WARNING: This chapter is rated M for sexual content. The scene is not disturbing, but it is quite explicit. If you think it might bother you, please do not read the chapter, and please do not flame me on that account. Thank you!

DEAR READERS: This chapter is bound to raise more questions in your minds about Morgan's past and her motives, but rest assured. Most of your questions will be answered in the next few chapters. Thank you to all of my reviewers. Please know that your feedback truly motivates me to write, so keep reviewing. Finally, I owe a HUGE thank you to my beta, Kris. This was not an easy chapter for to write and, girl, you stood by me every step of the way! XOX

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TRISTAN'S CHOICE

CHAPTER SIX

Tristan slanted Morgan a sideways glance as they walked toward her room later that night. The light from the wall torches that burned at intervals on the tavern side of the street did not penetrate the darkness on the far side, but he had no trouble making out her downcast head and hesitant steps. She might be able to sense the scout's presence in the shadows, but she was no more adept at seeing in the dark than the average person was. It not only surprised him, he also felt strangely satisfied—Tristan would never admit it was relief—to learn that she had this weakness. His own eyesight was particularly keen at night.

Because he wanted to distract her, and also because he was curious, he asked, "What did you tell him?"

"Who…oh, the golden knight?" she replied, and made the mistake of lifting her head. In the next instant she tripped over a loose cobblestone, much to Tristan's amusement. She would have taken a nasty spill, but he was quicker than her fall and snaked an arm around her slender body to stop it. Morgan gasped out loud and muttered a curse he did not understand but could well imagine. He felt the wild hammering of her heart beneath her dress, and the erratic flutter of her pulse as she briefly pressed her small hand against his.

"I'm all right," she told him with a shaky voice.

"Of course you are," he agreed, and removed his arm.

She immediately grabbed it back, and slid her hand down his sleeve until she reached his fingers and laced them with her own. There was nothing sensuous, or suggestive, about her touch. Her skin was cold and clammy, not yet recovered from the near fall. "I think I had better hang on to you until I can see where I am going."

Tristan smiled smugly in the dark. Out of simple courtesy—uncustomary for him—he had offered Morgan his arm when they first decided to stick to the shadows to avoid being seen, but she had proudly waved him off, and that irked him. Was she still smarting from his stinging comment about her body and his need? Perhaps. He acknowledged that his parting words earlier this evening were somewhat crude—cruel even—though as a whore she must have heard much, much worse.

Or maybe Morgan just wanted to prove that she could maneuver in the darkness as well as him. Now she knew better.

At least, she got over her fright quickly enough and was willing to trust his lead. He felt her body relax next to his as they resumed their walk. Her steps were no longer hesitant but confident—though she kept her head lowered. Her hand grew warm in his grasp. He enjoyed the soft, dainty feel of it. He enjoyed walking by her side. And soon he would enjoy impaling her with his manhood against the soft mattress of her bed.

"So what did you tell him?" he asked again. He knew that Gawain was not one to back off easily, but Tristan never doubted for a moment that Morgan would think of a clever excuse.

Although he could not see it, for her head remained bowed, he heard the smile in her voice when she said, "I told him I came down with a sudden stomach ailment."

"A stomach ailment?"

She did not answer right away, and he sensed her struggle over what to say, but at last she replied, "The runnies." And this time her amused voice was also tinged with embarrassment.

Tristan was nonplussed. "The what?" he said, then came to a standstill. The runnies? He took hold of Morgan's other hand and slowly turned her body toward him as understanding finally dawned on him.

"You actually told Gawain you could not bed him because of that?"

She bobbed her head up and down. "Yes, and then he asked if the thought of being with him had made me sick." Morgan's teeth flashed white in the dark as she smiled. "I reassured the golden knight it was not that," she continued, "then warned him against using the latrine in the tavern, and left."

Tristan stared at her shadowy face, not quite believing what he had just heard. Who would have thought it of her? Somber little Morgan, who seldom spoke or smiled, and who—like him—kept the world at bay by hiding behind a frozen mask, had a sense of humor. And a wicked one at that.

Tristan grinned. And, as he pictured the look on Gawain's face, he chuckled. His chuckle grew into a laugh, and then he just kept on laughing—the deep, husky sound a surprise to his own ears. It was a sound he had not made in many, many years. Who would have thought it? He shook his head and continued to chuckle at his own maudlin behavior.

Tristan soon became aware that she chuckled alongside him, and he paused for an instant just to hear her. There was something warm and enchanting about her laughter, something that stirred his insides and tugged at the heart he did not admit having. She leaned into him, and he very nearly pulled her close but checked himself at the last moment, choosing to squeeze her hands instead.

"You do realize, Morgan, that you will have the entire fort up in arms by morning for fear of cholera and dysentery," he said, when their mirth finally subsided. His voice was still laced with amusement.

But she did not find his words amusing at all. "Gods, you don't really think he is going to tell anyone, do you?" Morgan sounded genuinely horrified.

"I don't know. Probably not." He let go of her other hand and started down the street again. In all likelihood Gawain would say nothing of it, for if he did, Morgan would be quarantined under Arthur's orders. Disease killed a vastly greater number of people than warfare ever did, but Tristan and the other knights knew that Arthur was wont to overreact at the slightest hint of illness at Campoglanna. "No. I don't think Gawain will tell."

Morgan appeared reassured, for she let out a deep breath and did not speak again.

They walked in companionable silence and reached her alleyway a short while later. The light was better here, for a handful of wall lanterns hung outside the doors to the rooms belonging to the whores. One such door, at the top of a narrow flight of stairs, was Morgan's. Even though she no longer needed his assistance, he did not release her hand—nor did she ask for her hand back—until they began to climb.

When she arrived at the landing just ahead of him, she turned around. Because he stood two steps down, they were now face to face. Morgan's dark eyes were artless and serene, and filled with heartbreaking tenderness, as she studied him in the soft light. Tristan felt his body stiffen. He felt the skin of his face stretch tautly over his cheekbones and his eyes narrow to slits. Keep it casual, Morgan. Remember what you are, and what this is, he silently admonished her

She seemed to hear him. "I do not laugh often," she confessed in a quiet voice, and said nothing more.

Tristan breathed a sigh of relief. "Neither do I. Not like that," he replied with a tight smile, and motioned for her to open the door.

Once inside, she briskly moved to the corner table and lit the oil lamp with the striker and flint she kept hidden under its base. Morgan was instantly bathed in a warm, golden glow. She made a pretty picture and Tristan acknowledged it with an appreciative gaze before lifting his eyes to the lintel.

The sprig of lavender was gone. He turned back toward her and raised his brow questioningly.

Morgan said, "I thought the lavender was hidden, but you noticed it the first time you were here, even though others never did."

"I am a scout. It is my job to notice things."

"I know. But still I thought it best to move it to a less conspicuous place."

"Which is?" he asked, as he scanned the room. The sprig with the red ribbon was nowhere to be seen.

"Under the bed."

Tristan shook his head and chuckled, but there was little humor in it. "And yet you healed a dog in plain sight of the street, where any passersby could see you. Which was more foolish, do you think?" One would have earned her a stern reprimand and a few lashes; the other would have ended in her crucifixion.

Morgan merely shrugged, and bent over to remove her shoes. Tristan watched her thoughtfully as she set them next to the three-legged stool then unpinned her coin pocket and placed it on the table. Just like the first time, her movements were measured and graceful—almost like a dance—with nary a step or gesture wasted. And he realized that she was more than pretty. She was beautiful to him.

She turned around and her dark eyes pierced him across the room. His loins stirred as any man's would at the promise they held. She lifted her hands to her shoulders and unfastened the row of brass buttons across the top of her outer tunic, letting the heavy garment fall around her feet, only this time she did not look away from him. This time she kept her gaze locked with his. Tristan stood silent and frozen like a Roman statue, but deep beneath his skin a fire ignited that he knew would blaze out of control before the night was out. Morgan was that good.

She started to unlace the ties of her form-fitting chemise, and it occurred to him that she assumed he wanted a repeat of their first encounter. How wrong she was.

He had bathed especially for her tonight.

He closed the distance between them with the speed of a snake and, without warning, wrapped his fingers around her slender wrists. Morgan gasped; her eyes widened in surprise.

"No," he said. They stood but a hair's breadth away from each other, separated only by their raised hands, and he saw a most-becoming blush fan across her upturned face.

"You don't want me to undress?" she asked, a bit uncertainly.

"Not yet," he replied. His eyes, now ablaze with the fire she had kindled, bore into hers. A slow, sensuous smile curved his lips. "I want you to undress me first."

Morgan's eyes grew even larger. He felt the quickening of her breath, as it warmed and tickled his naked throat, and the wild flutter of her pulse beneath the firm grip of his fingers. Why he should have that effect on her—she who was a whore and used to men—he could not even begin to guess, and did not want to, but it pleased him nonetheless.

"I want your hands and your mouth on me," he told her.

In his life, he had never spoken those words to another woman. And he idly wondered what she would think—what she would do with the knowledge—if she learned the truth. If she realized how much power she held over him right now. Tomorrow he would feel differently, of course—had to feel differently, or he would make himself, for he could never allow a woman—let alone someone like Morgan—to wield such power. But tonight he would allow her anything.

He had been looking forward to this all day, and he had wanted it two weeks ago when he first entered her room.

"I would like to touch you," she admitted, her voice little more than a whisper. She looked at him with honest, limpid eyes, and Tristan knew she meant it. He drew in a sharp breath, and his hands unwittingly tightened on her fragile wrists. Morgan whimpered in protest, and he released her right away. He had no desire to bruise such delicate skin. But her words, and her nearness, were shaking him, disturbing his sense of balance…

"Have you ensorcelled me?" he asked abruptly. The question came unbidden, and he regretted asking it the moment the words left his lips, for he knew it was not so. True, he was at a loss to explain his intense desire for the girl—and her intense response to him—and that unsettled him for he did not like puzzles. But, whatever was happening between them had nothing to do with sorcery.

The wounded expression that shadowed her face confirmed it. "No! No, of course not. There is no need…"

"I believe you, little one," he interrupted in a soft, apologetic voice—so unlike him. So unlike him to feel anything akin to shame But he was in a strange mood. She had brought him to a strange place. And because Tristan would no longer deny himself, he told her straightaway, "Touch me now, Morgan. Do whatever you will."

He had just surrendered his body to her—even though he had always spurned the touch of others—and the reasoning part of him could hardly believe it.

Apparently, neither could Morgan. She looked stunned. "Whatever I will," she echoed, then she bit her lip thoughtfully and took a step back.

Tristan watched her with a mixture of amusement and anticipation, and not a little exasperation, as she cupped her chin with one hand and slowly—very slowly, and covetously—swept her gaze up and down his black-clad frame, before settling on his face. Her eyes were bright with mischief when she asked herself, "Where do I begin?" and laughed—albeit a bit nervously—for the second time that evening.

Like her sense of humor, this playful side of her caught him completely unawares. He always found such wiles repulsive coming from other whores. Always. And he never put up with them. But, surprisingly, he found nothing repulsive about Morgan and her little act—perhaps because he did not think she engaged in such playfulness very often; perhaps because deep down inside he knew she never did. This was for his pleasure alone. So Tristan decided to indulge her. "I know where I'd begin," he said with a suggestive smile. She could not see the hard bulge in his pants beneath the loose-fitting shirt, but it was there.

Morgan shook her head and laughed yet again. "Oh no, my lord knight! Time enough for that later. I think…" she said, and pressed a finger to her lips as she stared into his amused eyes, "I think I shall begin at the top."

She clasped his hand and led him to the bed. "Sit," she ordered and Tristan complied. She stood before him, face to face on the same level, and he spread his legs so that she could draw closer, but did not touch her. Instead, he rested his hands on his knees. Her gaze was as soft as a caress, her smile even more so, and he waited patiently for her to do whatever she willed. He waited patiently, and remained utterly still, even though every muscle in his body tensed and screamed for him to crush her in his arms. She seemed unaware of the captivating picture she made when she looked and smiled at him like that. Like a lover, not a whore.

And Tristan knew Morgan would enjoy this as much as him.

With both hands, she brushed back the ever-errant lock of hair that fell over his face, and went on to run her fingers through the long brown strands that reached down to his shoulders. "It's so silky," she murmured dreamily, leaning forward to rub a handful against her cheek. Usually, Tristan's hair was anything but. It was wont to be greasy and matted, and woven into numerous warrior braids, but during his bath earlier this evening he had unbraided it and scrubbed it free of tangles and debris and vermin. He was almost certain he had no lice, and was glad of that fact when she cradled his head and began to gently massage his scalp.

She was so close to him now that Tristan smelled the clean scent of her skin. Lavender—just as he suspected. And he briefly closed his eyes so that he could enjoy the sensuous feel of her dainty hands. Without realizing it, he exhaled a long sigh of contentment, and opened his eyes again to find her staring at him with an expression of faint amusement and something…else, something darker and deeper. Something he could not define, but that left him feeling oddly breathless.

"When you said 'the top' I did not realize you literally meant it," he told her in a gruff voice, as he tried to regain some sense of equilibrium. But he knew he was lost and suspected she did too. And so, as if to remind himself, he mumbled, "Whatever you will…"

Morgan merely smiled and pushed his head downward to trail delicate kisses across his crown—kisses such as a woman might give a child. Was she mothering him now? Tristan could not remember ever being kissed that way by anyone, let alone his mother. But before he could ponder Morgan's intent, or acknowledge the strange, sudden ache in his throat, she stopped and lifted his head.

Her hands were still buried in his hair, and now she brushed his shaggy brown locks back to reveal his ears. Morgan's mouth found one tender lobe. She suckled on the soft flesh and made soft moaning sounds as she nipped it playfully, before her tongue plunged into the shell, sliding on every curve and fold, tasting him, making his spine shiver in ticklish delight. Once she was finished with the first ear, she made love to the other. And Tristan dropped his hands to the bed and clenched the coverlet with his fists.

When she was done, she pulled back slightly, and slid her hands forward to frame his face. Morgan studied each and every chiseled feature, unhurriedly, almost reverently, and whispered, "You are beautiful." And he did not doubt her. Beneath his rough, unkempt appearance, Tristan possessed the fine, aristocratic bones of his tribe, the Royal Scythians—sons and daughters of ancient kings who now roamed the vast steppes of eastern Sarmatia. Yes, he was beautiful, though no one had ever called him such before.

Her fingertips traced the high, elegant line of his cheekbones and the tribal tattoos painted on them—tattoos that were a testament to the royal blood that coursed through his veins. Then her hands glided across his face to briefly meet on the bridge of his narrow nose, only to slide upwards and separate as they smoothed his brow.

"So beautiful," she repeated. Her voice and her hands were as reverent as her eyes—poignant even—and his brow started to crease in a puzzled frown. But pleasure at her touch softened his features again, and he found himself sighing contentedly once more. And when Morgan's mouth at last took the place of her hands and kissed his cheek, he felt his entire being melt away, save for that one stiff part of him that longed to sheath itself inside her slender body.

She circled his bearded face with her lips, and stopped to look at him with unbearable tenderness, before gently kissing his eyes shut. The ache in Tristan's throat spread to his chest.

Then Morgan's petal-soft lips slid to his mouth.

She actually meant to kiss him there—and his eyes flew open in shock. It was an unspoken rule between whores and their customers, never, ever, to engage in mouth kissing. Mouth kissing was reserved for lovers. But Tristan was not about to remind her of that. Let her pretend to be his lover for the night, if it pleased her. It pleased him for certain.

Her hands on his face trembled with feeling. She kissed him slowly, profoundly, erotically covering his entire mouth with hers, as if she wanted to consume it. The sensuality of her kiss echoed down his body, and he was consumed. Consumed by flames, and filled with an almost desperate longing that he was not wont to name.

Morgan brought his untried senses to life. She brought him to life.

He grabbed hold of her waist and pulled her flush against his body, as he kissed her back with hard, heated lips. At first his mouth devoured hers, ruthlessly bruising and pulling on the tender flesh. And she responded with like passion, moaning loudly, while her fingers tangled themselves in his hair and clung to it as one would a lifeline. But when his teeth bit her lip so brutally as to draw blood and she stiffened in his arms, Tristan gentled his kiss. He wooed her with his mouth till she opened hers in invitation. His tongue darted in an out, teasing her own tongue, coaxing it to dance. He tasted mint herb and dinner wine, and drank deeply of her fragrant breath. Then he sucked on her lower lip—the one he had caused to bleed—as if it was a nipple. On and on he suckled, long after there was no blood, until the soft pink flesh was swollen, and she stood hot and quivering against him.

Morgan took a deep breath, braced her hands against his chest and leaned back. "Whatever I will," she reminded them both in a shaky voice that was little more than a whisper. Her face was flushed pink, her breathing shallow. And she had begun to sweat; her hands were damp and he could smell her sharp, musky scent intermingled with the lavender. Tristan knew that she was no less aroused than he was. He could take her now anyway he wanted and she would welcome him. But he had given his word, and was man enough to wait.

"Go on," he told her, loosening his hold on her body but not letting go.

Drawing another deep breath, Morgan smiled and shifted her attention downward. Her trembling hands swiftly swept the strong column of his throat before settling beneath the collar of his black linen shirt. Then she bent over to follow with her mouth. Her lips were no longer gentle and slow, but urgent and parted, to permit her tongue to taste the saltiness of his skin as her mouth slid sideways and down the corded muscles of his neck. She not only wanted to taste him she seemed to want to savor him. The lower she got, the tighter her hands became, until she was painfully squeezing his pulse point, but Tristan did not complain. When she finally reached the base of his throat, she laved and nipped the pulsating skin beneath her fingers, then trailed her tongue to the hollow between his collarbones. She pressed frenzied kisses there, even as she dropped to her knees to bury her face where his collar opened to reveal a wedge of muscular chest covered with crisp brown hair. Morgan breathed his body in.

His hands now rested higher on her back, and they absently drew patterns on the thin fabric of her chemise, as she quickly unfastened each toggle on his shirt. Unfastened each toggle and kissed the skin and hair it exposed from his chest to his abdomen, until at last his shirt lay open before her. The tip of her small, pink tongue dove into the depths of his navel, and Tristan could not stifle a groan as explosive currents raced through his body. His fingers bit cruelly into her shoulders to stop himself from pushing her face against his groin.

For the space of a heartbeat, he was tempted to do it. To force her to take his manhood into her mouth, and give his body the release it craved, once and for all. But he had promised to let her have her way. And, in truth, he wanted to bury himself inside of her and bring them to climax together once again. He could, and would, wait a little longer—unless she had a different idea.

Morgan straightened the instant she heard his groan. She trailed her fingers down the narrow strip of dark hair that disappeared into his bulging pants, and briefly cupped him, before standing up on shaky legs. Tristan's hands dropped to the bed and strangled the coverlet yet again.

Her dark eyes smoldered with passion, as she softly panted, "Soon, my lord knight."

"Soon," he agreed. And it had better be. He was quite painfully engorged.

"But I have not finished touching you yet."

Tristan's mouth tightened into a straight line. He muttered a curse between gritted teeth, and Morgan's eyes widened in surprise. The pink color on her cheeks deepened. She took hold of his shirt with fingers that were far from steady. Given her obvious state of arousal—not to mention his—he half-expected her to tear the garment off him. But instead, she gently eased him out of it, first one arm and then the other, before folding it neatly and setting it on the floor next to the bed. He thought it absurd—and yet, oddly touching—that she should treat his clothing so carefully at a time like this.

Then she turned to face him once again and went perfectly still. With the patience of a Christian saint, Morgan studied his half-clad body. Tristan was not a vain man, but he knew he had a handsome form—lean, hard, and rippling with muscles—easily seen beneath his abundant chest hair—and with nary an ounce of spare flesh. His arms were strong and elegant, and likewise ridged with sinew from years of heavy sword and bow work. He expected, and saw, a gleam of appreciation light up her eyes, and a myriad of other heated emotions, but he did not expect to see compassion. And, yet, it was there. Morgan's expression grew oddly solemn as she lay a hand on each of his wrists and traced a snail's path up his arms, exploring every muscle, every contour, up to his shoulders. No, not merely a saint—she had the forbearance of a martyr.

Before he could think to question her strange shift in mood, she slid her hands down each collarbone, then softly pushed him back on the mattress. She sat on the bed next to him and leaned over to trail her hot tongue down the same path. He coiled her braid around his wrist to keep her body close, and wrapped his free arm around her back. Her small, hot hands moved lower, ruffling the mat of crisp hair that covered his chest, until they found the hard nubs of his nipples. She rubbed them, and pinched them with her fingertips and nails.

Tristan groaned loudly, as his body responded to her sensual assault. He tried to lie still, but his hips started to rock out of their own volition. And he twisted his lower torso until his loins pressed against her waist.

Morgan moved closer to accommodate him, but did not pause in her lovemaking. She took one flat, hard nipple into her mouth, nibbled and sucked, and drew circles around it with her tongue, all the while mewling like a kitten. The sound amused him—most likely she was unaware of even making it. And a brief smile touched his lips. Whatever odd mood had possessed her clearly was gone.

She laved his second nipple in the same voracious manner, then her head slid further down, past his ribs to his taut stomach. Tristan shuddered and groaned again. His thoughts fragmented as her hands and lips and tongue continued their hungry search of his body. Hot, agonizing waves swept into his belly.

Because he could no longer contain himself, he dragged her body on top of his, and dug his hands into her buttocks, pressing them ruthlessly down as his erection ground into her softness. Morgan's breath whooshed out of her. His runaway heart hammered against his ribs and her own wildly beating heart.

He needed to loosen his pants. He needed to tear that chemise off her.

"Morgan…" he warned.

"My will is done," she replied quickly, as if sensing his urgency, and sat up to straddle him. With trembling hands, she hurriedly untied the laces of his pants, and took hold of his engorged manhood. It pulsated with a life of its own in her small hands and Morgan gently—and purposefully—began to pump it, while he tried to wriggle free of his pants. Tried, and miserably failed. The garment bunched up just below his knees and would not budge.

Morgan did not seem to realize it. Her attention was riveted on his manhood, and she lowered her head to slide her tongue down the hot smoothness of its length.

"Morgan…" Tristan repeated in a strained voice, as he propped himself up on one elbow.

She must have thought he was chiding her, for she straightened at once and he could see the sudden wariness in her face as their gazes collided. "What is your pleasure, my lord? What would you have me do?"

"I would have you get my bloody boots off."

For a moment, Morgan gaped at him in surprise. That was obviously the last thing she expected him to say. She whipped her head around to see his legs hanging helpless and imprisoned over the side of the bed. "Oh." And turned back to look at him. "Oh!" Then an amused smile ruffled her mouth.

"I'll see to it," she assured him and scampered off the bed to kneel before his feet. While she struggled with his boots and recalcitrant pants, Tristan dropped back on the mattress and threw an arm across his forehead. A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. His manhood stood at attention, as erect and proud as any general on a field of conquest, but he himself felt hopelessly conquered. He had asked her for this. He had wanted it from the moment he stepped inside her room two weeks ago: her hands, her mouth, and her tongue on him. But now it was time for him to conquer, to take command of her.

She was so disturbing to him in every way. For the remainder of the night, he would do all the disturbing.

With one final tug and a most unladylike grunt, Morgan got his tangled pants off. She stood and started to fold them, but he told her tersely, "Leave them."

She looked at him with rounded eyes and let them fall right next to his boots. Then she kneeled on the bed and started to straddle him once more, but Tristan never gave her the chance.

In one swift movement, he grabbed hold of Morgan's upper arms and swung her onto her back. She gasped and breathed in sharply when he followed her down. It was the last deep breath he would allow her for a long while, as he mercilessly pinned her to the mattress. She was so much smaller than he was that his body covered her from head to toe, trapping her arms and legs, making it impossible for her to breathe. She whimpered in protest, and he pushed her up toward the headboard until he could feel her labored breath on his face, but he kept his full weight on her, crushing her, relishing the feel of her soft curves against his hardness.

Her wrists were so slender that he wrapped one hand around both and lifted them above her head, while he braced his elbow on the bed. She was his prisoner now—his to plunder in whatever way he willed. He stared into her startled eyes with a feral expression on his face, and almost growled with satisfaction. He ground his hips into her thighs, surely bruising the tender skin, but Tristan no longer cared, as he grabbed the hem of her chemise with his free hand and dragged it up to her waist. He had meant to remove it, but his patience was at an end.

Her lower body lay naked now, and he slightly eased his weight from her, releasing her legs. Morgan immediately spread them—so obliging, Tristan thought. She was so damned obliging. And he bent back to look at her exposed privates—pink and swollen and wet beneath her mound of black curls—and more than ready to receive his shaft. She wantonly arched her hips toward him, and he briefly buried his fingers into her quivering flesh, before pressing her to the bed once again. She hooked her ankles together behind his waist and, for an exquisitely torturous moment, he felt the parted folds of her womanhood against his bare belly.

In all his life, Tristan had never experienced such soul-shattering need. He half-kneeled on the bed and slid his body upwards until the tip of his manhood nudged her slick folds, and in one quick movement, sheathed himself deep inside of her—so deep that their loins seemed to be fused together. But he did not thrust into her right away, even though his body screamed for release. Rather, he stared into her upturned face, and held her still with his burning gaze, just as his hand held her wrists. Her face was flushed and damp. Her captive eyes brimmed with need and deep, deep longing. Surely she did not react this way with her other customers. How could she? If she did, she would never know a moment's peace. If she did, Gawain would be spending his coin on her every night, and Tristan knew that he had not.

This was for him alone.

He wanted to kiss her once again, but because of her small size, he was unable to reach her lips. So he kissed her on the forehead instead. It was quick, no more than a peck, but he had never kissed a woman thus in his life—for it was a kiss born of tenderness and not lust. And he recognized the feeling and accepted it though he did not welcome it.

Beneath him, Morgan's skin became impossibly hot, and scorched him. By now, they were both bathed in a thin sheen of perspiration, and he inhaled the musky scent of her half-naked body that still bore a trace of lavender. He could feel her taut nipples through the thin fabric of her chemise as they pressed against his chest, and he shifted his free hand sideways, to move possessively over one small breast, cupping and kneading it, and squeezing the hardened peak.

Morgan moaned, and Tristan at last led them to their rhythmic dance. He withdrew his shaft from her womanhood slowly and thrust deeply, over and over again with increasing urgency, while her small body bucked and thrashed against his. His eyes never left her face; she told him everything she felt without ever speaking. If he were not careful, those eyes of hers would be his undoing.

Midway through their coupling, he let go of her wrists. She wound her arms around his waist and wildly arched her hips meeting him thrust for thrust, trying to bring him further inside. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, and he used every bit of willpower he possessed to hold back his release until her climax was at hand. He knew she was almost there when her fingernails raked his back. And together they soared to a shuddering ecstasy. Together they cried out and exploded in a savage downpour of fiery sensations and mindless pleasure. This time, he did not withdraw—as he was wont to do whenever he bedded whores—and instead allowed his hot seed to spill deep inside of her, while their bodies continued to convulse. He held her tightly—their hearts thumping madly against one another—until their tremors subsided. And only then did Tristan slip out of her body.

He remained on top of her, however. He searched her face and whispered her name, "Morgan," as he swept away the tears that freely fell from her beautiful eyes. For the second time now, she cried after their coupling. He briefly wondered if she would always cry with him, before his mouth covered hers in a gentle kiss. It was the kiss he would have given her during their coupling, had he been able to, and it made Morgan cry all the harder.

Tristan shook his head in bemusement, and slowly took his weight off of her. He noticed the wrinkled chemise still bunched up around her midriff and started to pull it down, but decided against it. He wanted Morgan to lie naked beside him. So he kneeled on the bed, and with the utmost care, lifted her languid body to a sitting position. He loosened the laces further and pulled the thin garment over her head. And after tossing it on the stool where her tunic lay, he eased her back on the soft mattress with him, and rolled her onto her side so that they faced each other.

He had meant to disturb her—and he had disturbed her—just as she had disturbed him. And he wondered, not for the first time, what she was all about as he silently watched her try to rein in her rampant emotions. Why him?

Why in the gods' names had she chosen him?

She shivered and he belatedly reached for the coverlet, but before he could spread it over their bodies, she raised her hand and caressed his cheek. "Tristan," she said simply, and he went still. It was the first time she had ever called him by name, and she pronounced it in the Celtic fashion, with a trill in the "r" that he found most beguiling. Tristan did not recall ever telling her his name.

By now Morgan's tears had quieted, though her eyes and face still glistened with wetness. She lowered her hand to a jagged scar that ran from his shoulder midway down his arm, and softly traced the puckered skin with her fingertip.

"I can take it away." she told him quietly, and Tristan finally understood that odd expression on her face when she removed his shirt earlier.

Like any other warrior, his body and limbs were adorned with reminders of battles fought and won over his long years of service—battles he fought because he had to, and also because he wanted to. As testament to his prowess on the battlefield, he wore fewer scars than the average soldier did—fewer in fact than the other knights wore. Surely, Morgan must have seen much, much worse.

"I can take all of your scars away," she insisted, and the import of her words sunk in.

Morgan was actually offering to use her healing magic to remove his battle marks. It stunned him that she would do this for him. And Tristan realized why her skin was so flawless, so baby smooth. But he did not want her to use magic to heal him. Every scar, weal, and blemish he wore was a lesson learned, a mistake not to be repeated.

"No," he replied, and kissed the tip of her nose to soften his rejection. She nodded her head in understanding. Tristan quickly covered their naked bodies and drew her closer until their arms and legs became entwined and the top of her head tucked neatly beneath his chin.

Until he could no longer see her disconcerting eyes.

Tristan refused to acknowledge what those eyes revealed—now when she was at her most vulnerable—because he did not want to let her go. Not now. Not yet. He was not ready to let her go.

And so, he set aside his questions and his doubts, just like he set aside her eyes.

With Morgan at his side, he knew a feeling of rightness. He felt a bottomless peace and satisfaction such as he had never experienced with a woman before—or with any person, for that matter.

For what remained of their time together tonight, there would be no more shadows in his mind, no further need to concern himself with complications. There was time enough for such thoughts tomorrow. Time enough to break whatever bond existed between them—if need be.

"Tristan," she mumbled in a tired voice, and softly kissed his throat, "you are so beautiful to me. I…"

"Sssssh, little one," he interrupted, and shut his heart and mind against the plaintive appeal in her words. Then he rubbed his chin over her head, and whispered, "Sleep now, Morgan. Go to sleep."

"Will you stay with me the night?" she asked, trying to lean back to look at him.

But Tristan would not let her. He lifted his hand to cradle her head, and gently pushed her face against his neck again.

"Mmmmmm," was all he said, and she might have taken it for consent, for she did not speak anymore.

She buried her hand into his hair, and pressed her sated womanhood against his loins. As she drifted off to sleep, her soft curves molded to the contours of his lean frame until scarcely a hair's breadth separated them.

Tristan sighed and took comfort in the steady beat of her heart against his own heart, in the exquisite feel of her warm body in his arms. And he did not move again for a long, long while.

At last, when he was convinced that she would not awaken, he slowly—and with the utmost care—eased out of her embrace. She sensed it anyhow, for she mumbled and stirred in her sleep. And he caressed her face and whispered nonsense words until she quieted, and rolled away.

He tucked the coverlet snugly around her shoulders, for the nights were growing colder, and her room was colder than most. After quickly donning his clothes, he lit the brazier next to the bed and tossed her discarded chemise on top of her folded dress. Then, he left the rest of his payment on the table and added an extra coin. She really was rather extraordinary.

With one last glance at her sleeping form, Tristan blew out her lamp and started for the door. He did not feel guilty about leaving. Morgan chose to believe what she wanted—he never promised to stay. But at least he would leave her sleeping in peace.

And that was more than he had ever done for any whore…