So, if not to kill him and not to serve him, why had she come?

He nodded at Valik. “Search her.”

She stood, trembling and white-faced, as Valik quickly patted her down. Valik’s shoulders stiffened when he reached the voluminous skirts. The girl lurched back, trying to keep Valik from revealing whatever he’d found.

Gunterfys flashed. A single drop of scarlet blood welled at the girl’s throat and trickled down her skin in the shadow of the shining sword tip tucked just below her chin. Wynter didn’t believe she was an assassin, but then again, astonishing though the thought might be, he could be wrong.

“Don’t move,” he advised. “My blade is very sharp, and Valik’s life far more important to me than yours. You wouldn’t want to make me nervous on his behalf.”

She didn’t speak. She didn’t dare. If she even swallowed, she’d pierce her throat against his blade, and he could see she knew it.

Slowly, watching for any sudden moves, Valik crouched down and reached once more for her skirts. His hand disappeared into what appeared to be a deep pocket hidden in the gray folds.

Wynter wasn’t sure what he was expecting. A knife perhaps, or some sort of poison. Odd how disappointed he felt to see the jeweled comb and hairbrush, followed by a matching mirror. Obviously old, obviously of great value.

“Not an assassin, then,” he murmured. “Just a common thief.” He pulled the razored tip of his sword back slightly.

The storm gray eyes flashed. With his blade no longer pressed directly against her flesh, she’d rediscovered her courage. “I’m no thief! And even if I were, it would be better than being a cold, merciless killer like you!”

Valik reached into her pockets again and retrieved a small, leather-bound book which he handed to Wynter.

With his free hand, Wynter cracked open the book and leafed through the handwritten pages, frowning over the detailed sketches of plants and the instructions for their care. “I can understand the gold and jewels, but this? You would risk my wrath to steal this? A gardener’s journal?”

The girl surprised them both. She leapt back, away from the tip of Wynter’s sword, and delivered a swift kick to Valik’s jaw that sent the steward sprawling against Wynter’s legs, knocking them both down. She started to lunge for the journal, which went skittering across the gleaming floor, but thought the better of it when Wynter freed himself from the tangle of Valik’s limbs and tossed aside his sword to advance on her with unmistakable determination. She spun and raced for the doors.

He caught her just as her fingertips skimmed the brass door latch. One hand wrapped hard around her wrist, the other came up to block the close-fisted blow she plowed towards his head. The little fury meant to black his eye if she could!

He laughed with a mix of amusement and surprised appreciation. She couldn’t win. She had to know that. Yet still she fought. He hadn’t known there was a Summerlander alive still willing to confront him with such spirited defiance. Entire armies had fallen before him, yet this slight wisp of a girl dared to grapple, barehanded and defenseless, with the Winter King, a man who could slay with a glance.

He dodged a fist meant to break his nose and laughed again, enjoying himself for the first time in a very long while. How lucky for him so few of Verdan’s soldiers had possessed such raw, reckless courage! A thousand like her in their ranks, and the war might have ended quite differently.

His humor apparently didn’t sit well with her. She snarled and aimed another blow at his chin, which he blocked, as well as a vicious kick to his groin. He managed to block that, too—barely—but the hard toe of her boot still came close enough, with enough force, that his balls tingled from the near miss.

He quit laughing. There were some things a man just didn’t find funny.

“All right. That’s enough!” He shoved her hard up against the wall, one hand curled around her throat, squeezing just hard enough to make his point. He’d let her have her fun, now he would get his answers.

The struggle had dislodged her cap. Long black ringlets of hair, streaked with gleaming white, spilled halfway down her back. His eyes narrowed on the pale hairs threading through the much darker curls, and he recognized her at last.

“The little maid from the bailey.” He regarded her with even greater interest than before. She was the last person he’d ever have expected to find here. “Do you know how very rare it is for anyone who has ever felt my Gaze to risk invoking my wrath a second time?”

Panting, she glared at him. The heat of her Summerlander skin soaked into his hands. She was so soft, so warm. So brave and defiant. More intriguing than any woman he’d met in a long, long while, and undeniably pretty.

“Tell me, little maid, was one brush with death not enough for you? Or did the danger of it simply whet your appetite for more?” He pressed his thumb against the vein pulsing so rapidly beneath the soft, oh so vulnerable skin, and felt the answering leap as her heart pounded faster.

She felt like warm satin. Smooth and creamy to the touch, reminding him how long it had been since he’d tasted the sweeter pleasures of life.

“Is that it?” His voice grew husky. “Was the thievery just an excuse to seek a greater thrill? Perhaps you wondered if the Winter King’s blood could run as hot as it does cold? It can, I assure you.” He moved closer, pinning her lower body, letting her feel the unmistakable—and growing—bulge in his trousers.

Her face paled, then flushed with color. Her eyes grew huge in her fine-boned face. His free hand slid up her waist to cup one firm, full breast, fingers dancing across the fabric until he felt the satisfying jab of her nipple drawing tight and hard. A bolt of static electricity snapped between them, and a tremor shook her from head to toe.