A Matter of Honor by Ann Gimpel Page B

all but out. That was probably the only reason whoever was singing and playing some sort of stringed instrument hadn’t found her. Melis made obeisance to Gaia and her Earth spirits and asked for strength. She took a wary breath and reached for her magic. Gratitude made her dizzy with relief. Her magic hadn’t fully recovered, but she could access enough to protect herself. She wove strands of fire and earth together for warmth, careful not to draw too much energy—no point in attracting attention.
    No self-respecting Christian would be playing music and singing out of doors in the middle of the night. Whoever she shared the riverbank with had to be like her. Not all magic wielders worked the good side of the street, though. Those who indulged in the Black Arts would be just as quick to kill her as the crowd yesterday morning. She pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger and considered her options.
    A branch crackled...then another. Melis froze. Someone was walking toward her. Another few steps and they’d surely see the glow from what was left of her fire. It was too late to throw water or dirt on it. She wished she’d done that the moment she’d been jarred awake. Her eyes darted toward the thick foliage. It would make a horrible racket if she tried to shelter under it. Because it was the only avenue left, she darkened the air around her and blended into the night, invisible as a ghost.
    “You needn’t waste power. I know you’re there.” The voice was deep, definitely masculine. He spoke with the cultured tones of the gentry.
    She loosed her spell and thought about draping her soggy jacket around her naked shoulders. Melis settled for crossing her arms over her chest. A tall man stepped out of the dense forest and strode to her fire. Barking a word in demonspeak, he pointed to her fire pit; flames jumped skyward. She welcomed the sudden heat, but her muscles were still taut with apprehension.
    The stranger chucked wood on top of the embers and turned toward her. Coppery hair was pulled into a queue and doubled under. His face was clean-shaven, all sharp bones and angles. Blue eyes held mini-reflections of the fire. As his voice had suggested, he was dressed in a well-cut dark linen suit with a black woolen overcoat. A pale shirt and blood red cravat showed through the open front of his coat.
    “What happened to your clothes?” He peered more closely at her. “And who did that to you? Those wounds look fresh.”
    Melis drew in a deep breath. Should she tell him the truth? He already knew she had magic. To try to deny it at this point might anger him. She sidestepped his questions by asking one of her own. “May I borrow your coat?”
    Finely sculpted brows raised in surprise. He shrugged it off his shoulders and handed it to her. “There. Now will you answer my questions?”
    “Why do you want to know?” She slipped her arms into the wool already warmed by his body. A spicy, musky odor enveloped her. She gathered the soft garment close about her, reveling in its fine weave…and its masculine scent.
    “Because it makes a difference what we do with you.”
    She looked around, seeing nothing but blackness. “Who are ‘we’?”
    He shook his head, looking annoyed. “Let’s start with who hurt you.” He hesitated. “I can drag the truth out of you, woman. You won’t like it much.”
    A tiny muscle danced under one of his eyes. He reminded her of a tightly coiled spring, radiating menace. His hands balled into fists. She shrank away. Fear twisted her guts, making them burn. Something probed her mind, digging sharp edges behind her eyes. Melis sprang to her feet and threw up wards, giving them all she had. She wouldn’t be as defenseless eye to eye with him. Tall for a woman, she squared her shoulders, faced him, and prepared to fight to the death.
    Something crossed his features. Surprise, perhaps, mingled with a grudging admiration. He quirked a brow; the corners of his mouth