Faced with a solid wall of lightning, the riders sheered off, shouting blood curdling war cries as they tossed glowing white balls into the mass of soldiers. Unless struck from the air with a sword, dazzling white light exploded where they hit, coating the soldiers with glowing powder. Only one grenade struck, and those soldiers immediately removed from the field.

"Acceptable, for cadets, though Keilor will have them doing drills for a month." Jayems murmured.

The riders made two more passes with the bombs, and one struck, narrowing the field by five more men. The riders, all men with red insignia and red sashes, condensed into a menacing wedge with a fierce, dark haired warrior riding point. The wedge shot into the squadron. Jasmine gasped as the living missile impaled the square of soldiers and forced the box to burst open.

"Mathin the Mad," Urseya breathed reverently from Jasmine's left. "Every mother's daughter would give away their wedding night for a chance at him."

Jasmine's eyes opened wider and she watched the fierce soldier with even more interest.

There was much to see. With a snarl of animal bloodlust, Mathin cut his way through men who outnumbered him ten to one, and those men were definitely resisting. Plainly, merely outnumbering men like Mathin and the warriors who rode behind him was not enough to ensure victory, or to even offer the hope of it. In minutes the field was reduced by half, and some of the men were being helped off the battlegrounds.

"These are only cadets," Jayems offered, almost in apology.

Jasmine just stared at him. If these were only cadets, she shivered to think of his army in action. To her eyes, there had been nothing remotely restrained in their defense.

The riders dismounted, pointed towards the gates and told their mounts to go. Expressions grim, the fearsome ten advanced, swords drawn, on the remaining fifty cadets. Shouted commands from the sub commanders, most of whom were still on the field, locked that remaining fifty into a strong, determined opponent. Not a flicker of fear or hint of wavering showed in the entire division.

Yet the ten caused it to fold like a house gutted by fire.

Jasmine winced and flinched each time an energy blade descended and decimated a cadet. She could tell they were trying valiantly, yet heart and soul alone just wasn't enough to stop the ten. They were invincible.

When the dust cleared this time, ten of the original hundred soldiers who'd begun the tournament remained on their feet, and of those ten, two were sub commanders.

"Tailor and Seris," Jayems explained in an aside to her. "Our leaders earn the right to lead with cunning and skill. Nothing is given here." He rose. "Well done," he told the remaining ten, and they saluted him. The crowd cheered. To Mad Mathin and his men, he nodded, and received a nod in return. The soldiers left the field, and fire dancers and drummers took their places for intermission.

"The ten who have lasted until the end will now have the honor of exhibiting their skills for you," Jayems explained politely. "It won't be anything like what you'll see tomorrow, of course, but these men are not unskilled. I think you'll find it entertaining."

"I thought they did very well, considering the men they were facing," Jasmine protested, feeling the need to defend the men she'd originally set out to thank. She winced a little, thinking of the humiliating defeat they'd just suffered on her behalf. Would they still feel as charitable towards her now?

The last half of the tournament passed quickly in a stunning display of riding ability, marksmanship, and sheer daring. Jasmine was particularly fascinated by one cadet's uncanny ability to cling to his bareback, racing mount while assuming an astonishing number of positions. By the time she was presented with the sweating, disheveled victor of the day, she was truly in awe.

Jasmine looked closely at the young sub commander who stood before her, the one called Seris. He must have been close to her age, whereas all the men who would compete tomorrow were unanimously older, though still in their prime. She felt a tug of sympathy for the cadet, who'd fought so hard against such impossible odds, and after a moment, she recognized him. "Aren't you the one who gave me truffles?" she asked, frowning a little in thought.

Seris nodded his head in respect. "Yes, my lady. I made them myself."

Her eyes lit up. "You didn't tell me that when I thanked you for your gift!" she exclaimed. "Had I known, I would have asked you to show me how right away. Is it too late to ask now?"

"Never, my lady," Seris breathed, his eyes widening in disbelief at his stroke of good fortune. He'd never dared hope for so much when he'd made the admission.

Jasmine gave him a dazzling smile and awarded him with a red sash embroidered with her name. She hadn't made it herself, but she felt it was best not to share that with him. Why ruin his moment of glory?

Formally, she gave him the traditional words Rhapsody had taught her. "I give you a token of my pleasure. May you wear it in honor of your victory today, in all your triumphs, until you take a wife who demands the same honor." And then she added a touch of her own, kissing him lightly on the cheek as she presented the sash.

Poor Seris looked like he might swoon. "A tradition from my own country," She explained in the stunned silence, fearing for a moment she'd committed a grievous social faux pas.

The crowd erupted into wild cheers and began chanting, "SERIS! SERIS!"

To a man, Mad Mathin and his men sent the dazed cadet looks of death as he stumbled his way from the pavilion.

She did not see Keilor's face.

CHAPTER 15.

Keilor slammed his sheathed blade down on his scarred and slightly dusty table, scattering stray papers with the slight breeze. "Bath!" he snarled, unbuckling his belt. The sound of splashing water immediately filled the room. He stalked towards the enormous tub, leaving a trail of clothes in his wake, and sank deeply into the steaming water.

Tie her to a stake and fire that girl! Custom of her country or not, there had been no call to show such favoritism to a mere cadet! Now the fool was in love with her, and all the true suitors for her hand seethed with jealousy. Tomorrow might well degenerate into a blood-fest, with all the warriors expecting to receive the prize of her lips.

Certainly, the crowd had loved it. The Haunt were a highly sensual people, often given to strong emotion. With one touch of her mouth, Jasmine had elevated a lowly soldieraclearly not the match of any of the ten!-to the status of a hero. It would be a wonder if Seris didn't develop an insufferable ego.

Keilor's eyes narrowed. Perhaps he ought to make time to give Seris a little personal training.

He'd just dunked his hair, savoring the thought of taking Seris through some particularly punishing drills, when a knock sounded at his door. "Who is it?" Unless it was Jayems himself- "Jasmine," came the answer, causing his brows to shoot up in surprise. Could the little innocent be foolish enough to brave his den?

"Can I come in?"

He debated. There was still one day of the tournament left, and much as he wanted the woman, word would travel quickly of their mating, and the rest of the suitors would surely be enraged. Blood would be a certainty then, and if tempers flared hot enough, entire clans might get involved.

He snarled in frustration. For the sake of peace, he dare not risk it. "No," he called with reluctance.

There was a suspicious pause. "Is someone in there with you?"

A crack of laughter escaped him. As if! It soothed his temper enormously, though, to hear the note of jealousy in her voice. "No." There was a pause. He knew she hadn't left. He could practically hear her thinking.

"I have to talk to you," she told him, annoyance plain in her tone. "I don't think you want to discuss this through a door."

Very well, he thought fatalistically. If she was foolish enough, he was game. Settling back with his arms on the rim of the tub, he called, "It's unlocked."

Jasmine gasped. Keilor was immersed in steaming water, his long, dark hair slicked back. His eyes glowed in the dim light.

"I didn't know you were... I'll leave," she croaked out, reaching for the door she now realized she'd closed much too fast. Trust the arrogant jerk not to warn her! Arrogant, discourteous and gorgeous, a traitorous inner voice insisted gleefully.

He was out of the water and at her side so quickly, she barely had time to be shocked with the unprecedented view. She quickly averted her eyes, but six feet of prime naked warrior standing directly in front of her, dripping water, was not a sight any healthy young woman was able to block with ease. The point became moot, though, when said naked man reached out and whisked off her dress with business-like efficiency.

"What are you doing?" she gasped in alarm. She tried to snatch it back, but he'd already tossed it over her shoulder and reached for the hem of her chemise.

"I need someone to wash my back," he explained, as if it were of no consequence that he'd stripped her to her underwear. Her chemise sailed past her head to join the dress and she squealed as her lacy panties slid down her legs with frightening efficiency.

"Not me! Stop!" she squeaked, shocked at the speed of her disrobing.

"I'm not hurting you," he said calmly. He picked her up without effort and carried her to the bath. He released her the moment they were immersed and settled on one of the low seats built into the tub. She scrambled to the far end and sunk to her neck as she watched him. It was clear she was not the one in charge.

His lips twitched with amusement. "I'm not going to rape you, woman. If that was what I wanted, better to have taken you on the floor."

"You are vile!" she hissed. "I'm going to tell Jayems what you did." It sounded pitiful and childish, but what other defense did she have? He was too strong to fight, and she certainly couldn't drown him, much as she'd like to.

Keilor chuckled. He captured her wrist and plunked a bar of soap in it. "Scrub."

She glared at him, but she didn't have much choice. For all of his humor, there was a chilling hint of steel in his command, and she didn't have the guts to disobey. He propped one leg expectantly up on her knees, ignoring her embarrassment. She made quick work of it, stopping at mid-thigh. When she'd done both, he flashed her a smile and dunked his hair. He knelt in the bottom of the tub so she could lather it.

Desperate to take her mind off of the long, silky mass, she brought up the reason for her visit. "What did you mean when you said you got permission from Jayems to *win' me?"

Keilor hummed and relaxed into her hands, enjoying the rare sensation of being pampered. "I bed you, I get to keep you," he explained, not mincing words. No sense in her not having a perfect understanding the first time.

Jasmine's fist tightened around a hank of his hair and she yanked, hard. Keilor's head disappeared under the water before he tore himself lose and surfaced. He whisked the water from his face and slicked back his hair, giving her a warning look through water-spiked lashes. It said clearly that once would be dismissed as funning, but twice would bring consequences.

"I am not a slave," she told him, displeased, and not the least bit cowed. "I'm not going to be passed around like some-"

"I had a wife in mind, not a slave," he assured her. Far too easily, he grasped her waist and lifted her, setting her down to straddle his thighs. The position raised the tops of her breasts out of the water. She struggled, but he held her waist firmly. "Be still. You haven't washed my chest. This will make it easier for you," he explained. Slowly he took his hands away from her and put them on the rim of the tub, holding her with his incredible black eyes.

Upset in more ways than one, she roughly scrubbed his neck, or tried to. It was difficult to do much damage with a slippery bar of soap. "You don't want a wife," she told him with bitter certainty. She twisted a little to wash his left arm, trying to block out its solid strength, and the hard muscles under his smooth, warm skin. She couldn't hide her fine trembling. He was so beautiful!

Unfortunately, his beauty was not for her. "What you want would burn out in a couple of days, maybe a couple of weeks. Then what? Divorce?"

She had reached his chest. Against her will, her hands were getting slower. It was all she could do not to squirm in agony from the fierce, demanding ache he caused. The man was killing her!

"My marriage will be forever," Keilor told her with quiet assurance, holding her eyes.

Distracted, Jasmine's hand slid lower, brushing against something hard under the water. She jerked her hand away even as her body shuddered. She knew exactly what that was.

When he said nothing, just watched her, she reached to put the bar of soap on the rim with the intention of leaving his lap, but he straightened up. "Wash my back."

She could not have told him no for all the yen in China. Since he didn't move, only remained leaning forward, she had no choice but to embrace him. She hissed and as her nipples brushed his chest, and it was all she could do not to moan. She refused to look at him. Bad enough that her breath quickened as her hands, slippery with soap, slid over his back. His rasping breaths in her ear were the only sign of his own arousal, as long as she didn't look into his face.

She didn't. She couldn't, not then.

By the time she reached his lower back her breasts were flattened against him and she didn't care. Head swimming, she reluctantly sat up and put the soap in its place. Steam rose around them. Slowly, eyes glazed, she looked at him. Twin, smoking furnaces gazed back at her. "I'm done," she whispered.

"Only if you want to be." Deceptively relaxed, he waited. When she said nothing, he gripped the tub a little more tightly. "Move forward."

Taking a breath for courage, she placed her hands on his ribs and did. She gasped at the feel of him caught tight between them.

He hissed.

Greatly daring, she slid her hands around his neck and rested her chin in the crook. His skin was so hot, so silky and damp, and she could not resist placing a light kiss on the hollow of his throat. He hummed deep in his chest, exciting her, making her ache.

"Do you want me, Jasmine?" he whispered in her ear.

"Yes," she moaned, rocking instinctively against him, abandoning all pretense of restraint. "Oh, yes!"

He nuzzled her ear. "Do you want my kisses?"

"Mm," she agreed, but he moved away as she tried to claim his lips. Frustrated, she rubbed her head against his shoulder. He lightly stroked her spine in response, causing her to gasp and arch into him. They both groaned.

Breathless, he asked, "Do you want me inside?" he moved against her and she cried out with need, nodding frantically against his neck.

"Good. Remember that." Before she could blink, he was out of the water. He didn't bother with a towel, just scooped up his clothes.

And then, without a backward glance, he left.

Keilor wanted to kill someone.

He'd probably start with himself.

He wrapped his trembling hands around a stone column in the gardens and pressed his hot forehead to it. He locked his jaw. She smelled so good! With an oath he pushed from the pillar and forced himself to walk before he lost the battle with his knees and sank to the ground.

As he strode through the gardens, he stumbled on a rock and kicked it angrily out of his way. There was nothing he could do for himself, and there were not enough women or liquor to purge the need from his blood. He needed her. Yet he couldn't have her, not until he won tomorrow.

He needed a battle. Something fast and painful and bloody to tire him enough for sleep. As his feet took him to the guest barracks where the alternative suitors were, he found it.

Or rather, him.

Mathin's nostrils flared as the wind carried Keilor's scent to him, mixed with the provocative smell of soap and charmer. He'd never scented anything like it. The stuff of silken sheets and moonlight, naked skin and a lover's cries. The scent of legend.

One look at Keilor's savage face was enough to see that whatever he'd been doing with the charmer, he hadn't bedded her. That was good, as Mathin intended to do that himself, and once he had her, he didn't intend to share.

Just because he was Mathin, he called out in his gravelly voice, "Have you prepared yourself for your humiliation tomorrow, Keilor?"

Keilor checked in mid-stalk and pivoted to face his antagonist. Teeth bared in a savage smile, he answered, "Mathin. Defeating cadets has gone to your head. You'll have to have a real warrior rid you of your delusions." Once, years ago, he and the indomitable Mathin had been something of friends, even though they had often been rivals.

He did not know if they were friends tonight.

Mathin laughed recklessly. "Know any?" he asked, disparaging them both. He made no move to secure his waist length black hair into a queue, signaling that whatever his intentions, they didn't include a battle.

They would save that for tomorrow.

However, it was plain that Mathin wouldn't mind a bit of mischief while the opportunity presented itself. Keilor smiled grimly. Perhaps he would provide a distraction after all.

Amber mead flowed into Keilor's paper-thin stone cup, filling it to the brim. Mathin also replenished his own glass. Keilor's mouth lifted sardonically. No doubt Mathin would get him drunk as an elf if he let him. Granted, there wasn't much else to do in Mathin's Spartan room.

A narrow bed with a plain chest at the end of it, a small table and two chairs made up the sum of the soldier's guest room. A single window let in light. Mathin could have had better, but like most warriors, was satisfied with the bare essentials.

Mathin shot back half his cup and sprawled in his chair with a satisfied sigh, using one scuffed boot to tilt himself back. He laced his hands over his flat stomach, cradled the cup, and studied Keilor with curiosity. "So tell me about the charmer."

"She's a pocket full of trouble," Keilor answered immediately, his scowl reborn. Trouble and then some.

The corner of Mathin's lip curled up. "But worth it?"

Keilor drummed his fingers on the table. "I spoke with Jayems for her."

The warrior's brows shot up. "Here is news. The untamable Master of the Hunt, captured at last by a woman?" Mathin studied him. "You have no desire for children?"

Keilor rubbed his thumb over the rim of his cup. "I accept that I will not have them." He could have explained he planned on adopting a child, but the sudden tightness in his throat prevented it. A forceful swallow of mead cleared it enough for him to ask, "What of you? I had always assumed you liked children. Why would you court a human?"