Triumph by Heather Graham Page B

yours.”
    “But—”
    “Allow your enemy to be valiant.”
    She rose as well, meeting his eyes again as they stood before the fire.
    “Fine, I will steal your bed. If—”
    “If?” he interrupted her. “If I make no assumptions that your being in my bed means that, er, you wish to be in my bed. Trust me—I had no intention of doing so.”
    “Fine!” she said. She turned away from him, taking the few steps to the spot. Then, after she had stretched out, pulled his camp blanket around herself, and closed her eyes, she added a soft “Thank you.”
    “My pleasure, Godiva.”
    He didn’t touch her, but he was near. She heard him sit down upon the log again, and though she didn’t open her eyes, she knew that he kept his gaze upon the fire, and that he was thoughtful.
    Would he tire? she wondered. Sleep soundly?
    Soundly enough that they might surprise him in his sleep?
    No. She was certain that assaulting him in the night would mean certain death. And not for him.
    Yet would the morning be any better?
    Perhaps, if she was any kind of seductress at all. If he had come to trust her at all ...
    She was so tired, yet surely, far too nervous to sleep. He was there, sitting beside her on the log. So close. His presence unlike any she had known before.
    Strange, but that enemy presence lent a certain security to the night. She stretched like a cat, then eased more deeply into her makeshift bed, feeling a luxurious sense of comfort. The weather was so cool—a Florida winter, coming in earnest. The air seemed refreshingly sweet around. The bedroll was warm where she was cold, and the saddle and blanket did make a fine pillow. Half-awake and half-asleep, she slit her eyes, and she could see the fire as it flickered and danced in the night. She was exhausted. Indeed, she’d been so tired, and then so full of catfish, and then the coffee spiked with the whiskey ...
    The world fogged. She was still so keenly aware of him. And she strangely thought that he smelled good; he was bathed, shaven, smelling of soap and leather, clean and rugged. Yet why did something about him seem familiar? Why did it seem she should know something, understand who he was, what he was ...
    The answer eluded her. Her eyes closed further. She could dare to trust him tonight. So that she could betray him come morning.
    It was easy to sleep, and yet later, she awoke, shivering.
    The fire must have died.
    She rose slightly and saw that he was up, stoking new life into the fire.
    He heard her, sensed her, knew that she was awake.
    “Cold?”
    “No, not really.”
    “Yes, you are.”
    He came to her. With his unnerving agility, he was down and beside her before she even realized his intent. She started to move, to protest, but he set an arm around her firmly. “I mean you no harm, Godiva! Trust me, you hardheaded little wild thing. I’m only trying to warm you.”
    “I don’t want the warmth of such an enemy.”
    “Didn’t anyone ever tell you, Godiva, that we don’t always get what we want?”
    “No!”
    “Then it’s time someone did. Lie down, sleep.”
    She gritted her teeth. She hadn’t quite realized the scope of his strength; the arm around her was like an iron clasp. She closed her eyes, protesting no more. She could hardly entice him to join her down by the stream in the morning and flirt with him so engagingly that he’d forget his back if she fought being near him while they slept.
    It would just have to be a wretched night. One in which she would never find any rest again.
    But she did sleep. Comfortably, and very deeply. She was amazed to feel the coming of the sun against her cheeks, hear the chirping of birds.
    The world, she thought, could be so strange. War everywhere. Men killing men. But the birds let out their calls as usual, the sun rose each morning, winter came, and the breeze was fresh. And it was possible to waken in the morning and believe that there was no war ...
    Except that, when she awoke, he was there. Beside