chance of getting back to the keep before nightfall. She was lost, and to make matters worst, the glowering sky threatened rain. While there was no guarantee this man actually knew the wayt he represented her best option.
'Wait,' she called.
He stopped and turned, offering her a thin, self-satisfied smile. 'Yes, Marguerite?'
She exhaled sharply, struggling to abandon her pride. Then it struck her that he had used her name, though she had never offered it. 'You seem to know a great deal about me.'
'Arturi and his caravan described you freely,' he replied.
'No doubt they misinformed you, though my name is indeed Marguerite. What is your own name, then?' she asked. 'I do not enjoy the disadvantage.'
'Ramus,' he answered. He tipped his hat.
'Well, then, Ramus, I would indeed be grateful if you would simply point me in the right direction.'
'That wil) not be sufficient,' he replied. 'Follow me, and I will escort you back to your well-cut walls.'
She began to protest, but he had already turned. If she did not follow, she would lose him.
The Vistana carved a meandering path through the underbrush. It was difficult to converse as they walked, but Ramus seemed uninterested in speaking further. She remained a few steps behind, studying him. He walked gracefully yet with strength, penetrating the undergrowth with ease. He seemed to know instinctively when to wend left or right around each obstacle, never leading her toward a snag that would force their retreat. She halted briefly to adjust her cape, and realized that nearly all the snapping and thrashing had been caused by her comparatively clumsy gait. Ramus seemed to her like a great cat, a panther. Suddenly she felt awkward and ridiculous by comparison.
As a girl she had fancied herself skilled in the woods. It was a private pride, of course-ladies did not 'go a- loping,' as her father said. 'The only women who wander are gypsies, whores, and sell-swords. Stray too far from home, and you'll meet with danger or disgrace.' How ironic that in the end, he had been forced to send her away in the hands of the gypsies he privately insulted, into the arms of a man no one knew.
At last she coutd see the dull glow of a clearing ahead. A light rain was falling, but the trees protected them from its full force. Ramus turned to her. 'We are nearing our goal,' he said. He let her pass him just near the edge, then reached out and held her arm, pulling her back into the obscurity of the woods. 'Marguerite,' he whispered.
She steeled herself, thinking that some advance on his part might follow. Instead Ramus pointed into the clearing, where Ljubo was walking. A livid and bloody shape hung over the plump man's shoulder. The Vis-tana pulled her gently to the ground, so that they crouched together, watching as Ljubo made his own way across the field. Through the heavy veil of branches, Marguerite struggled to see what he was carrying. Was it a sack stained with blood? Or a torso of some kind? She shuddered.
'Perhaps it is your damsel in distress,' Ramus said quietly, answering her unspoken query. He leaned in closer, speaking in her ear. 'Perhaps it's the tender meat you imagined suffering beneath my lecherous, murderous hands.' He laughed softly and gently kneaded her arm with his fingers. 'Yes, she proved to be a bore, so I took my revenge on her.'
Marguerite flinched, then saw that Ljubo was hauling the carcass of a large swine. Oddly, the rear legs of the pig had been severed, and they now swung from Ljubo's belt. 'A boar,' she said dryly.
'Very funny.'
'The pig might disagree,' the gypsy replied. 'Isn't it remarkable how fear of the blade binds men and ani-maJs together? Horses, pigs, giorgios-when they stand at the brink of death, nostrils brimming with their own blood and fear, the screams sound very much alike.'
They rose together, and she turned to him in amazement. 'What a vulgar description,' she whispered hoarsely. 'And i notice you did not include Vis-tani in the equation.'
'Vistani fear one thing more than the blade,' he said.
'Oh, do tell,' she replied. 'What might that be?'
'Confinement. When the alternative is being trapped or held captive, a swift death is sometimes merciful.'
Marguerite recalled the series of screams. 'I don't think the pig's death was so swift,' she said quietly.
'No,' Ramus answered, 'maybe not. But no doubt you wili soon be tasting its succulent flesh, and thinking only of your own belly's pleasure. The kill portends a celebration. When is your wedding to occur?'
'Tomorrow.'
The Vistana sniffed. 'He is wasting no time,' he said. 'But that was expected.'
Before Marguerite could reply, Ramus gently covered her mouth to silence her, pointing toward the clearing again. Marguerite gasped. Ekhart was striding across the clearing after Ljubo, behind three hellish black hounds. Had Zosia betrayed her? The animals had hulking, muscular bodies with massive chests and low-set haunches. Froth and drool dangled from their lips as they strained at their tethers. Ekhart halted them in the center of the field, then turned toward the woods where the refugees hid.
The gypsy's lips brushed her ear. 'Hot a word,' he whispered, in a voice like a breeze. ' Yekori-akiri. Let me shield you.'
Marguerite felt a strange surge in the air around her as Ramus's other arm slipped around her shoulders and drew her back into the shadows of the trees. She stared at the hounds as they sniffed the air. The dogs remained silent.
But Ekhart had not paused to scent the couple in the wood. A third figure entered the scene. Marguerite's heart sank; it was Donskoy, riding toward the castle. What was he doing here? Hadn't he planned to be away until tomorrow? Evidently, plans had changed.
Donskoy reined in his mount before the tall, thin man. Distance muffled their conversation, but Don-skoy's annoyance was obvious. He circled his horse around Ekhart, growling at him, berating him with some unintelligible tirade. The horse's hooves loosened muddy bits of turf, flinging them about. Donskoy raised his crop, swinging it through the air about Ekhart's head. The old man never flinched, but the great hounds sank to the ground, cowering. The sky grew darker, lowering, as if to reflect Lord Donskoy's wrath.
Ramus stood behind Marguerite as she gaped at the scene. He whispered into her ear. 'When you face Lord Donskoy, I would not tell him about our meeting or reveal how far you wandered into the woods. It would not be wise.'
'I have no interest in your advice,' she hissed, not turning to meet his gaze. Anxiety lent a steel edge to her voice. 'You take me for something I am not. A virtuous woman does not keep secrets from her husband-certainly not to protect the interests of another man.'
'Another burst of propriety?' Ramus mused. 'You slip so easily into the role. I pray you are as good an actress with him. It's true that a noble wife does not converse with strangers about personal matters. Of course, a good giorgio wife also does not meet with unfamiliar men under circumstances such as these.'
'This is hardly my fault.'
'Isn't it? Who dragged you into the wild? Protecting my interests is the least of your concerns. And you are not Donskoy's wife-not yet.'
She felt Ramus's eyes burning upon the back of her neck. She had no reply. SureJy Donskoy would not be angry with her about the situation, she thought, attempting to conjure hope. The day's events were such a small matter, a trivial transgression. What had she done but go for a stroll? Perhaps he was upset about something else. Then she remembered his capricious changes in mood, his firm attempts to control her movement. A simple fact remained: she had ignored his wishes. She knew in her heart it would not go unnoticed. As to Donskoy's response- and as to whether he would refuse her hand because of this transgression-she had no idea.
Marguerite stood silently, watching the two men as they headed through the drizzling rain toward the castle and disappeared through the gate to the stables. Ramus was right. She had put herself in a compromising position. She had not let Ekhart accompany her, and she had wandered too far. Time had galloped on; night appeared to be approaching. Certainly Zosia had encouraged her lark, but she alone was responsible. She had risked everything. And it was too late to change it.
When she turned to say goodbye, Ramus was already departing. His black shape slipped silently between two trees; then he was gone.
Marguerite bolted across the clearing toward the main entrance to the keep. The wind whipped through the
