The man moved forward, kneeling at her side. He closed the boy’s eyes, took the coin and placed it under the dead soldiers tongue.
He handed her his cloak then, looking pointedly at her hands. She took it, startled by the amount of blood that covered her fingers and palms. She swallowed, her hands trembling fiercely. She wiped the cloak across her palms, wincing as it smeared and streaked her arm. She continued rubbing her hands and arms until her skin felt raw.
She glanced at him. “I am indebted to you.”
His eyes seemed to pierce hers, holding her gaze. He was both curious and… angry. With her? But he said nothing.
“My thanks,” she continued, somewhat breathless, “for coming to his aid.”
His gaze shifted, settling on her mouth for the merest of moments. His jaw clenched. He stood, breaking his hold on her. And, suddenly, he was moving away from her.
She stood too, awash with such sensations, such feelings.
She stared at his retreating form and then ran after him. She followed him back to the edge of the meadow, careful to avoid the bodies of the other men. She would not look upon them.
Images of the battle, if it could be called a battle, of what he’d done, flashed in her mind’s eye. But what he’d done, what she’d seen. What did it mean? His actions were not those of a mortal man, none she’d ever heard of.
“You… How…” She paused, thinking of the fallen soldier. Mortal or not, he’d done it to help her, to help this boy. “I thank you.”
He stopped, turning to face her once more. There was an edge to his voice, “You thank me? For this?”
The weight of his gaze pulled hers to him. Oh how her heart leapt in her chest.
“Persephone?” Was someone calling her name? Surely it was a trick of the wind. She ignored it, wondering at the darkness of his eyes and the almost braced stance he took.
“Persephone?”
No trick of the wind, then. It was Myrinne, one of her attendants, calling.
She glanced at him. Would he know who she was? Would he know her name?
His brow furrowed, and then his blue eyes widened. Yes, he did.
“Persephone? Are you finished yet?” Crysanthe joined in.
His eyes swept over her slowly, from the fiery red tresses atop her head to the bare toes peeking from beneath the hem of her robes. When his gaze found her again, his lips were pressed flat and his eyes… His gaze was haunted, suffering. Yet something lingered in his dark eyes, calling to her.
“Come on.” Myrinne was closer. “Your mother will be angry if we’re late again.”
“Persephone!” Crysanthe yelled, closer now.
She answered, “I am here,” but she could not pull her gaze from his.
“We found all on your list,” Myrinne said.
“Your mother will never know what you were up to,” Crysanthe laughed. “Or where you ventured…”
They were smiling as they reached her, but fell silent when they saw him. She was faintly aware of the nymphs as they stared, wide-eyed, at this man. They should stare. Had they ever seen such a man before? Even in her limited experience, she thought not.
“You would do better not to leave your mistress so ill-attended. Demeter would see you punished for such carelessness with her daughter.” His words were sharp, demanding their attention and commanding their acquiescence.
The nymphs stared at him, their eyes growing round before they quickly bowed.
“I sent them on their way,” Persephone spoke, surprised by their reaction to this man.
Stranger still was her own response. What was this inexplicable need to touch him, to ease his temper? She did not deny herself, but moved forward to place her hand on his arm. Her tone was soft, soothing as she assured him, “They’ve done nothing wrong.”
He was surprisingly warm beneath her palm. She stared at his arm, watching the shifting sinew in his forearm, the black hairs sprinkled across his pale skin… She felt the strangest pulse, a heady, consuming pull, where her flesh met his.