Tristan

Chapter 2

Briar woke in darkness, still groggy from the lingering traces of nightshade in her blood. She'd ingested a dozen of the black berries—enough to fell a large horse, and just enough to drop her body heat to a passably normal temperature. It also gave her terrible fever dreams, nightmares like she hadn't had since she was a girl. Her master hadn't warned her about that nasty little side effect—not that it would have made a difference. She always did as he asked, and had learned a long time ago not to question his decisions.

It took another moment for her to get her bearings. Her forehead was damp and smelled faintly of herbs from what must have been a poultice. A dying fire in the hearth cast just enough light for her to make out the outline of furniture, including the enormous bed in which she was currently ensconced. Wrapped around her like a cocoon, the sheets chafed against her bare skin. She frowned, suddenly aware she was naked. What had happened to her clothes? That had not been part of the plan. She must have stripped them off during one of her fever dreams. If she didn't have such a Gods-awful megrim, she might have had the wherewithal to be embarrassed.

Briar shifted—or tried to, anyway, under the veritable mountain of blankets. She managed to wiggle her arms free, but because of the damned nightshade she'd swallowed, she was too weak to shove the blankets off her. A little growl of frustration escaped her lips.

"You're awake," said a surprised male voice from somewhere behind her.

Startled, Briar let out a pathetic little squeak and thrust her arms back under the covers, clutching them to her neck. Ye Gods, where had he come from?

"I've been here for hours," the man replied, still out of eyesight.

Briar realized she'd spoken out loud. "Come here where I can see you," she said crossly, before remembering she was supposed to be a damsel in distress.

"Demanding thing, aren't you?" said the man with an arrogant chuckle that made Briar grind her teeth. But he did as she'd asked, stepping out from behind the bed and into the waning firelight. Gleaming like sapphires in the dark, eyes that were unmistakably blue found hers.

Briar cursed under her breath.

Not softly enough. "My face is not so offensive as that," he said with a glint of humor, clearly aware of his own charms. But Briar wasn't focused on his charms. The man's eyes were blue and his hair was yellow. Damn it, neither was the right shade.

She closed her eyes and groaned. The dull ache at the back of her head migrated to her temples. She couldn't think straight. But she could see well enough. This man, whoever he was, wasn't the man who was supposed to find her. Master's plans always went off like clockwork. How had she managed to bungle things so badly?

The wrong man bent over, putting his face close to hers. A handsome face, she noted dispassionately, with chiseled features and a strong jawline. His wavy yellow-gold hair was that of a fairytale prince, but a short beard of darker amber-gold lent him an air of danger. She was certain she'd never met him before, yet something about him was familiar.

"Are you alright?" he asked sincerely.

She glared up at him. No, she was not alright. The wrong man had found her. This was nothing short of a disaster, never mind that it was no fault of her own. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"Who are you?" he countered.

"I asked you first."

His gaze narrowed. "I saved your life. The least you could do is tell me your name."

I let you rescue me, she wished she could tell him, and cut his ego down to size. Peevishly, she said, "I could just make up a name. You would never know the difference."