She had hoped that the daylight would burn away the intimacy, but it did not happen that way. They were as connected on the ride back to Anglesmore as they had been in each other’s arms, and the sweetness refused to die throughout the miles they journeyed.

She rode her own horse, with her sack tied behind her saddle. As she had suspected, her belongings had not been lost. Marcus had left them outside so that she would have no garments. When he had retrieved the sack from the hay in which it was buried, it never entered her mind to scold him for the wicked deception.

They did not speak much as they rode through the valley. There was much that needed saying, but they both knew what it was and so it was unnecessary to voice the words. Her heart both relished the slow journey and dreaded its progress. She knew that she should be steeling herself for what was to come, but she found herself incapable of relinquishing the intimacy by contemplating its end.

Only as they faced the gate, side by side, and looked up at the massive walls and towers of Anglesmore’s power, only then did her rebellious heart accept the truth. They had shared a magical night in another world. Entering the gate would return them to the real one, and to their duties.

They stayed there a long time, immobile on their horses. Marcus looked at her, and she saw that he understood what the next steps would mean.

A different man and woman might have thrown caution to the wind. Others may have even turned from the gate, and sought other shelter and other lives. But she was Nesta verch Llygad, and he was Marcus of Anglesmore, and such as they were born for destinies bigger than happiness.

Separate destinies. Opposing ones.

Her heart filled with a searing pain. Her throat began burning, and she blinked a sudden film from her eyes. She dared not give a name to what she was feeling. She resisted admitting what the last day’s joy and sadness revealed. If the emotion overwhelming her was recognized, she would be sliced in two, and one part of her would eventually have to betray the other.

Still, she found that she could not move her horse. The bravery with which she had thrown open the lodge door had deserted her.

She peered up at the remorseless, iron teeth of the hanging portcullis. “Do you dream much, Marcus? Vivid dreams that you remember on waking?”

“Not so much anymore. I did when I was young.”