"Now?" she squeaked.

At her shocked expression, Balthier tipped his head back and laughed. And laughed. And kept right on laughing until she made an infuriated sound and chucked another pillow at him. He tucked it behind him, reclined back, and folded his arms behind his head. "I thought you wanted to get it over with," he said.

"I can't when you're laughing at me," she said, her ill humor creeping into her tone. She stretched the blanket tight around her like a protective barrier.

"I'm not laughing at you," he said, "I'm laughing because I don't think I've ever been more insulted in my life – and somehow you've still managed to make it seem bloody charming."

She canted her head to one side, her brows drawing together in a frown. "How in the world did I insult you?"

He snickered lightly, amused all over again. "I have a certain reputation," he said. "Not to stroke my own ego, but I'd venture to say there's many a lady who would be thrilled to find herself in your shoes. And yet, you look as though you'd rather be anywhere else."

She shifted uncomfortably. "It's not you, it's me."

His shoulders shook; he didn't even attempt to stifle his bark of laughter. "Ah, that old line – I've used it often enough myself."

"I'm scared." She clapped her hand over her mouth as if she could pull the words back and shove them back in. After a moment she dropped her hand, heaved a sigh and said, "I'm sorry – I'm such a coward." She made a harsh sound of disgust in her throat, and her hands clenched into fists, squeezing so hard her knuckles went white with the strain.

"I think you're very brave," he said softly. "Given your history, a certain degree of reticence can be expected. It takes a good deal of courage to attempt to surmount it." He stretched out his legs, propping one boot over the other. "What is it that you're afraid of? Do you think I'll hurt you?"

She grimaced, and he knew he'd struck gold. "I don't think you'd mean to," she said. Her hands unclenched, but she linked her fingers together, fidgeting.

"I can personally promise you that it won't hurt," he said. "And that you may cry halt at any time, no matter the reason."

She squinted at him doubtfully. "He always said –"

"I'm not him. I'm not going to turn into him." He kicked off his boots, nudging them aside. "Have I been less than honest with you?"

"No, but –"

"Have I been otherwise untrustworthy?" He sat up, working the togs of his jacket, shrugging out of it and tossing it aside.

"No, but –"

"Then trust me now," he said. "Just now, just for this moment. You can change your mind two minutes from now if it suits you. But for now, Penelo – simply trust me."

She hesitated, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. But at last she stopped twisting her fingers in her lap and murmured, "Okay."

"Will you come here?" He stripped off his shirt and flung it toward his discarded jacket, then held out his hand to her. "There are many ways to do this, but to the best of my knowledge, none of them involve being fully clothed and five feet apart from one another."

She managed a tentative smile at that, knowing full well that he was attempting to calm her nerves through humor. Even as he urged her to stretch beyond her perceived limitations, he left the choices in her hands. And she did believe him – she believed him when he said she could cry off if she chose, and she believed that he wouldn't hold it against her.

He'd humored her, even when she'd inadvertently insulted him. He hadn't made a crude grab for her, hadn't ridiculed her indecisiveness. He had only sought to put her at ease, to make her comfortable. Or – as comfortable as he could manage.

She took a deep breath and sidled closer, closing the distance between them to a mere foot. A log on the fire cracked, and the sharp sound made her flinch. The right corner of his mouth jerked up in a half-grin.

"Are you going to jump out of your skin if I touch you?" he inquired.

She shook her head, tried to remind herself that just an hour ago he'd kissed her and she'd liked that just fine. But the inherent threat of more hung over her like a shadow and she couldn't quite make herself believe that she would like that.

His hands tangled in her hair and cupped the back of her neck, warm and gentle. His brows lifted, surprised. "Good gods – you're shaking like a leaf." He urged her closer, pressed her cheek to his chest.

"I'm nervous," she mumbled. "I wish…I wish I didn't have so much baggage."

He chuckled, and his fingers massaged the tense muscles at the nape of her neck. "We've all got baggage, darling. But I'll carry yours for you tonight." His lips brushed the top of her head.

His chest was so warm, and she felt so cold even in the ambient heat of the fire. He did nothing aside from holding her; his hands strayed no lower than her shoulders, as if he were merely acclimating her to his touch. And gradually she drew her first full breath and let it out slowly, and her shudders eased. She uncurled her hands and pressed them to his chest so that her cold fingers could soak in his warmth.

"Better?" Even his voice was warm. She didn't know how it was possible, but it slid over her like sunshine, heating her skin. She nodded against his chest. Another log cracked, and this time she didn't flinch, didn't start – but she sighed, and the tension in her shoulders dissolved.

"Perhaps this ought to wait –"

"No!" Her fingers curved, nails digging crescents into his flesh. "No, please – please help me. I don't want to be like this anymore." She wriggled, crawling into his lap with a desperation that surprised even herself. Her hands grabbed at his hair, tugging his head down to press her lips somewhere in the vicinity of his.

He let her have her way for a moment or two, then gently extracted her hands from his hair, holding them in his. "All right," he soothed, "all right – no need to work yourself into such a state." He touched his forehead to hers, sighing. "You can stop," he said. "At any time. You can always stop."

"I know," she said. "I trust you." And it was the truth. For a moment he did nothing except hold her hands in his, rubbing her palms with his thumbs. Then he placed her hands on his shoulders and his own cupped the indention of her waist, and the heat of them burned through the thin fabric of her gown. He turned her gently so that she straddled his lap instead of simply occupying it. Her legs folded beneath her, stretching the hem of the gown tight over her thighs, and she jerked a little at the intimate contact.

"All right?" He murmured it at her ear, and she shivered, gooseflesh prickling along her skin.

She managed a nod. His lips touched the tender skin beneath her ear, meandered along her throat, and hovered over her pulse. The stubble shadowing his jaw abraded her skin, but she didn't find it unpleasant. She realized she had locked her elbows to hold herself at a distance – he had to have noticed it, even if he hadn't said anything.

When she unbent enough to drape her arms over his shoulders, he rewarded her with a slow scrape of his jaw along her throat, and she shivered in response, squirming. Her pulse raced; her arms curled around his neck, fingers sliding into his hair. His warm breath caressed her ear, one of his hands moved from her waist to her back, stroking along her spine, exerting just enough pressure to encourage her to ease closer. She'd started trembling again, and she hid her face against his shoulder, frustration clawing at her throat. He was going to think she was terrified, and stop, and then she'd never know for sure.

"I'm sorry," she said in a fierce whisper, "I'm fine, I swear – I just can't stop."

She heard the chuckle that rumbled in his chest, felt the smile that curved his lips as he pressed a kiss to her temple. "I know," he said, and a thread of satisfaction colored his voice.

"I-it's really got nothing to do with you," she said, annoyed by his amusement.

Again, that rumble in his chest, like the purr of a cat. "Of course it does," he said. He splayed his palm over the small of her back, and with his other hand he swept up her hair, gathered up a handful of it, and gently tugged her head back to expose her throat. Her nails kneaded his shoulders and she swallowed convulsively, apprehensive – and then his teeth scraped across her shoulder, and a liquid heat settled deep in her belly.

"You…you bit me," she accused, startled.

"Ah, but you liked it." Both of his hands were in her hair, now, cupping her head so that he could feather a string of kisses along her cheek, closing in on her mouth at a torturously slow pace. Her eyes slid closed, enjoying the whisper-soft sweep of his lips over her skin.

"How…" She chewed her lower lip, conflicted. "How did you know?" She breathed the question as if they were sharing secrets too sordid to be voiced above a whisper. His teeth caught her lower lip, nipping the delicate flesh, and she jerked and gasped in surprise.

"I'm good at this," he said. "I just know."

"But how?" She drifted closer, disappointed when he pulled away. He'd come so close to an actual kiss and then just…hadn't.

A chuckle near her ear; she turned, hoping to coerce him into a kiss and was once again left bereft. Annoyed, her eyes opened, a pout pursing her lips. Something in his expression was off, his features etched with a secret amusement. Her brows drew together, baffled – and then her mouth dropped open in astonished realization.

"You've been teasing me," she said. "You…you…"

"Oh, come, now," he said. "That's half the fun. The truly terrible thing is that you don't already know that."

Infuriated, she balled up her fists to hit him, but he caught them easily and laughed as he leaned in and kissed her. She tensed, and her lips parted as she prepared to launch into a scathing diatribe – a crucial misstep, as he angled his head and stole the incensed gasp straight from her mouth. The tension that had stiffened her spine coiled tighter and tighter until it burst free; her hands unclenched in the loose grip of his, and she wilted, shoulders sinking, listing forward.

Oh – he was good. The fury that had gripped her was slipping away, and it floated further from her reach with every moment, every slow stroke of his tongue. She was vaguely aware that one of his hands cupped her face and the other was making measured progress from her ribcage to her waist. At some point he had released her wrists – she hadn't noticed – and her palms were sliding over his shoulders, playing across the flat plane of his back.

His fingers stroked her hip, stilled, and then resumed their motion with more urgency, coasting along the thin fabric of her gown as if searching for something. She squirmed uneasily, embarrassed that he might discover there was nothing underneath it.

Upon striking that realization, he groaned and murmured, "You good girl," at her lips with such obvious relish that she pulled back, startled – she had been prepared to cringe with shame, but he kissed the corner of her lips, her cheek, her chin, stroked her hip in subtle praise.

Force of habit compelled her to speak. "I'm sorry –"

"For the love of the gods," he said in a rough murmur, "don't you dare be sorry." And then he was kissing her again, and he didn't need to hold her head because she was holding his, gripping handfuls of his hair in her fists. His fingers traced delicate patterns on her thighs, telegraphing his intentions as he eased upward, slipping beneath the hem of her gown.

She tried to nip her thighs together as his fingers approached their destination, uncomfortably aware of the dampness there – but she was splayed over his lap and couldn't manage anything more than a pitiful attempt at it.

"Oh, don't," she said, mortified, as his fingers stroked her slick flesh. "I'm – I'm…"

He shuddered, his voice deepening to a guttural growl. "Oh, yes," he said, burying his face in the curve of her throat, scraping his teeth lightly over her skin in a way that made her tremble. "You are." But in deference to her embarrassment, he said, "Shall I stop?"

She gripped his shoulders as his fingers gently brushed her private flesh. Fire streaked through her veins, and she squeaked in dismay as her hips arched to his fingers of their own volition. But after a moment of hesitation, she at last mumbled, "No."

It was a small blessing that he could not see her face, at least, and she bit her lip in a futile attempt to stifle the strange sounds that crept up her throat. She couldn't seem to stop moving; her breath hitched in her chest, her heart pounded, her nails scored his shoulders – and his fingers continued their maddening strokes, and she couldn't hold back the helpless whimper that escaped her.

Her skin was hot and over-sensitized; even the rasp of his cheek against her throat was agony and torment. She writhed, only dimly conscious of the soft words of encouragement he whispered against her throat, until at last her back bowed and the tension that had pulled her muscles tight snapped like a twig. She gasped, clutching at him desperately as her body was wracked with a deep, sweet rush of pleasure. And it didn't end; tiny shivers pulsed through her in waves, until she was dizzy with sensation, until she sagged against his chest, limbs lax and suffused with a strange lassitude.

With no small amount of effort, she managed to tuck her arms between them, curling up against him. She whispered, "Oh," and there was a wealth of newfound understanding in her voice. She felt his satisfied chuckle; it sluiced over her sensitive skin like water.

He nuzzled her ear, brushing her tangled hair away from her face. "All right?"

She nodded, relishing the feel of his chest beneath her cheek, something solid for her to cling to while her world struggled to reorder itself. But when she sighed and closed her eyes, he nipped at her shoulder to get her attention.

"Don't doze off just yet," he said. "I'm not done with you." His hands gathered fistfuls of the gown, preparing to remove it, but she jerked her hands down with a sound of distress, impeding his progress.

"Is – is that really necessary?" she asked, in high, tremulous voice. "I mean, do I have to take it off?"

He relinquished control of the fabric, choosing his words carefully. "No," he said. "I only want to see you, feel you – is that so wrong?" But she cringed, shrank as though the very thought were abhorrent, and so he asked, "Do you wish to stop?"

She shook her head, chewing on her lower lip as if to hold back words she desperately wished she did not have to say. "I'm not…pretty," she said finally. "I have scars and…and I'm small, and…"

He clapped a hand over her mouth before she could go any further. "I'm going to kill him," he said in a voice that seethed with raw fury. "I swear it to the gods. I'm going to kill him." She gaped at him as he pulled away his hand, caught one of hers in his and dragged it to his chest. He pressed her fingers over his sternum, and beneath her fingers she felt a subtle ridge of flesh – scar tissue. "Dagger," he said. "Eight years ago." He moved her hand lower, to the left, just beneath his ribcage, over a scattering of round impressions. "Scattershot. Ten years ago." Again he shifted her hand, this time around his back, to a brutal network of crisscrossed lines. "Caning. Fifteen years ago, at school. I almost didn't make it through that one."

She wriggled her fingers to loosen his grasp, brushing her fingers lightly over the old wounds as if they might pain him still. Her touch was apologetic, her brows drawn together in sympathy.

"You're not the only one with scars," he said. "Do you mind mine?"

She shook her head. "No," she said. "They're just scars."

"As are yours." He framed her face with his hands, touched his forehead to hers. "He lied to you," he said. "You must understand that – he lied to you." He brushed a kiss across her cheek, and she leaned into the caress, drawing comfort from it.

"Would you…would you close your eyes?" she ventured hesitantly, tangling her fingers together in her lap.

"If you return the favor." His mouth was warm at her ear as he said in a conspiratorial whisper, "I'm half-convinced you'll cut and run yet – I don't wish to feed your fears any further."

"All right." She scrutinized his face, her chin set with firm resolve. "No peeking."

The moment he closed his eyes, she scrambled off his lap. There was a frantic rustling of clothing and blankets as she shed the gown and dived beneath the shelter of the bedclothes. In a tinny, high-pitched voice, she at last called, out, "I'm, er…decent."

She had tucked herself beneath the covers, drawing them up to her chin like a child, her fingers clenched tightly around a fistful of them. When his hands went to his belt buckle, she made a little startled squeak and squeezed her eyes shut, and the covers dropped to her shoulders as she pressed her fingers over her eyes.

He smothered a laugh as he peeled away his trousers, tossing them aside, and turning toward the mound of blankets underneath which she had buried herself. The little wretch – she was peeking through her fingers!

"You peeked," he accused, drawing up his knee to hinder her view. "And I had thought for certain your honor was unimpeachable." He snagged a corner of the blanket to toss it over his hips and turned, crawling across the bedroll toward her, sliding his arm beneath her neck, curving his arm around her to stroke the small of her back.

She swallowed audibly. "I don't know if this is going to work." But her head settled comfortably in the crook of his shoulder, and her words were cautious, as if seeking reassurance. "He wasn't…er, quite like that."

She couldn't see his rueful grin, and he counted that as a small blessing. "I was afraid of this – you shouldn't have peeked," he said. "But I promise you that I can keep my word. It's not going to hurt." There was a swath of covers sandwiched between them; he lifted them free, sliding closer, and she didn't make so much as a whisper of protest.

"How can you possibly know that?" She shifted, drawing her arms up to settle her palms against his chest. Her face was a study in indecision – half of her wanted to call off, but the other half wanted to believe him.

"Because I'm good at a great many things, but this…this is where I excel." He swept her hair aside and kissed her forehead. "Shall I prove it?"

She pressed her lips together, flattening them into a firm line. "You can still stop?"

"Always. I don't lack for self-control." Though it was just the tiniest bit threatened by the smooth slide of her leg against his.

"Okay." Her breath sighed out against his throat, and he felt the minute relaxing of the bunched muscles beneath his hand. "I think I can do this," she said. Her hands slid up his chest to his shoulders. "Should I…is there something I should do?"

"Not this time, I think," he said. "But you should probably…" With gentle pressure, he rolled her to her back, braced himself on his forearms over her, careful to keep from overwhelming her with the weight of his body. "Ahh, there," he said. "That's better."

She managed a weak approximation of a laugh. "Lie back and think of Dalmasca?"

"Darling, give me two minutes, and I'll challenge you to think of anything at all."

He bent to kiss her, and she was vaguely alarmed by the rush of heat that surged through her veins. Somehow he had effortlessly ferreted out her weaknesses, discovered what pleased her – and then used it all against her, sapping away her misgivings. As if, in just a few stolen moments, he had trained her to respond to him. Her fingers kneaded his shoulders, and she did no more than take a swift breath when he eased his legs between hers, settling over her. There was the press of his intimate flesh against hers, but it wasn't as threatening as she had imagined it would be – at least, not with the distraction he presented, nipping her lower lip and then sliding his tongue deep to stroke hers.

He had shifted his weight slightly, bracing his weight on one arm. His free hand traced swirling patterns on her stomach, inching upward by slow degrees, until his fingers teased her breast, and his thumb rubbed across her nipple. Her breath shuddered out and her hips jerked of their own accord – and she felt him smile against her lips.

"I've changed my mind," he said. "Do that."

He didn't have to ask, because she couldn't control it – she squirmed helplessly, and he took shameless advantage of it, angling his hips so that each restless movement provoked an ever-increasing frenzy of sensation. It rose to a fever pitch, worse – and so much better – than before, and she could only twine her arms around his neck and cling and gasp.

He was right; she couldn't hold on to a single thought for long. All thinking was redirected into feeling, except for the frustrating knowledge that whatever he was doing to her was almost – but not quite – enough. She drew up her knee, hoping it would afford her some measure of relief.

And he whispered in her ear, in a voice filled with primal satisfaction, "Do you want to stop?"

Oh, he was an utter ass to taunt her with it – but she heard herself cry out, "No," and felt her nails carve crescents into the flesh of his shoulders.

He soothed her with a kiss and carefully extracted her nails from his flesh, pried her arms from around him to ease away. At the direction of his hands she locked her legs around his hips, and then he was back, braced on one forearm, whispering encouragement into her ear as he pressed forward. He entered her on a smooth, easy glide, and there was no pain, only an incredible fullness. Her inner muscles clenched around him, and he kept pushing on, and on. Her hands clutched fistfuls of blankets; she threw back her head and cried out, shattered – and she spasmed in lush, tingling contractions.

"Gods," he gasped, and she felt the shudder that wracked him. He moved in deep nudges, and each one brought a new rush of dizzying pleasure, until she could only arch her back and whimper, overcome. And when he at last came to rest, he buried his face in her throat and his arms encircled her, squeezing her so tightly she could hardly draw breath.

His voice was muffled against her skin, but she heard him rasp in an agonized tone, "I assure you, I am the furthest thing from disappointed."

She had fallen asleep with her head tucked securely beneath his chin, her soft, even breaths feathering against his shoulder. The fire was in its death throes, and soon he would have to rise and affix the last tarp to trap the remaining warmth within their shelter. He was fairly certain it would hold until morning; the thick leather was well-suited to the task – but even if it did not, there was a multitude of blankets, and he was certainly not averse to sharing body heat.

She was so soft; he trailed his fingers along the length of her leg, which was draped comfortably over his hip. The dying light of the fire made her milk-white skin glow as if she were lit from within. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything quite like it in his life. There were perhaps a thousand other women who had shoulders as smooth and perfect as hers, but he was sure that none of them could claim the same subtle beauty of light and shadow playing over them, like an oil painting brought to life. He'd never seen such long lashes, thick and inky, nor a mouth so sweet and carnal. She'd said she wasn't pretty, and it was true – pretty was far too tame a word. She surpassed mere insipid prettiness and laid claim to beauty instead; the bone-deep sort that defied conventional explanation.

He would never forget her expression – bewildered amazement – nor the sheen of tears in her eyes when he had gathered her close afterward, arranging her trembling limbs with gentle hands, holding her secure in the circle of his arms. And she had needed that, he thought; she had needed the connection, the comfort, the stability that he could provide.

For a long time neither of them had spoken, the silent reverence too fragile to bear. Instead she had simply rested her head upon his chest and let him pet her like a kitten as she drowsed. Whatever embarrassment she had suffered had fled, or at least had not yet returned, for she had only made sweet sounds of contentment, never once flinching from his hands.

When at last she had bestirred herself to move, it was only far enough to reach for the plate of food he'd abandoned earlier, and they'd shared bits of fruit and cheese between them, and polished off the last of the wine – and it had taken only a moment to coax her back down beside him when they had finished.

She stirred in her sleep, mumbling something irritable – likely because he'd stopped caressing her. But she quieted when he resumed the soft strokes of his fingers and sighed contentedly when his arm tightened around her, holding her to his chest.

And he realized quite suddenly that he was going to have to find a way to convince her to stay…because he was never going to be able to let her go.