“I don’t want your parents to welcome me for saving your life,” she told him beneath her breath. “I want them to welcome me as the mother of their first grandson. And whether they do that with open arms or cold shoulders doesn’t really matter. I’ll have you, my love, and I’ll have your baby, and there won’t be a damn thing your parents can do about either.”

The thought cheered her. She had plenty of time to coax him into loving her. She had never failed yet, with any man.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Evelina said softly. “I mean . . . Marcus.”

Sunlight flickered through the over-arching boughs, forming ripples of gold that shone in Evelina’s hair. She was dabbing her eyes with cold water. She had the loveliest face Marcus had ever seen. His gaze went from her face to the splotches of blood on her bodice and on her skirt and her chemise and the white skin of her neck. The splotches had been fresh not many hours before. They had since smeared and dried to an ugly reddish brown. Blood spots. Ven’s blood.

Evelina hadn’t killed him, though she had meant to. Of that Marcus had no doubt. Despite that, Ven had risked the dragon’s ire to free them. He had urged Marcus to take care of her. Maybe he had acted out of guilt. He had admitted to Marcus that he’d tried to rape Evelina. Without Ven, they would be both dead now, or at least back in the clutches of Grald.

Marcus wondered how he felt about Evelina. He thought perhaps he loved her. He remembered with aching clarity the sight of her shapely legs when she’d kilted her skirts to flee the monks. As he looked at her now, seated across from him, sometimes he saw his brother’s blood and other times he saw the shadow that fell enticingly between her full breasts.

Evelina looked at him as no other woman had ever before looked at him—adoring, loving, admiring. Evelina had seen him work his magic and she had not been shocked or terrified. And she had seen him work far more powerful magicks than changing dust motes into fairies. He imagined his lips touching her soft lips, his hand cupping her soft and heavy breasts, and he was filled with such burning desire that he had to firmly banish such thoughts in order to keep his mind on their peril.

Yet . . . yet . . . even as he kissed her lips in his imaginings, he saw those lips twist into a snarl of fury. He saw the hand that caressed him drive the knife into his brother’s body. He saw the blood splatter onto her clothes and he saw her yank the knife free and try to stab Ven again . . .