Beneath A Midnight Moon

Prologue

He came to her in dreams, always different, yet always the same, his fathomless gray eyes filled with quiet desperation and a silent plea for help.

Was he real, this dark-skinned man with the long inky black hair, or only a dark image sketched from the paint box of her imagination, a phantom warrior woven into the shadowed tapestry of her nighttime fantasies . . .

1

She was walking through a deep green forest dappled by shimmering fingers of sunlight. The air was warm, fragrant with the aroma of a thousand exotic ferns and flowers. She heard the joyful songs of birds praising the birth of a new day, the distant whisper of a waterfall tumbling over stones.

Deeper and deeper she penetrated into the heart of the emerald forest, her footsteps muffled by a thick carpet of pine needles as she explored this strange new world that was so different from her own.

She saw a black-faced doe picking its graceful way along a narrow path, a pair of red-tailed squirrels chasing each other across the forest floor, a bird with bright yellow plumage flitting lightly from tree to tree.

And then she saw him, the man who lived only in her dreams. Her gaze moved over him with undisguised admiration. He was large of stature, his massive shoulders and well-muscled arms and legs accentuated by the gauzy white shirt and tight buff-colored breeches that he wore.

His eyes were gray, the color of clouds on a winter day; his hair fell to his waist, as deep and black as the Caves of Mouldour. His skin was the color of dark honey, smooth and unblemished. His nose was long and straight; his cheekbones prominent and well defined; his jaw strong and square.

His lips were firm, sensual; and when he smiled, as he was smiling now, it made her wish that he was a man of flesh and blood and not just an image conjured from the fathomless depths of sleep.

He came toward her, one hand out in a gesture of welcome; but still, in his eyes, she saw the same silent plea for help. And yet, how could she help him when she couldn't help herself?

"Lady . . ." His voice was deep and rich, like chocolate velvet.

"I'm coming," she called. "Wait for me."

Yet even as she hurried toward him, his image faded, like an old painting left too long in the sun, and then he was gone from her sight.

"Your name," she murmured sadly. "I don't even know your name."

A sob rose in her throat, waking her, returning her to the ugliness of her prison cell and a pillow soaked with her tears.