"Aye," he answered tersely. "They did their worst."

"Take off that cape and let me see to your healing."

"Nay, Mother," he blushed hotly. "I wear no clothes under this fine woolen cape."

"Since when do you feel the need to hide your body from your mother?" Lysira asked with a smile, then frowned. "You grow too human."

"Aye, Mother, I am human. I cannot change to my rightful form. I have tried...and failed."

"Try again. Now," she commanded.

Adrian closed his eyes and concentrated. He pictured himself as a huge golden dragon, tried to feel leathery, golden wings upon his back, tried to remember how the scales had felt, how they had protected him as he flew, as he fought other dragons. He held his breath. He clenched his fists. His face grew red with the effort.

"Stop," Lysira spoke softly. "You cannot change. Your form has been changed by other than dragon magic. You will stay in this body until the reason for this change has become apparent."

"Then you change me!"

"I cannot. 'Tis beyond my ken."

"You have seen two hundred winters, Mother. You must know what to do!"

"I know you need a bath." She wrinkled her nose. "You stink."

Adrian's shoulders slumped with dejection. He knew Lysira would help him if there was anything she could do.

"I have no clothes," he complained. "What good to bathe if there is nothing clean for me to wear?"

"A'dryan Westbrooke..." She looked him sternly in the eyes, and Adrian knew any more objections would only earn her wrath. He hung his head.

She turned, walked to the far side of the room and opened a large chest which sat beneath shelves laden with bottles of dried herbs, potions and tinctures.

"'Tis father's chest." His voice held shock. No one had ever opened that chest except his father.

She made no comment as she rummaged around, then lifted something out of the chest and turned to him. "These should fit," she said. "You look to be about his size now." She handed him a bundle. "Go to the creek and bathe whilst I see to a meal.

You will need much food to heal."

"'Tis cold outside!"

"A'dryan!"

Adrian went to the creek.

The frigid water stung the lash marks on his body-some had cut the skin deeply-but it also soothed his bruises. He

spent a long time in the creek, letting it wash away the pain, but he soon grew chilled, and his skin had taken on a bluish cast. He reluctantly left the water to dry himself and dress. He noticed absently that Lysira had given him some of his father's better clothes. There was also a pair of knee-high, black leather boots at which he frowned, but, seeing that his feet were bluer than the rest of his body, decided it best to cover them-at least until he returned to the cottage.

"I am sure I never had this problem when I was a dragon.

I have never seen a dragon wearing anything on his feet. If I were a dragon now I would not have to wear these...things," he muttered as he pulled the boots over his big feet. "They fit," he said with surprise. "And these do not hurt. Mayhap 'tis not so bad to cover my feet. At least in winter," he admitted begrudgingly. "Or at least until I can become dragon again."

Monster's furry head b.u.t.ting persistently against her chin woke Tempest. She stroked him absently.

"You really are a monster," she complained. "I was having such a nice dream. Adrian was kissing my cheek, but it was only you, you silly little thing." She smiled as she held him up to look into his green eyes. He sagged in her hands and purred, making Tempest laugh. She kissed his head and cuddled him close to her heart.

But where was she? Had they reached Adrian's mother's cottage? Adrian. Where was Adrian? He had been hurt, and she had fallen asleep without seeing to his needs. She sat up quickly and looked frantically around for him. Tempest was deeply shamed; she was a healer, her first thoughts should have been for his welfare, not her need for rest.

"Adrian?" She was sitting in a big, comfortable feather bed with softly woven coverlets and even softer furs. She threw back the covers and moved to the edge of the bed but quickly realized she had no clothes on. She pulled one of the cotton covers free and wrapped it loosely around her. Had Adrian removed her clothing? She blushed at the thought, and a strange heat burned in the depths of her body as her imagination took flight. She pictured the look on his face as he uncovered each

secret she hid beneath her clothing, his eyes slightly glazed.

She remembered dreaming of sweet, stolen kisses-kisses that had bruised her lips, making them sensitive and alive. She imagined his strong fingers lightly caressing her breast. The warmth spread like wildfire throughout her body, coming to rest, low and pulsing, in her most private place.

Monster meowed, plummeting her back to reality.

A curtain had been drawn around the bed. She parted it and stepped into a large room. Drying herbs hung in bunches from the high ceiling; shelves containing precious gla.s.s bottles and flasks, all filled to the brim with dried plants or thick liquids, lined the walls. A long wooden table stood in the center of the room, a large, recently used wash tub upon it. A fireplace at one end of the rectangular room contained a huge cauldron, its bubbling contents filling the room with the rich odor of venison stew. A comfortable-looking chair sat near the hearth.

Two clothing chests stood near the bed, one stained with black walnut, the other made of rare mahogany, its rich red color glowing in the firelight.

Tempest moved to inspect the chest, Monster trailing after her batting playfully at the hem of her makeshift gown.

The black chest was carved with scenes of knightly battle.

Every one depicted a larger-than-life knight riding a huge destrier vanquishing a deadly foe. She shivered and stepped away from the chest. Tempest did not like fighting or killing.

Her chosen field was healing and the saving of lives, not the taking of them. The mahogany chest, on the other hand, was more to her liking. It too, was carved, but not with scenes of domesticity as she had expected. The chest contained only three scenes. All three pictures featured a gold-inlaid dragon.

The first scene was of the dragon in a field of flowers. A black knight knelt before it. His sword lay before him as he offered his oath of fealty to the ferocious-looking beast. His face glowed with utter devotion as he gazed boldly upon the glittering golden dragon.

In the second panel, the same dragon was pictured under a huge oak tree in deep woods. A storm raged overhead. but it was strangely calm under the oak. The tiny figure of a serving

woman stood facing the dragon, and a silver glow emanated from a small hole in the ground between the two figures.

The third scene held her interest the longest. It was more detailed and violent. In the sky were two dragons, one black and one gold. The black dragon radiated an evil older than time, and she shuddered as she looked at it. The golden dragon was different from the earlier scenes and, upon closer examination, she realized that this was not the same dragon. It was bigger and more muscular. The dragon in the other pictures was female, she realized. This dragon was male. Clearly this was a fight to the death. On the ground below the horrific battle were two figures. A woman leaned heavily against a tall knight dressed in black armor. The knight stood, his arms a protective shield around her as he too watched the battle raging overhead.

On the ground beside them lay a woman, her eyes closed in death.

Tempest felt the power of the scene, felt drawn to the drama etched upon the chest before her, knew she needed to understand. She called upon the power within as she reached to touch the golden dragon. It felt warm, pulsing with life. Magic was here. Dragon magic. It flowed from the carved dragon into her hand, up her arm and into her heart.

She drew her hand back, took a deep breath and swallowed hard. "No," she said, her voice shaking, "I will not swoon."

"The battle," the woman said, catching her breath sharply.

"There should be more dragons. The Legend..."

"'Tis just pretty carving on a chest, m'dear," he said, patting her hand absently. "'Tis not the prophesy after all."

"But what does it portend?" She turned to him, worry etching lines upon her gentle brow. "Have we been wrong?"

"Never!" He stiffened and looked away. "Look at who and what we are. Lysira is nothing compared to us. She is not immortal."

"Is she not immortal?" the woman asked quietly. "Are not dragons immortal?"

The man gave her no answer as he gazed thoughtfully into the glowing crystal before him.

TWENTY-SIX.

"They are beautiful are they not?"

Tempest jumped at the sound of Adrian's voice.

"The black one belongs to my father, the other is my mother's."

His arm stole softly around her waist, and she leaned into his embrace, much like the two figures watching the battling dragons. His big warm body, holding her so gently, made her feel safe and protected, a feeling she wished could last forever.

His hand brushed her breast, and her heart beat a wild tattoo. Coherent thought fled. She could only feel.

"Adrian," she gasped, unable to say more. His warm lips nuzzled her neck, and her knees grew weak.

"Adrian." Lysira's voice broke the enchantment, and they pulled away from each other, faces red with embarra.s.sment and no little guilt. "I am sure Tempest is hungry."

"Aye, Mother." A mischievous grin spread across his handsome face as he gazed into Tempest's moss-green eyes. "I am sure she is very...hungry."

Tempest lowered her head to hide the hot blush which spread across her delicate cheeks.

His smile grew and he could not resist teasing her. "You look quite fetching in your new gown little witch," he leered as his eyes traveled boldly down her body, barely covered by the thin sheet of woven cotton. "And I would love to feed your hunger," he whispered in her ear.

"Adrian Westbrooke." Lysira's voice was stern. "You told me she is betrothed. Your behavior is unseemly."

Her words were a dash of icy water to his teasing, and he

turned to his mother. "Aye, Mother. She has been betrothed, but she will be mine. 'Tis but a gentle tease for a comely maiden.

Nothing more." He hoped his mother would let the subject drop. It had felt so good to just hold Tempest in his arms. He did not want to lose the easiness between them. It had been far too long since there had been any laughter or love when they were together.

"Lysira?" Tempest finally noticed the woman standing in the doorway. "You are Adrian's mother?"

"Aye," she smiled in her son's direction. "'Tis I who brought the scoundrel into the world."

Tempest smiled at the thought of Adrian as a scoundrel.

Lysira knew her son well and she did not look any older than when Tempest had first met her at the creek when she was only thirteen-years-old. She was still a beautiful woman. Tempest hoped she looked as well when her children were grown.

If she lived that long after what she had done. Helping Adrian escape...G.o.ddess, how angry her father would be when he discovered her part in freeing Adrian. But he was innocent of Miriam's murder, of that she was certain.

A deep sadness enveloped her as she thought of Miriam never seeing her children. She missed her so. "But you are too young to have a son grown," she said with a smile.

"Not according to him," Lysira answered with a frown.

"He seems to think I am older than time itself."

Adrian backed away, raising his hands as if to ward off physical blows. "I but mentioned your years," he said, a look of childlike innocence on his face. "I offered no disrespect.

You have lived long."

"Never you mind, Adrian," Lysira said with a warning shake of her head. "'Tis almost time to eat. Come Tempest, I have a tunic and surcoat I believe will fit you. Adrian, go outside and wash before we sup."

"I just washed at the creek," he complained. "'Tis cold outside!"

"Wash again," Lysira insisted tersely.

"But..."

"Adrian. You are a man grown. Act like one."

She was fast losing patience and Adrian knew it. He made no further argument as he left the room muttering under his breath.

"You have made him angry," Tempest noted as the door slammed behind him.

"Nay, most likely 'tis embarra.s.sment. Adrian angers rarely." Lysira opened the mahogany chest. "He is generally sweet-tempered, but things seem to have gotten out of hand in the past three months. He does not know how to handle it all."

She handed Tempest a pale blue, silk undertunic.

Tempest unwound the cotton blanket from her slim body and drew the tunic over her head. It glided over her like a gentle rain. The silk felt cool and soft against her skin. "I had a chemise made of this material once," she said quietly. Her lip trembled as she spoke. "'Twas given to me by a woman I loved as a mother. Nay, more than a mother. She was my friend and teacher."

"She has pa.s.sed on?"