such a good-looking woman.

She looked down at herself and drew up the sheet to cover her breasts.

"Don't do that," he said, and pulled the sheet down again, none too
gently.

He began to rub her breast with the palm of his hand, feeling the nipple
get bigger and harder. She closed her eyes and gave a little murmur of
pleasure.

How she'd enjoyed it last night! She'd sighed and groaned and whimpered
and screamed and licked him and bit him and twisted her body from side
to side like a soul in perdition. Her frenzy had fired him up like never
before. No wonder he'd been able to mount her so many times. And
somewhere near the end of it all she'd sobbed into his shoulder for what
seemed like an hour. He figured that was a tribute to what he had done
to her. The sheets were still damp with their sweat, and the air in the
little bedroom was thick with the musky odors of their secret juices.

But the redskins were still stalking in his brain, and he was still a
little frightened. He didn't want to sit here in the dark.

"Light a candle, will you?" he said. "The striker's on that table."

She hesitated. "Can I get dressed first?"

"Hell no," he laughed. "What difference would that make after last
night? I know you outside and in, Clarissa."

She giggled and got out of bed while he sat hugging his knees watching
her.

"It's cold out here," she whined.

"Well, hurry and get that candle lit and get back in bed." The March air
whistled in through chinks in the log walls and shutters, and even
though the inn's chimney ran up through this room it didn't seem to
help. He guessed that downstairs in the taproom someone had let the fire
die.

Clarissa's pale, rounded shape as she moved through the shadows made
him feel stronger by the moment. The women he'd had up to now--many of
them right here in this bed--had been older and well-used, and he hadn't
enjoyed the look of their bodies that much. Clarissa was just the right
age, old enough to be filled out, young enough to be slender and firm.
He guessed she must be sixteen or seventeen. Raoul had been bedding
women since he was sixteen, for seven years now, and he'd never had a
better night than this last one, with Clarissa.

Then why, after such a shining night, did he have _that_ dream?

As the oil-soaked cotton ball flared up and Clarissa held a candlewick
to the flame, the nightmare came back to him, and out of the roiling
images of red limbs and painted faces and bl