“Open the gates! Open the gates!” the man in the lead bellowed as he came into view.

“Run!” the man behind him yelled when he spotted the group gaping at them.

Both screamed orders, Noelle discovered, came from the delegation barreling toward them at the best speed they could manage—the delegation that had left days ago to hike over to the nearest village to try to negotiate a treaty with the natives.

And directly on their heels was an army of Amazons, who abruptly began screaming like banshees the moment they spotted the group, Noelle’s group, just beyond the safety of the colony!

The screams released some from their indecisive paralysis.

It had the opposite effect on Noelle.

For a space of critical heartbeats, Noelle merely stared wide-eyed with mouth agape at the barbarian horde heading straight for them from the path through the forest that edged the plain where they’d built their colony.

Monica, who’d already whirled to charge toward the gate and safety, spotted Noelle and changed directions abruptly. Charging toward her, she slammed into Noelle in her efforts to grab her. Their feet tangled, and both of them sprawled out.

Monica hit the dirt like she was spring loaded. Completely unfazed from her collision with the ground, she grabbed Noelle’s arm on her rebound and yanked her to her feet.

It was enough to throw off Noelle’s shock and jog her sense of self-preservation. She ran. She ran so fast she outran Monica and began dragging her.

She ran so fast she didn’t know what the hell happened when she was abruptly slammed against the ground. She thought for several moments that Monica had tripped and fallen on her.

Until she was hauled up and tossed over a broad shoulder that knocked the breath out of her and made her black out.

Chapter Two

“Can you believe those stupid bastards led the damned Amazons back to the colony and got us captured?” Monica burst out angrily.

Noelle still had a headache—from being carried with her head hanging down, she thought. “Did I get hit on the head?”

Monica’s anger subsided abruptly and she moved toward Noelle, examining her head carefully. “I don’t see anything. Whiplash probably,” she diagnosed, “from being body slammed on the ground by that bitch.”

Drak stared out at the drifts of snow that were gradually growing higher, his expression a cross between disgust and plain out anger. But it had very little to do with the weather conditions outside that were more miserable than usual. He had hated this time of year since he’d been a boy. And the fact that a forced peace lay over the lands due to conditions that no sane man would tackle for glory or riches had little to do with it, directly, at any rate. It reminded him of his losses, filled him with fresh pain that he had hoped every year would not visit him with his memories.

The distance of time didn’t seem to have helped a great deal.

He considered that for a moment. How many anums had passed?

He had been four anums when his sister had been born. He recalled the birth. He would not have recalled the age he had been—didn’t—but he did recall that his mother had said that he was four years older and that he was certainly old enough to be his young sister’s protector.

Except he hadn’t been competent enough to protect her and no amount of practice or skills acquired since that time could make up for the lack he had had when it had been needed.

That was what tormented him, he realized, far more than the losses.

It had been his fault—all the way around.

His father, Drak the Dark, had broken centuries of tradition when he had decided to keep his woman until she delivered his son—his heir. He had ignored his advisors when they had pointed out that it was always possible to determine his seed from the others—a Flaxen always knew his get by scent—knew the scent of the woman they’d impregnated. Even if it transpired that the child favored his mother rather than his father—a rare thing!—he would know the offspring by scent!

There were reasons for the traditions! And refusing to honor age old traditions was just asking for trouble!

The advisors hadn’t lost their heads for pointing that out to their Prince, but it had been a near thing.

He, of everyone, even his closest friends, knew why his father had ignored tradition and kept his woman.

In the beginning it had been because, despite the myths to the contrary, a man did not always know his child—sometimes, yes, but there was no absolute certainty except when the child looked like a copy of the father. It rarely mattered, however, and that was why most men were content to adhere to the centuries old tradition. Unless a man had valuable possessions or property that he wanted to ensure passed to his son, there was no reason to be concerned.

His father was not actually the son of Drak the Red, however, as he was first believed to be and he had suffered for his father’s ‘mistake’. Until the day he died, Drak the Red had searched for his ‘true’ son, determined to usurp the changeling that was his namesake and replace him with the true heir. Drak the Dark refused to take a chance that he might repeat that mistake and bring another man’s son to his throne.

So he had taken the woman and she had born a son for him—and then a daughter—and still he would not return her to her people because he had become enthralled with her long before she had born his first child. It hadn’t been until she had become pregnant a third time that Drak the Dark had begun to feel some concern that his son and heir might be weakened by the presence and influence of a female.

And that anxiety had been compounded by the worry that his woman might produce a second heir who could create a split in the realm if the younger son should decide not to accept his elder brother as high Prince.

That decision had pitched all of them into a nightmare. For although he had hated his father ever afterwards for his decision that had cost him his beloved mother and sister, he hadn’t been so blinded by his hate that he wasn’t aware that it had created a hellish existence for his father for his final years, as well.

Occasionally, he wondered what his life would have been like if his father hadn’t thumbed his nose at tradition, but he didn’t like to travel that road because he was fairly certain his mother would still be alive if his father hadn’t kept her, hadn’t become obsessed with her.

That was the danger of keeping a woman! A man could lose his head over a woman. It would warp his judgment and distract him and that would make him dangerous on the battlefield.

Uneasiness slithered through him at the last thought, but he dismissed it.

He would not make the same mistake his father had!

The approach of his second in command distracted him from his dark thoughts. He straightened, studying the older man as he moved briskly across the great hall. Kulle bowed respectfully when he reached him. “Lord, the ship is prepared.”

Drak felt his belly tighten. It was much the same reaction he had to imminent battle—the thrill of the fight, the fear of defeat and death—anticipation and dread rolled together in an unidentifiable rock in his belly.

There was more fear and dread in this, however, than anticipation. “And Moden—is he confident that that rusting contraption will make another voyage and back again?”

Kulle released a snort that was part amusement and part disgust. “Likely your order would have worked with anyone else, Lord. But that one became witless the moment I suggested he would be sailing with us if he was so confident in it. He has not had a woman before.”

Drak rolled his eyes. “A miscalculation, that! Well, we will all know before long if it will make the journey there and back.”