"Depeches-toi," he said softly, not looking at her.

Her hands flew, undoing the fastenings of the habit, and a few minutes later she was slipping naked into the softness of the robe.

It was far too large for her, the hem dragging the floor, the sleeves hanging ridiculously long. On her small frame the robe looked ludicrous and not at all seductive. She strode over to the trunk and rummaged until she found a black silk sash, wound the length three times around her waist, and tied it in a knot in front before rolling up the sleeves to her elbows. The garment was so voluminous she should have felt uncomfortable, but the cotton was light as air compared to her habit. She ruffled her hair before stalking belligerently toward the opening of the tent. "I look foolish. You must promise not to laugh at me."

"Must I?" He continued to look at the campfire across the pond. "But laughter is so rare in this world."

"Well, I have no desire to provide you with more." She stopped beside him and scowled up at him. "I'm sure I don't look in the least what you intended. But it's all your fault. I told you that I wasn't comely."

"So you did." His gaze shifted to her face and then down her draped body. His lips twitched. "You do look a trifle… overwhelmed." He sobered. "But you're wrong, it's exactly what I intended."

"Truly?" She frowned doubtfully. How could she be expected to gain understanding of the man when he changed from moment to moment? Last night he had wanted her without clothing, and now it appeared he desired her to be covered from chin to toes. She shrugged. "But you're right, this is much more comfortable than my habit."

"I'm glad you approve." His mouth turned up at the corners. "I should have hated to be proved wrong."

"You would never admit it. Men never do. My father—"

He frowned. "I find I'm weary of being compared to your father."

She could certainly understand his distaste. "I'm sorry," she said earnestly. "I know few men, so perhaps I'm being unfair. I can see how you would object to being tossed in the same stable as my father, for he's not at all pleasant."

He started to smile, and then his lips thinned. "No, not at all pleasant." He reached out and touched her hair with a gentle hand. "But you don't have to worry about him any longer, kilen."

"I don't worry about him." She shrugged. "It would be a waste of time to worry about things I can't change. It's much more sensible to accept the bad and enjoy the good in life."

"Much more sensible." His fingers moved from her hair to brush the shadows beneath her eyes. "I drove us at a cruel pace from Dinar. Was the day hard for you?"

Her flesh seemed to tingle beneath his touch, filling her with the same excitement and panic she had known the night before. She had to force herself not to step away from him. "No, I would not admit to being so puny. I did not sleep well last night." She had not meant to blurt that out, she thought vexedly. "I mean—"

"I know what you mean. I did not sleep well either." Galen turned her around and shoved her gently toward the tent. "Which is why I pushed the pace today. I wanted to be weary enough to sleep tonight. Good night, kilen."

"Aren't you coming?"

"Presently. Go to bed."

She wanted to argue, but there was something about the tension of the back he turned toward her that gave her pause. Still, for some reason she hesitated, reluctant to leave him. "What time do we leave tomorrow?"

"At dawn."

"And how long will it take to get to Zalandan?"

"Another five days."

"Will we—"

"Go to bed, Tess!"

The suppressed violence in his voice made her jump and start hurriedly toward the entrance of the tent. "Oh, very well." She entered the tent and then slowed her pace to a deliberate stroll as she moved toward the curtained sleeping area. After all, there was nothing to run away from when Galen was not even in pursuit.

She drew back the thin curtain and the next moment sank onto the cushions heaped on the low, wide divan. There was much to say for barbarism, she thought as she burrowed into the silken pillows. This divan was much more comfortable than the bed at the inn…

Tess's curly hair was garnet-dark flame against the beige satin of the pillow under her head. His robe had worked open revealing her delicate shoulder, the skin of which was soft as velvet and even more luminescent than the satin of the pillow below it.

As Galen watched, she stirred, half turned, and a beautifully formed limb emerged from the cotton folds of the robe. Not a voluptuous thigh but a strong, well-muscled one.

Exquisite. He felt a painful thickening in his groin as he stood looking at her. He had deliberately provided her with the oversized garment to avoid seeing her naked as he had last night, but somehow this half nudity was even more arousing.

It was because he was back in Sedikhan, he told himself. It couldn't be this half-woman, half-child who was causing his physical turmoil. He always felt a seething unrest and wildness when he was on home ground. The memories of his past debaucheries were too vivid to be ignored when he was back in the desert. But the wildness had never been this strong, the urge to take a woman so violent…

But he could control it. He had to control it.

Why? She was only a woman, like any other.

No, not like any other. She had a man's sense of honor. She had made a bargain and would keep it. He could have her simply by reaching out a hand. He could put his palm on those soft, springy curls surrounding her womanhood and stroke her as he did Selik. He could pluck at that delicious secret nub until she screamed for satisfaction. He could pull her to her knees and make—

Make. The word cooled his fever for her. Only a true barbarian used force on women.

He stripped quickly, blew out the candle in the copper lantern hanging on the tent pole, and settled down on the cushions beside Tess, careful not to touch her. The heaviness in his loins turned painful. He lay with his back to her, his heart pounding against his rib cage.

He could control it. He was no savage to take—

He felt the cushions shift. The scent of lavender and woman drifted over him, and he tried to breathe shallowly to mitigate its effect.

Then he felt her fingers in his hair.

Every muscle in his body went rigid. "Tess?"

She murmured something drowsily, only half-awake, her fingers caressing his nape.

"What"—a shudder racked through him as her fingertips brushed his shoulders—"are you doing?"

She pulled the ribbon from his queue and tossed it aside. "Wife's duty…"

She moved away again, and the rhythm of her breathing told him she was sound asleep once more.

Wife's duty? Galen would have laughed if he hadn't been in the grip of hot frustration. He would like to show her a wife's "duty." He would like to move between her thighs and plunge deep. He would like to take her for a ride in the desert coit de cheval, cradling her buttocks in his palms, making her feel every inch of him. He would like to— He forced himself to abandon such thoughts and to unclench his fists.

He had put his wild days behind him. He could no longer take with reckless abandon. He must think, consider, wait.

Dear God in heaven, he was hurting.

"Scream and I'll slit your pretty throat from ear to ear."

The voice was guttural, jarring Tess from sleep. Her eyes flew open, but she could see only a shadowy face above her in the darkness of the tent.