Iloria by Moira Rogers Page B

evening. Now, the idea made her want to shrink into the cold stone floor. “Thank you, Magda. I believe I will do that. If my husband is amenable, that is.”
    Sympathy filled Magda’s dark eyes. “My lord is a difficult man to know. There are things...” She shook her head. “But it is not my place to say, if you do not know the legend.”
    “I have heard of no legend.”
    Magda pressed her lips together. “I’ve already said too much.”
    “No, please—” Iloria reached out, then snatched back her hand. “Please tell me.”
    “It—” The woman stepped closer and lowered her voice. “The First Warlord of the Forest always comes from this family. The men are fierce and skilled soldiers, because they carry violence in their blood. An ancient curse.”
    A curse. Violence. Iloria had feared for her contentment, but never for her safety, not even in idle, passing fancy. Not until now. “Are you saying he’s dangerous?”
    “Our traditions are set in place to minimize danger. Lord Farran has never harmed one of his vassals.”
    It sounded more like a confirmation than a denial, and Iloria wanted to hear no more. She couldn’t, not if she planned to stay. After a moment’s hesitation, she took a deep breath. “Would you deliver a note to my husband, please? I’d like to extend that dinner invitation.”
    Magda curtsied again, more deeply this time, and respect stood plain in her eyes. “As my lady commands.”
    Iloria sat at the wide desk by the window, where a supply of stationery had already been laid in. She wrote quickly, all the while formulating her plan.
    She’d packed her marriage robes for her journey to the capital. They still lay folded in one of her trunks, waiting. The ceremonial silks were meant to be worn on her wedding night, and there was no faster way than wearing them to demonstrate her commitment—or to test Farran’s.

Chapter Two
     
    Magda delivered the note with a chilly disapproval Farran remembered all too well from youth. Only eight years his senior, she nonetheless knew how to look at him as if he were a misbehaving boy who deserved his father’s belt and a week without desserts.
    It made him feel so guilty that he sent his reply at once, then spent two hours running the grounds as a wolf. The leaves under his paws and the burn in his muscles helped ease some brittle tension, but he knew it wouldn’t help for long.
    A simple dinner with his wife, and it terrified him more than any battle.
    With Magda’s anger fresh in his mind, Farran bathed and even trimmed his beard. Then he dug deep into his endless wardrobe for his ceremonial best, grays and blues his seamstress had delivered the last time Ciar had commanded him to attend a court function as the First Warlord.
    He arrived at Iloria’s door at the precise time she’d invited him and braced himself before knocking.
    She answered in gauzy white robes, a simple gold chain encircling her throat. “Come in, please. Dinner is ready.”
    Farran felt rooted to the spot. The three robes were ceremonial. Traditional. Each one nearly transparent on its own and, all together, an invitation no man could ignore. “Iloria—”
    “Come in,” she said again, swinging wide the door. Only the blush climbing up her cheeks betrayed her awareness of him.
    He would be damned to the darkest corners of hell for what he’d do to her. Nothing she didn’t desire, nothing she wouldn’t crave—but she could hardly understand a grown man’s needs. A wolf’s needs.
    Especially not a wolf like him.
    He had to turn around. He had to leave.
    Somehow, his boot stepped over the threshold and took him with it.
    Iloria said nothing, simply poured a goblet of wine, handed it to him, and reached for the top clasp of her outermost robe.
    The cup slipped through his fingers as he let out a helpless growl. “Iloria, you needn’t—this is not required of you, not until you desire it. I intended to give you time to come to know me.”
    She froze with