With dread, I heard her breathless question. “A kiss. That was all you wanted?”

“It is all I'll take now,” he countered. His chest was rising and falling as if he'd run a race. “I'll wait until I've earned more to take more.”

An uncertain smile crossed her face. “You need not earn it if I choose to give myself to you.”

“But . . . you said you would not be my wife until I brought you the dragon's head.”

“In my land, a woman gives herself where she will. It is different from being married. Or a wife, as you call it. Once a girl is a woman, she can take whatever man she wishes into her bedskins. It does not mean she is wed to each of them.” She glanced aside and added carefully, “You would be my first. Some consider that more special than to be vowed to one another. It would not make me your wife, of course. I will not be wife or wedded to you until you have brought the dragon's head here, to my mothershouse.”

“I would like you to be my first, as well,” Dutiful said carefully. Then, as if uttering the words were as difficult as dragging a tree up by the roots, he added, “But not now. Not until I've done what I've said I'd do.”

She was shocked, but not that he would keep his promise. “Your first? Truly? You've known no woman yet?”

It took him a long moment to admit it. “It is the custom of my land, though not all follow it. To wait until we are wed.” He spoke stiffly, as if fearing she would mock him for his chastity.

“I would like to be your first,” she admitted. She stepped closer to him, and this time his arms settled around her. She melted her body against him as his mouth found hers.

My Wit made me aware of Peottre before they were. Engrossed as they were, I doubt either of them would have been aware of a herd of sheep passing around them, but I came to my feet as I saw the old warrior step around the corner of the mothershouse. His sword was on his hip and his eyes were dangerous. “Elliania.”

She leaped back out of Dutiful's embrace. One guilty hand wiped her mouth as if to conceal the kiss she had taken. I give Dutiful full credit that he stood his ground. He swung his head to look steadily at Peottre. There was nothing of remorse or disgrace in his stance, nor anything of boyishness. He looked like a man interrupted while kissing a woman who belonged to him. I held my breath, wondering if I would better or worsen the situation by stepping into plain view.

The silence was as still and watchful as the night. The gaze held between Peottre and Dutiful. It was a measuring look, not quite a challenge. When Peottre spoke, his words were for Elliania. “You should go back to your bedchamber.”

At his suggestion, she spun and fled. Her bare feet were silent on the dust of the courtyard. Even after she was gone, Dutiful and Peottre continued to regard one another. At last Peottre spoke. “The dragon's head. You promised. As a man, you gave your word.”

Dutiful inclined his head once, gravely. “I did. As a man, I promised.”

Peottre started to turn away. Dutiful spoke again.

“What Elliania offered me, she offered as a woman, not as the Narcheska. Is she free to offer that, by your customs?”

Peottre's spine stiffened. He turned slowly and spoke unwillingly. “Who else can offer that to you, save a woman? Her body belongs to her. She can share that with you. But she will not truly be your wife until you bring her the head of Icefyre.”

“Ah.”

Again, Peottre slowly turned to go, and again Dutiful's voice stopped him.

“Then she is more free than I am. My body and my seed belong to the Six Duchies. I am not free to share it where I would choose, but only with my wife. That is our custom.” I almost heard him swallow. “I would that she knew that. That, by our customs, I cannot accept what she offers, except dishonorably.” His voice dropped, and his next words were a request. “I would ask that she not tempt or taunt me with what I cannot honorably take. I am a man but . . . I am a man.” His explanation was both awkward and honest.

So was Peottre's response. There was grudging respect in his voice as he said, “I will see that she knows that.”

“Will she . . . will she think less of me? Will she think me less of a man?”

“I do not. And I will see that she understands what it costs a man to hold back from such an offer.” He stood looking at Dutiful as if seeing him for the first time. When he spoke, there was great sadness in his words. “You are a man. You would be a good match for my sister-daughter. The granddaughters of your mother would enrich my line.” He spoke the last as if it were a proverb rather than something that he could truly hope for. Then he turned and silently left.