Free Into the Shadow by Christina Dodd

to be docile.
    He would have a hell of a wait. ‘‘You might want to keep an eye on your bride, or she’ll stick a knife between your ribs.’’
    ‘‘Every relationship has its small difficulties to work out.’’ He let her slip down and onto her feet.
    ‘‘Wow.’’ In all her years of roughing it, Karen had never seen anything like this. Two LED camp lanterns hung on hooks up by the ceiling and shed a white light on the tent’s spacious interior. The outer shell would attract no notice at all in any American camp-ground, but inside . . . a sumptuous handcrafted wool carpet covered the floor, and huge tapestries hung along the walls. To insulate against the cold, Karen supposed, but also to lend the richness of their beauty to a wanderer’s abode.
    Yet a man—a raider—had seized what he liked. When she faced one direction a graceful tree of life grew on a green background. Another direction and a medieval knight pranced across a field. One wall was a modern rendering of a blue lake at twilight, and the other a graceful arch with pink roses spilling onto a path. The carpet was a glorious Kashmiri rug in cream, burgundy, and black.
    ‘‘I guess the term ‘feng shui’ means nothing to you, huh?’’
    ‘‘I’m not into Chinese food.’’
    Was he being funny? She couldn’t tell, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to laugh.
    The rest of the furniture was as much of a hodgepodge as the tapestries—there were two chests, a French provincial desk, an ergonomic desk chair, a coffee table with cushions tossed around it for casual seating, or maybe for dining, Karen didn’t know which. She didn’t care. For there was also the bed. . . .
    Ah, the bed.
    It was nothing more than a queen-sized mattress set on the floor on a bed frame without legs, with a brass headboard and footboard and a canopy of mosquito netting. The posts shone as if someone polished it daily, a narrow leather holster was strapped to one upright bedpost, pillows billowed flirtatiously, and the whole glorious contraption should have whispered of sin and seduction.
    Instead it shouted rest and relaxation. ‘‘What kind of mattress is that?’’ she asked.
    ‘‘A Sealy.’’
    She groaned with pleasure quite unlike the pleasure she’d experienced in his arms. ‘‘My God, how did you get it up here?’’
    ‘‘What do you care?’’ He took the collar of her coat and tried to lift it away.
    She wrapped her arms more tightly around herself and glared.
    He tugged. ‘‘Take off your coat before you lie down.’’
    ‘‘No.’’
    In an elaborate gesture he removed his hands. ‘‘I was playing the gentleman.’’
    ‘‘That ship has sailed.’’
    For a moment she thought he was going to laugh. ‘‘You remind me of . . .’’
    ‘‘Of what?’’
    ‘‘Home.’’ He gave her a push on the shoulder. ‘‘Go to sleep. I have to find out what’s happened with that shipment that’s coming through today.’’
    She stumbled to the bed, flopped sideways across the mattress, and promptly slid into sleep. . . .
    She stood on the edge of the cliff, the blue sky surrounding her. The wind blew hard, tumbling her hair around her face. She tried to back up, to get away, but her feet were too heavy. Then the ground shook. The stones rumbled. The edge gave way. She hurtled toward the ground. . . .
    Her own scream brought her back to a wavering consciousness.
    Heart pounding, she opened her eyes—and stared into his. Into Warlord’s.
    He crouched on the bed, holding her. ‘‘Was it your nightmare? Did you fall?’’
    ‘‘Yes.’’ She shuddered, and woke completely. ‘‘Yes.’’
    His arms felt like safety, but that was a deception. For he watched her without expression, and now, without a doubt, he knew her weakness.
    He would exploit her weakness.
    ‘‘Do you want me to stay?’’ he asked.
    ‘‘No.’’ She pushed away, out of his embrace, and closed her eyes, rejecting him.
    He could not seduce her with gentle words