"Mmm?"

"Have you been with a lot of women?"

He opened his eyes, all trace of sleepiness gone. He turned on his side to face her. "Yes."

Lilac expected the answer, even applauded him for his honesty; but, for some reason, it made her feel... bad. "By a lot," she cleared her throat, "do you mean, for example, ten women?" She didn't know where she got the nerve to ask.

This time he did not answer; he simply gazed squarely at her.

"Twenty?"

He remained silent.

"Surely not more than forty?" Her voice went up in pitch at the end.

Rejar exhaled deeply. "I have been with many, many women, Lilac."

She swallowed the inexplicable lump in her throat. "I see."

There was something in her voice which troubled him. "Why does this bother you? Do you not benefit from my knowledge?" His hand reached over to cup the side of her face.

"I don't think you understand."

He smiled slightly. "I understand. But you must understand as well-my people are very different from your own."

Lilac thought of the rakeh.e.l.ls of the ton. "Not so very different."

Rejar watched her expression change. What was upsetting her?

"I suppose I will have to catch up with you," she said.

His brow kinked. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it's only fair. You shouldn't mind, should you? I understand it's quite an acceptable practice in the ton." A practice she despised. Lilac had no intention of doing what she was implying, but she was curious as to how he felt about it.

Rejar saw through her ploy immediately. "You will not find one to please you as I do," he teased her.

Although she knew that was probably true, she replied, "I only have your word for that."

Was she serious? "You will not." He stated very firmly.

It didn't seem to sit too well with him. Lilac had recently discovered that her new husband was quite something when he was inflamed. Perhaps she should scratch his back, so to speak, and see what developed. It might prove interesting.

She lifted her leg as if she were stretching, rotating her small foot in the air. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted Nickolai avidly watching her sinuous movements. "Mmm, perhaps ... sometime."

Lilac got more than she bargained for.

Nickolai suddenly laced his fingers through her hair and pulled her up against him. This was one game he did not like. Anger leapt in the depths of his blue and gold eyes. "Not ever."

"But you will," she flung back.

The real reason behind her game was at last surfacing.

The corners of Rejar's lips curved upward. She was becoming possessive of him. This, he liked. She was indeed becoming a Familiar wife!

But did she not understand the mating ways? The oath he had taken for her? The mating-kiss she had given to him? He would make sure she understood.

He lowered his head to hers.

"Not ever," he promised against her lips, covering them with his own. "You are my only Lilac. Therefore, I intend to keep you in a constant state of bloom."

Nickolai always meant what he said. Appeased, she smiled at his endearing play on words. He was probably too often in Byron's company-Nickolai was starting to sound much too romantic.

The impression was whisked away when he sweetly kissed her. A perfumed subtlety of cinnamon and bayberry wafted around her.

She blissfully inhaled the intoxicating scent. This marriage business was nowhere near as awful as she had thought.

Chapter Twelve.

During the time that Rejar and Lilac were "not showing their faces," Agatha Whumples took it upon herself to introduce and escort Prince Nickolai's brother about the ton.

It did not take Lady Whumples long to discover that Traed did not have any clothes with him except what was on his back. Traed did not think it prudent to enlighten the elderly woman that the clothes he wore were of the finest Aviaran cloth-which meant they came with a self-cleaning spell put on them by the weaver's guild wizard. He did not need any other clothes.

Since the man had no belongings with him, Agatha erroneously concluded that all of his baggage had been lost in transition during his travel from there {wherever there was} to here.

Unlike Rejar, Agatha would brook no refusal, insisting on bringing in a tailor for the man.

Traed proved most resistant to certain suggestions made by the tailor, choosing modestly styled, dark clothes with absolutely no frills about the sleeves and collar. When the tailor had balked at this, Traed had simply tossed the man bodily out the door.

At the time, Agatha had looked up from her reading to see the tailor sailing through the air, a stream of French invectives spewing from his mouth.

After the ordeal with the wardrobe was completed, Agatha then took the reluctant Traed to Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum, then on to d.u.c.h.ess Street to view the various rooms of treasures, followed by Westminster Abbey. It was not often Agatha had such a male at her disposal and she intended to make the most of it.

Traed seemed fascinated by the Egyptian Room and Grecian Temple in d.u.c.h.ess Street and particularly interested in the Rosetta Stone at Westminster, asking Agatha what mystical properties it displayed.

Agatha was not at a loss to answer and set into a lively discussion of the mysterious effluvia. Obviously the lad had a curiosity for the unknown. She set about to enlighten him.

Confused by her erroneous knowledge, Traed listened intently to Agatha's words, causing her to believe she had found a person of similar interests.

And, in a sense, she had.

The two of them formed a strange alliance. Agatha doted on the man she called "my boy" while Traed stoically put up with her antics.

Everywhere they went, Lady Whumples made it a point to introduce Prince Nickolai's brother to the ton. She was very proud of these new in-laws of hers and saw no reason not to show them about to her advantage.

Somehow, a story had sprung up that the Prince's brother had been on his way to the wedding when his party was attacked by bandits. His baggage was stolen, everyone in the traveling party was killed except the brother-he was left for dead on the road-and he had missed his beloved younger brother's wedding by just one day. The ton had great sympathy for the man who was the tragic hero of such a romantic gesture.

If Traed had heard the ridiculous tale, even he might have laughed.

On meeting the Prince's steely-eyed brother, however, the story was immediately changed to: The brother had killed all of the bandits except the one who ran off with his baggage.

Traed, not being a Familiar like Rejar, had a more difficult time fitting in with the culture of Regency England. When Agatha tried to explain some little nuance of the society to him, Traed simply waved her off. In his fashion, he decided to ignore the rules and go about his own way as he had always done.

Instead of putting off the ton, his uncompromising behavior and steely-eyed glances at the goings on about him only served to elevate his status. He was referred to as an obvious "man of the world."

The Prince's enigmatic, brooding, darkly handsome older brother, who did not bear the Prince's family name of Azov, intrigued the ton. He gave nothing of himself away-which made him all the more interesting. Whispers and rumors followed him wherever he went.

He was a Highland Chieftain; he was a brother of the blade.

He was a common Scottish reiver; he was the son of a Duke.

By his bearing there was no doubt in anyone's mind that he was of n.o.ble blood. Just who was he?

It was the question on everyone's lips.

While Agatha was merrily dragging Traed about London Town, Rejar was introducing his new wife to the joys of Familiar love.

So far, the explanations, while spirited, were still in the beginning stages. As he had always suspected, Lilac was proving herself an apt pupil, her innate sensuality coming to the fore with his expert tutelage and guidance.

For the first time in her young life she was exploring her s.e.xuality and it was a heady tonic to the Familiar.

He could not get enough of her.

In fact, just that morning, he had decided that they had better start "showing their faces" soon because she was starting to look decidedly wan.

When he had spoken of it to her, she had hesitated, delightfully biting her lip as she pondered on whether she wanted to leave the exclusivity of his bed just yet.

At his chiding laugh, Lilac had come to her senses and, face flaming, had leapt out of bed.

Even if she did not want to admit it, he knew how much she enjoyed their lovemaking. Did she somehow think he wondered whose lips breathlessly moaned in his ear all night? Whose nails scored his back? And who did she think tightly clamped him in the throes of completion?

He chuckled, shaking his head at the sometimes illogical behavior of women.

Then again, such behavior was one of the reasons Familiar men so adored the female. It was that unpredictability which so appealed to their feline senses.

Standing in the dressing room in nothing but a shirt, he stared at his choices of apparel. Lilac had gone below earlier while he had lingered in his bath. She had come up once, a while ago, to tell him that Agatha had suggested that for her first outing as a married woman, she accept an invitation to Lady Whitney's for an afternoon of embroidery.

Looking rather adorable, she morosely informed him, "I am not very good at embroidery." The idea of spending the afternoon engaged in this pastime quickly irritated her. She suddenly gave him a disgusted look, declaring, "It's all your fault!"

Rejar had been somewhat surprised at her mercurial change of mood. Only a few short hours before she had been mewing contentedly in his arms. Her att.i.tude was not unlike that of an overly indulged child.

He would have to see what he could do about that. It appeared Lilac needed to be enlightened in ways other than intimacy.

Begin as you mean to go on, Krue had always told him.

Remembering his father's advice, Rejar sternly advised her, "Since this is all my fault, I will personally see to bringing you to Lady Whitney's." He intended to go out for the afternoon with Traed and he intended to know her whereabouts at all times. He had told her, "You will wait for me there until I fetch you."

It was no surprise that this decree did not sit well with her; she stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Under normal circ.u.mstances, he might not have made such an outrageous decree. Besides the fact that she had goaded him into the display, there was something about her going around unescorted, without his protection, that made him uneasy. To his way of thinking, it was too dangerous a world. In this savage place, he had seen a man get his throat sliced simply for the few tokens in his pocket.

Lilac was much too vulnerable. Especially now that it was believed she was the wife of a prince.

The truth was, she was the mate of a Familiar. A unique Familiar. Whose sire was a high-level Charl warrior and one of the ruling council of Aviara. There were times in his own worlds, as well, when heeding the words of your mate could mean the difference between life and death.

The Familiar practice was an aid to their survival and an important lesson for her to learn-a lesson which might not be wise for him to put off.

Lilac marched with a determined stride through the bedroom toward the dressing room.

It was still chilly in the late afternoons, and she thought it best to bring a shawl with her to Lady Whitney's.

She had no intentions of waiting for Nickolai to bring and fetch her like some treasured possession. Who did he think he was?

Your husband, a little voice said.

She ignored it.

Flinging open the door to the dressing room, she stepped inside. Her hand reached for her green woolen shawl on the shelf nearby. She didn't see him until it was too late.

At first his back was to her.

He was standing there wearing nothing but his white lawn shirt. The gleaming length of black hair seemed all the glossier against the snowy material. Strong thigh muscles flexed as he easily stretched for a pair of boots on a shelf which would have taken a ladder for her to reach.

The movement lifted the hem of his shirt.

Two perfectly shaped globes of male backside proudly displayed themselves.

Lilac sighed. She understood perfectly well now what Leona Harcorte found so enticing. They were a lively handful. Nickolai must have heard her soft exclamation, for he smiled at her over his shoulder.

Until his sights drifted to the shawl in her hand.

The smile died on his face.

Instantly, the pupils of his blue and gold eyes flared once in what she was coming to recognize as a warning signal of his anger. Nickolai knew exactly what she was about.

He turned to face her.

That was when she realized his shirt was unb.u.t.toned; it hung open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of ... everything. All that golden-tan skin was enough to give anyone pause.