Chivalry clamped down on instinct. Geoffrey caught his breath, and his presence of mind. Somehow, the magnificent creature facing him seemed to dwindle a bit, into a mere mortal woman, not the goddess she had seemed in the first shock of seeing ...
But still fantastically attractive.
Charisma, he thought crazily, she had immense charisma—and Ostricht slipped aside from his blade, then sprang back beside his chief, panting and glaring at Geoffrey, bloodied but still ready to try to tear him apart with his bare hands if Geoffrey so much as raised a finger against his female leader.
Very female, immensely female—and every iota of his being clamored in response. He stood still, rooted to the spot, but felt as though his whole body was nonetheless straining to be closer to her—and she responded, he could feel the intensity of that response as her eyes glowed into his, seeming to swallow him up, yearning to devour every shred of his being and meld her substance with his ...
Or was this only the effect she had on all men? Was he nothing exceptional to her, only another male foe to be captured, subverted, enslaved by his own emotions? Lust was too mild a word for the feelings she inspired in him; covetousness might have begun to cover it, obsession to enwrap it, but no word ever made could encompass it, could begin to describe the height and depth of it.
The thought slid by, irrelevant and irreverent, that he might be facing a woman who had great psionic power, but who was unaware of it.
Unaware? No, surely not; surely there had never been a woman who could have been unaware of her effect on men, not a woman like this, no, who could make a very stone to groan with longing.
He forced himself to some rough facsimile of poise. "I had not known you were a woman."
Her lips quirked in the faintest of smiles. "Do you doubt it?"
"Nay, surely not," Geoffrey breathed, and she seemed to swell in his consciousness again, becoming once more larger than life. He thrust her down to normal size in his mind, remembering himself by sheer will alone. "I have heard only the name, and thought a bandit chieftain must be a man."
"Who could better lead men than a woman?" Quicksilver demanded.
Geoffrey felt instant sympathy and total agreement—a woman like this could have led any man anywhere. In fact, she probably had. "You are very aptly come, on the cusp of the moment to rescue your men."
"My sentries are everywhere throughout this county," Quicksilver returned. "As soon as you demanded to see me, word sped to me—and I sped to you, for I fight for my men even as they fight for me."
Geoffrey could understand why men would fight for her—he felt like doing so himself. But he strove for sanity and, to remind himself of the true state of affairs, protested, "You are no lady of rank."
"You are no merchant," Quicksilver retorted.
The overly obvious observation restored Geoffrey to some sense of self-possession. He smiled. "You are perceptive."
"What are you, then?"
"A man."
"Aye, you are," Quicksilver breathed, and for a moment, her eyes seemed to swell, to drink him in; he felt that he had to brace himself against that pull, or be sucked into the maelstrom of her presence.
Then it receded, and she was only mortal again—but Geoffrey could understand how men would follow her blindly, and understand even more clearly how they would be willing to die rather than betray her.
There was a rustle and a clank of metal around her, and for the first time he realized that she was flanked by a bodyguard of a dozen women, perhaps more—but what women! They were tall, nearly six feet every one, and corded with sleek, firm muscles. Each was dressed as Quicksilver was, though with different colors; each had her hair bound out of her way in a loose tail at the back of her head. Most were beautiful, some were not—but all their faces were hard, very hard, as though they yearned for him to raise a hand against their chieftain, so that they might have an excuse to chop him up and feed his bonemeal to the fishes.
But beauty and perfection of form notwithstanding, all paled into insignificance beside their chief.
Which amazed Geoffrey, because he realized that sev eral of them, objectively, were more beautiful than Quicksilver. The thought occurred to him that other men might not find her so irresistible, that perhaps it was only he himself who thought her the most fascinating woman in the universe—but, no; he remembered how completely she seemed to command the loyalty of her bandits; surely they must find her as compelling as he did ...
She was saying something. He yanked his concentration back to her words, then was horrified to realize that, while he had been distracted by her beauty, any man could have stepped up behind him and run him through. Even that thought made him miss her words, though; she was frowning at his silence, and he did not want her to frown ...
"I said, 'Who are you?' " she demanded.
There seemed no good reason to lie. "I am Geoffrey Gallowglass."
A murmur of shock and surprise passed through the bandit host, even the bodyguards, and their eyes narrowed. Quicksilver seemed to stiffen, and her stare was somehow wary; Geoffrey only now realized that it had been confident, almost contemptuous, before.
It was significant that no one said, "The son of the High Warlock" or "The son of the arch-witch Gwendylon!" or even, "So you are of that tribe!" Geoffrey had built a reputation of his own, even though he was only twenty—and among warriors like these, that reputation blazed far more brightly than that of his mother or father.
Quicksilver's gaze held steady, boring into his own. "The King and Queen have sent you, have they not?"
"Yes," Geoffrey said, but didn't feel obliged to tell her the rest of the truth.
Quicksilver's gaze didn't waver a millimeter. "Why are you come?"
"To arrest the bandit chieftain Quicksilver," Geoffrey said plainly, "and take her back to Their Majesties for trial."
The bandits went into an uproar, but the bodyguards shouted, "Assassin!" and leaped forward, swords flashing out ...
Or almost leaped forward; but Quicksilver held up her hand, and they jarred to a halt. Her lips curved in a slight smile, and her eyes glittered. "Do you think you can pluck me out from the midst of my band and live to tell of it?"
"No," Geoffrey returned. "I think that first I shall have to kill them all."
The crowd went into an uproar again. He raised his voice just enough for his words to bore through the commotion: "But if I were to fight them all, I might have to slay you, too—and I would be very loathe to do that."
"Braggart," she breathed, and the whole band quieted to hear her response.
Geoffrey shook his head. "It may seem so, but it is not. I shall not brag—and I never threaten. I will, however, give notice of what I intend to do."
"Not a warning," Quicksilver qualified.
"Okay," Geoffrey agreed. "Only the facts, as I see them."
"I cannot help but think that you see a bit too much of yourself."
"Oh, no," Geoffrey said, his eyes glowing into hers. "Not when all I can see is you."
The bodyguards snarled and lifted their swords again, but Quicksilver actually blushed. "My mother taught me to beware of men with sweet words."
"Beware of me indeed," Geoffrey murmured.
The whole band went silent, staring at their chief in amazement—and the bodyguards seemed almost in shock. Had no one ever tried to woo this woman?
Perhaps not, Geoffrey realized—perhaps none had dared.
"Do you hope to beguile me into surrender, with naught but sweet words?" Quicksilver asked.