the highlander, Tristan smiled. The chieftain’s manner was so infectious that he simply couldn’t help it.
Moments later, Yasmin and her sisters reappeared. They were dressed even more provocatively than before. Aside from the flimsiest of dark material draped over their shoulders and breasts, only diaphanous, blousy leggings covered the lower parts of their bodies. Their feet and midriffs were bare, and they bore bits of gold jewelry that pierced their navels. Each girl wore a sheer veil, draped seductively below her eyes. Looking closer, Tristan saw that they also wore a pair of thumb and finger cymbals on each hand.
The women walked to a place before Tristan and Rafe, bowed, then sat on their knees. They closed their eyes. Rafe clapped his hands.
From somewhere on the other side of the bonfire, lively music started. As it wafted its way across the clearing, the women stood and started their dance. Two of the girls quickly made their way toward other men, while Yasmin and her sister approached Tristan and Rafe.
Tristan had eyes only for Yasmin, just as she did for him. In the firelight, her undulating body was amazingly beautiful. Moving seductively to the music, time and time again she approached him, only to expertly tease his senses then slink away. Closing her eyes, she raised her slender arms overhead to start tapping her cymbals together. As the music grew louder, her movements became ever more provocative, the clashing cymbals and the alluring sway of her hips marking every beat.
She moved closer again, this time so near that Tristan could smell the enticing perfume sprinkled between her breasts. Slowly sitting on her knees with her naked back to him, she leaned back until her head and chest were in his lap. Like he and Yasmin were the only two people in the world, the entranced prince could hear only the music, smell only her perfume, and see only her beauty. She lifted her body, bringing her mouth nearer his. As if possessed by a spell, Tristan closed his eyes and parted his lips…
The scream that tore through the night was chilling. It was a male voice, coming from the opposite side of the clearing. The music stopped abruptly and the dancing girls went stock-still. Yasmin immediately came to her feet.
Standing quickly, Tristan looked at Rafe. Balthazar and the highlander chieftain were already upright. Looking across the campsite, Rafe’s eyes held a peculiar mixture of worry and hate. Snapping his head around, Tristan saw the object of Rafe’s concern.
A highlander was running toward them. Standing, Tristan coiled up at first, then relaxed as he recognized the fellow who had led the charge toward the ravine. As he neared, Tristan saw that he was carrying something. Yasmin came to stand beside Tristan.
Running pell-mell, the highlander skidded to a stop before Rafe. Looking down, Tristan saw that he was carrying a canvas cinch bag. Tristan froze as he saw the bag’s bottom. It was dripping blood.
“Master…,” the breathless highlander said. He handed the bag to Rafe at arm’s length, like it was full of deadly snakes. “This was just found at the camp’s edge!” he exclaimed. “I have not opened it, but I fear the worst.”
Rafe untied the bag and looked inside. At once his face blanched and twisted into a terrible grimace. Closing his eyes, he dropped the bag to the ground, then turned his face away.
“What is it?” Tristan asked. Forgetting himself for a moment, he started to reach for the fallen bag. Before he could grasp it, Balthazar roughly shoved him aside. Saying nothing, Balthazar picked up the bag and looked in. A hateful look overcame his face as well. He too dropped the bag like it was cursed.
“Zorian traitors!” he growled. “You will pay for this!” Shaking his fists in the air, Balthazar raged against the night. “Do you hear me, you bastard sons of a thousand fathers? This insult will cost you your lives!”
As other highlanders crowded around, Tristan reached down to retrieve the bloody bag. He did not wish to offend anyone, but he had to know. He pulled the bag open and looked inside.
It contained a severed male head. It was bloody, and cut many times by what had probably been a razor- sharp dagger. The eyes had been sewn shut with bits of coarse leather, and its teeth pulled out by some crude instrument. Clearly, the man had been tortured before being killed. Closing the bag, Tristan respectfully placed it back onto the ground, then looked at Yasmin.
“What does this mean?” he asked.
“Our truce with the Zorian clan has ended,” she said sadly. “The head in the bag is that of Casimir, Rafe’s brother.”
“The Zorians are a rival clan?” Tristan asked.
Yasmin nodded. “They are butchers, rapists, and cutthroats-including their women.”
“Casimir was captured by them?” Tristan asked, trying to understand.
“No,” she answered. “During a truce it is often customary for each side to exchange hostages. The hostages are almost always persons of importance. As long as the hostages live, so does the truce. By killing Casimir and sending his head, the Zorian elders have ended the truce. A challenge has been made. Rafe has but one choice left to him now.”
Looking over, Tristan watched Rafe turn back around. The highlander chieftain’s face was resolute. Yasmin placed her lips near Tristan’s ear.
“Whatever happens, you must not interfere. This is highlander business. Rafe likes you, but he will tolerate nodango intrusions.”
Rafe nodded harshly at Balthazar. Understanding, the giant quickly walked away.
“We should sit,” Yasmin whispered into Tristan’s ear. “We have no part in this.”
The prince sat down on the dewy grass. Yasmin sat beside him. Despite the tense circumstances, he was struck by how comfortable her presence felt.
Balthazar soon returned with a bound prisoner in tow. The man was about Tristan’s age. His face was dark and cruel-looking, and his long hair fell about his shoulders. His hands were tied behind him.
Several more Kilbourne clansmen came forward. Two of them carried a thick, rough-hewn pole. They quickly pounded it into the ground before the bonfire. Pushing his prisoner toward the pole, Balthazar viciously shoved the man’s back up against it.
The two other highlanders quickly untied the prisoner’s hands, then bound them tightly again behind the pole. They then did the same to his feet. Placing a leather strap around the man’s forehead, Balthazar pulled the strap tight and tied it, pinning the man’s head to the pole.
Rafe picked up thetachinga amphora and took a long drink. He carelessly let the amphora drop to the ground. Unsheathing his silver dagger, Rafe walked toward the prisoner.
His dagger hanging loosely from his right hand, Rafe glared at the prisoner’s dark face. The bonfire highlighted the man’s sharp, unrepentant glare. Aside from the snapping flames, the tense campsite had gone totally silent.
Tristan turned to Yasmin. “Is the man tied to the pole your Zorian hostage?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Yasmin whispered back. “He is the Zorian chieftain’s second son.”
Reaching out, Rafe impassively drew his dagger across the prisoner’s offered throat. The man coughed blood for a moment, some of it running down his chest. Soon his head slumped forward. Sheathing his dagger, Rafe took out his sword. With a single stroke, he beheaded the corpse. The head tumbled to the grass.
“It is done,” Yasmin whispered.
Picking up the head by its hair, Balthazar held it high for everyone to see. He then walked back to where the canvas bag lay. Removing Casimir’s head, he reverently wrapped it in cloth, then handed it to one of the female elders. He put the other head into the bag and knotted the string. Balthazar casually tossed the bloody bag to the young highlander who had first brought it into the camp. As he wiped the blood from his sword, Rafe turned to look at him.
“Dump that trash at the edge of the Zorian camp where they will be sure to find it,” he ordered softly. Bowing, the young highlander picked up the bloody bag and hurried for his horse.
Yasmin leaned closer to Tristan. “Rafe will want to be alone,” she whispered. Despite all that had happened, her eyes still held the predatory yearning that had filled them before. As the firelight highlighted her sensual face, Tristan again felt himself drawn to her.
“He will retire to his wagon and so will I,” she said. “Things have changed. Much will happen tomorrow.” She placed a warm palm against Tristan’s cheek. As her lips neared his again, he sensed the heat building inside him. “What is your decision?” she asked. “Will you come with me?”
Reaching out, Tristan clenched some of her tresses in one hand. Closing his eyes, he luxuriated in its wonderful scent. Looking her squarely in the face again, he commandingly pulled her hair, ordering her closer. She
