And still that shimmer of power was like a hum in the air.

Then his hands were in her hair, sweeping it back from her face in a gesture of urgency that had her shuddering in antic.i.p.ation of what was to come. And his mouth left hers to roam her face, to find that throbbing pulse in her throat.

She could drown him. He knew it even as he took more. This outrageous need for her could take him under, somewhere he'd never been. He knew, wherever that was, he would take her with him.

He molded the shape of her with his hands, steeped himself in it. She found his mouth again, avidly. He heard the shudder of her breath as she stepped back. The candlelight washed over her as she reached up, began to unb.u.t.ton her shirt.

She wore something white and lacy beneath it that seemed to hold her b.r.e.a.s.t.s like an offering. There was more white lace when her pants slid down her hips, an alluring triangle that rode low on her belly, high on her legs.

"Women are the canniest creatures," he mused out loud, and reached out to skim a fingertip over the lace. When she trembled, he smiled. "I like these clothes. Are you always wearing these under the others?"

"No. It depends on my mood."

"I like this mood." He took his thumbs, brushed them up over the lace on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Her head fell back. "Oh G.o.d."

"That pleasures you. What of this?" He did the same with the lace that sat snug below her belly, and watched the arousal slide over her face.

Soft skin, delicate and smooth. But there was muscle under it. Fascinating. "Just let me touch. Your body is beautiful. Just let me touch."

She reached back, gripped the bedpost.

"Help yourself."

His fingers skimmed over her, made her skin quiver. Then pressed and made her moan.

She could feel her own bones going to liquid, and her muscles to putty as he explored her. She gave herself to it, to the slow, enervating pleasure that was both triumph and surrender. "Is this the fastener then?"

She opened heavy eyes as he fiddled with the front hook of her bra. But when she started to undo it, he brushed her hands aside.

"I'll figure it out on my own in a minute.

Ah yes, there it is." As he unhooked it, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s spilled out and into his hands. "Clever.

Beautiful." He lowered his head to them, tasted soft, warm flesh.

He wanted to savor; he wanted to rush.

"And the other part? Where is the fastener?" He ran his hands down her.

"They don't-" And over her. Her breath caught, a half cry as her fingers dug into his shoulders.

"Aye, look at me. Just like that." He skimmed his hands over the lace, under it.

"Glenna Ward, who is mine tonight."

And she came where she stood, her body exploding and her eyes trapped by his.

Her head went limp on his shoulder as she shuddered, shuddered. "I want you on me, I want you in me." She dragged at the sweatshirt he wore, drawing it up and away. Now she found muscle and flesh with her hands, with her lips. Now the power seeped back into her as she pulled him with her onto the bed. "Inside me. Inside me."

Her mouth crushed hungrily to his, hips arching and offering. He fought with the rest of his clothes, struggled to devour more of her as the heat pumped off them both.

When he plunged into her, the fire roared, and the candle flames shot up like arrows.

Pa.s.sion and power whipped through them, spurring them on toward madness. Still she locked herself around him, stared at him even as tears glazed her eyes.

A wind stirred her hair, bright as fire against the bed. He felt her gather beneath him, tighten like a bow. When the light burst through him, he could only breathe her name.

She felt alight, as if whatever they had ignited between them burned still. She wondered she didn't see beams of its gilded light shooting out of her fingertips.

In the hearth, the fire had settled down to a quiet simmer; another afterglow. But the heat that had bloomed from it, and from them, dewed her skin. Even now her heart moved at a gallop.

His head rested there, on her heart, and her hand on his head. "Have you ever... "

His lips brushed her breast, lightly. "No."

She combed her fingers through his hair.

"Neither have I. Maybe it was because it was the first time, or because some of what we made earlier was still stored up."

We're stronger together. Her own words echoed in her mind.

"Where do we go from here?"

When he lifted his head, she shook hers.

"An expression," she explained. "And it doesn't matter now. Your bruises are gone."

"I know. Thank you."

"I don't know that I did it."

"You did. You touched my face when we joined." He took her hand, brought it to his lips.

"There's magic in your hands, and in your heart.

And still your eyes are troubled."

"Just tired."

"Do you want me to leave you?"

"No, I don't." And wasn't that the problem? "I want you to stay." "Here then." He shifted, bringing her with him, tucking up sheet and blanket. "I have a question."

"Mmm."

"You have a brand, here." He traced his fingers over the small of her back. "A pentagram. Are witches marked so in this time?"

"No. It's a tattoo-my choice. I wanted to wear a symbol of what I am, even when I was skyclad."

"Ah. I mean no disrespect to your purpose, or your symbol, but I found it...

alluring."

She smiled to herself. "Good. Then it performed its secondary purpose."

"I feel whole again," he said. "I feel myself again."

"So do I."

But tired, he thought. He could hear it in her voice. "We'll sleep awhile."

She tilted her head up so their eyes met.

"You said when you took me to bed you wouldn't give me any sleep."

"This once." She rested her head on his shoulder, but didn't close her eyes, even when he dimmed the candles. "Hoyt. Whatever happens, this was precious."

"For me as well. And for the first time, Glenna, I believe not only that we must win, but that we can. I believe that because you're with me."

Now she closed her eyes for just a moment, on the pang just under her heart. He spoke of war, she thought. And she'd spoken of love.

She woke to rain, and his warmth. Glenna lay, listening to the patter, absorbing the good, natural feel of a man's body beside hers.

She'd had to lecture herself during the night. What she had with Hoyt was a gift, one that should be treasured and appreciated. There was no point in cursing because it wasn't enough.

And what good did it do to question why it had happened? To wonder if whatever was driving them to the battleground had brought them together, had ignited that pa.s.sion and need, and yes, love, because they were stronger with it? It was enough to feel; she'd always believed that. And only doubted it now because she felt so much.

It was time to go back to being practical, to enjoy what she had when she had it. And to do the job at hand.

She eased away from him, started to get out of bed. His hand closed around her wrist.

"It's early, and raining. Come, stay in bed."

She looked over her shoulder. "How do you know it's early. There's no clock in here.

Got a sundial in your head?"

"Sure a lot of good it would do as it's pouring rain. Your hair's like the sun. Come back to bed."

He didn't look so serious now, she noted, not with his eyes sleepy and his face shadowed by a night's growth of beard. What he looked was edible.

"You need a shave."

He rubbed a hand over his face, felt the stubble. Rubbed his hand over again, and the stubble was gone. "Is that better for you, a stor?" She reached over, flicked a finger down his cheek. "Very smooth. You could use a decent haircut."

He frowned, scooped a hand through his hair. "What would be wrong with my hair?"

"It's gorgeous, but it could use a little shaping. I can take care of that for you."

"I think not."

"Oh, don't trust me?"

"Not with my hair."

She laughed and rolled over to straddle him. "You trust me with other, and more sensitive parts of you."

"A different matter entirely." His hands walked up and cupped her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "What's the name of the garment you wore over your lovely b.r.e.a.s.t.s last night?"

"It's called a bra, and don't change the subject."

"Sure I'm happier discussing your b.r.e.a.s.t.s than my hair."

"Aren't you cheerful this morning."

"You put a light in me." "Sweet talker." She picked up a hank of his hair. "Snip, snip. You'll be a new man."

"You seem to like the man I am well enough."

Her lips curved as she lifted her hips. And lowered them to take him into her. The candles that had guttered out sparked. "Just a trim," she whispered, leaning over him to rub her lips to his. "After."

He learned the considerable pleasure of showering with a woman, then the fascinating pleasure of watching one dress.

She rubbed creams into her skin, and different ones over her face.

The bra, and what she called panties, were blue today. Like a robin's egg. Over these she pulled rough pants and the short, baggy tunic she called a sweatshirt. On it were words that spelled out WALKING IN A WICCAN WONDERLAND.

He thought the outer clothes made what she wore beneath a kind of marvelous secret.

He felt relaxed and very pleased with himself. And balked when she told him to sit on the lid of the toilet. She picked up scissors, snapped them together. "Why would a man of sense allow a woman to come near him with a tool like that?"

"A big, tough sorcerer like you shouldn't be afraid of a little haircut. Besides, if you don't like it when I'm done, you can change it back."

"Why are women always after fiddling with a man?"

"It's our nature. Indulge me."

He sighed, and sat. And squirmed.

"Be still, and it'll be done before you know it. How do you suppose Cian deals with grooming?"