heartbeat she thought she might have reached him. But no—he was only crossing her wrists so that he could wrap a length of his chain around them, leaving his right hand free. By the time Rowena realized his intent, it was too late to jerk away.
She was on her knees now, her body molded to the bars. The savage’s face was a handbreadth from her own. Rowena shuddered as his black eyes impaled her. “Tell me what you want,” she whispered, choking back panic. “If it is within my power—”
Her words ended in a gasp as his huge hand knifed through the bars and caught her at the waist. She would have wrenched herself away, but the iron grip on her wrists kept her pinned against the bars. She froze, her heart pounding, as his fingers groped the span of her waist, fumbling awkwardly with the knotted sash of her robe.
Rowena’s eyes closed as the knot came loose and the robe fell open. The bars were strong, she reminded herself. Aside from hurting her hands, the savage could not truly harm her. All the same, her heart seemed to stop as his fingers seared through the thin fabric of her shift, moving urgently along the curve of her waist, then lower, skimming her hipbones. His dangerous touch triggered subtle tuggings and tightenings in the moist core of Rowena’s body. A tiny moan quivered in her throat.
She thought of the candlestick, the candle still flickering on the floor where she had left it. One well-placed kick could tip it into the straw that lined the cell. The straw would begin to smolder, then burst into leaping flames…
She could not move.
His touch became more demanding, more frantic. Rowena could feel the anger in him, the rising tide of frustration that grew until it exploded out of him in a single word.
“Key!”
She stiffened against him in sudden awareness. The savage had evidently learned on the ship that a key was needed for opening locks. He had even managed to learn the word. And last evening in the courtyard, the ring of keys hanging at her waist had caught his sharp gaze. He was looking for those keys now.
Finding nothing, he drew back from the bars. His eyes seethed with anger. “Key!” he demanded again, jerking her arms so hard that she whimpered. “Key! Give me!”
“No!” Rowena began speaking volubly, with no idea of how much he could understand. “I don’t have any keys with me. And even if I did, even if I were to let you out of this place, it would do you no good. You’d be lost in this land. You wouldn’t know where to go, where to hide, how to find food and clothing. You wouldn’t have the first idea how to get on a ship and return to your own country. You must stay here for now. Stay here!” She emphasized the words, praying he would understand their meaning. But he only glowered at her, his eyes so hot with pain and hatred that their gaze all but withered her spirit.
“I don’t have the key,” Rowena said again, resisting the painful pull on her hands. “No key.”
The savage stared at her, then snorted with disgust and let her go so abruptly that Rowena tumbled backward into a pile of moldering firkins. The small barrels came bumping and rolling down around her, making such a commotion that she feared someone in the house would hear. She sat up, rubbing her bruised temple, as the racket subsided.
The candle had burned down to a glowing stub. By its faint light she could see the savage, standing now, behind the bars of his prison. The fierce majesty of his presence filled the wretched space. Who had he been in that other faraway world? Rowena found herself wondering. What would he tell her if she could understand his alien tongue?
But this was no time for idle questions. She would need to get the candle at once, before it sputtered out and left her in darkness. She felt the savage’s eyes on her as she crept forward and snatched the candlestick from its place on the floor. The sudden motion fanned the flame, causing the light to dance crazily over the walls of the cellar. As Rowena scrambled to her feet she glimpsed his face—the grim mouth twisted wryly at one corner, disdainful, amused, as if he were silently laughing at her. She felt a sudden surge of irritation. Her temper flared like tinder as she swung back to face him.
“I’m not afraid of you!” she snapped, not caring whether he understood or not. “And I have better things to do than put up with your bullying! If you’re too blind to see that I’m your only friend in this place, there’s nothing more to say! You can stay down here by yourself and rot!”
She wheeled abruptly and stalked toward the stairs. Her exit would have done a queen proud if her candle had not, at that very moment, burned to the end of its wick. The fragile light flickered and died, plunging the cellar into pitch blackness.
Only Rowena’s anger kept her from giving way to panic. She could not, would not let the savage know how terrified she was, she vowed as she groped her way across the cluttered floor. She had suffered enough humiliation without giving him cause to laugh at her again.
The memory of his searching fingers, hard and rough through the fabric of her shift, brought a surge of heat to her cheeks. She’d had no choice except to let him touch her, Rowena reminded herself. But that did not in any way excuse her from responding like a cat in heat. What could she have been thinking? That he wanted her? That any man could want her? What rubbish! He had wanted nothing except the key to his prison. Failing to find it, he had flung her away like a piece of tainted meat.
What had she expected? In the name of heaven, what had she wanted? Rowena inched forward, her face burning with shame in the darkness. Behind her, where the savage stood, there was nothing but silence.
Her shoulder scraped against a wall, and in the next instant her groping feet found the bottom of the long stairway. Sick with relief, she toiled her way upward, one hand clutching at the cold stones for support.
Eternities seemed to pass before she emerged into the corridor on the ground floor of the house. The shadows were more familiar now but they gave her no comfort. The very walls mocked her folly as she fled across the great hall and stumbled up the stairs. Reaching her own chamber, she bolted the door, flung herself into her bed and hastily drew the curtains. Even then the laughing demons would not be shut out. Rowena lay hot-faced and quivering beneath the covers, waiting for the mercy of dawn.
Black Otter fingered a corner of the quilt the woman had pushed through the bars of his cell. It was a wondrously fine thing—thick and soft, its covering smoother than doeskin. The fabric still smelled of her body—a pungent, flowery aroma that was nothing like the scent of his own people. Raising it to his nose, he inhaled deeply. The odor flooded his senses, awakening a spark of heat in his groin. He frowned at the sensation. Was he so woman-hungry that the very scent of this tall, pale creature could rouse him to desire? If that was so, he was even worse off than he’d thought.
Flinging the quilt down with a snort of self-disgust, he turned his attention to the bread. The loaf was fresh and soft beneath its crisp outer crust. Black Otter was starving, but he kept a tight rein on his appetite as he broke off one small piece and tasted it. Like the water, it might have to last him a long time.
The bread was light and chewy in texture, a far cry from the dense, flat maize cakes he had eaten all his life. But the flavor—yes, it was good. More than good. It was all he could do, in fact, to keep from bolting the entire loaf. But Black Otter was a disciplined man, his will tempered by experience. He ate only enough to dull the edge of his hunger. Then he wrapped his body in the quilt and settled himself against the wall, still clutching the bread to guard it from the rats.
The woman had brought him this gift of food and warmth, he reminded himself. She had come alone, at great risk, to do him the first kindness he had known in this strange
