Imogen shuddered and hugged herself. How many intruders into Tineroth had met just such a fate?

Still, she couldn't help but admire his masculine beauty. She was an innocent in body if not necessarily in mind. Niamh didn’t believe in keeping her child ignorant of the ways of people, even if she kept her isolated from them. Imogen had often watched the villagers and townspeople those few times she accompanied Niamh to market day, swathed in both concealing cloth and illusion. She’d admired some of the men, idly wondering what kind of husbands they might make. With no hope of ever forming any attachment with a man, she’d kept any longing at bay, forming no infatuation for any she glimpsed.

There were some so handsome as to make any village maid swoon, but none equaled the man standing before her. She dragged her gaze up from a slim waist with muscles tight enough she’d bet she could bounce a coin off them, to a sculpted back and wide shoulders. She didn't have to see his face to be reminded of those exquisite features. He must have broken scores of hearts when he ruled a living city.

A few more breathtaking spins and arcing cuts from the glaive, and Cededa came to a standstill.

“Good morning, Imogen,” he said before turning to face her.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Imogen of Leids hovered near the practice field’s entrance, watching him. He’d heard her approach long before she made it to the field and wondered idly how she’d managed to find her way out of the palace. He didn’t hold her prisoner, but the spirits that lingered in his home had a wicked sense of humor and a protective streak as strong as his when it came to guarding Tineroth. They would have held her there until his return. What had convinced them to let her go?

A flutter of movement, the swirl of skirts, told him he’d startled her. He walked to one of the enclosure walls to retrieve a cloth and rest the glaive against the stone.

“Good morning, Sire. I hope I’m not intruding.”

That cool, measured voice revealed no hint of her surprise, and her composure impressed him once more. He wiped his face on the towel before passing it over his shoulders and chest. He gathered his damp hair into a queue and tied it back with a leather strap. Even now, so early in the morning, the air hung humid and heavy, promising another lethargic day.

The usual numbing dread of dull sameness didn’t afflict him this morning. This morning was different. He had a guest, one uninvited but not necessarily unwelcome. For the first time in more years than he cared to count, Cededa felt a measure of eagerness, of excitement. He’d host Death in his abandoned city and welcome her with what little hospitality was available to him.