She was perched on a stone with her legs tucked under her and the sunlight behind her, combing out her long hair. It was something she did every morning before braiding it up again, but usually Damon tried to be elsewhere when she began. He stayed where he was, paused in adjusting the girth and stirrups on his horse.

            It was hypnotic, following the stroke of the ivory comb through the heavy tresses. She started at the top and worked her way down, having to stretch her arm out full-length to reach the ends before allowing the captured strands to tumble back down against her body. In the morning light her hair glowed with auburn fire. He remembered so clearly how it felt in hands, against his lips.

            She parted another section of hair and began on it, the same pattern, the same results: thick, glossy locks falling to curve against her, molding to her shape. She tilted her head and the sun shone with it, a shifting halo of brilliance that surrounded her, deep reds and coppers, rich dark browns. The ivory comb worked through so slowly, so rhythmically he could count the pace. She used her free hand to smooth the locks after each passage.

            It was unusual to see a woman’s hair so openly displayed. Even Solange kept hers tucked away when she could. He felt he was intruding, watching her perform this simple task. He thought absently that he should not be looking, that he had been about to tell her something, but the stroking of her hand and the comb swept away that thought. He could not stop staring.

            Again the comb separated the strands, again it slid down the tresses with silky ease, leaving a wake of softness behind. Every time she moved the cascade of hair moved with her, rising and falling with each breath.

            Without the cape to hide her body, her femininity was plainly revealed under the grey tunic she wore. It had a simple drawstring at the throat to tighten or loosen. The knot was free now; the strings hung limply to the tips of her breasts. He could see a wedge of creamy white skin there where the cloth fell to the sides. He could see her hair brushing the tunic, lying trapped between the folds of cloth and her skin. He could feel the tantalizing stroke of her hair, the tender delicacy of her body. He could feel her wrapped around him, all of her at once—hair, skin, scent—pressed against him, welcoming him, wanting his touch as he wanted hers.

            They were collapsed together on the ground, her tunic was open to him, baring her breasts to his lips. He was tasting her, the shocking sweetness of her body, the fullness of her embrace as she writhed under him. She was covering him in kisses, she was twining her long legs around his waist, moaning with desire. He was tugging the tunic off of her, the hose, impatient, eager to feel her hot and bare against him. She was helping him, lifting her arms up to be free of the clothing, then clutching him closer, pulling him into her, gasping his name...

            “Damon? Damon?”

            He realized Solange was still seated on the ground before him, comb paused halfway though her hair. She looked concerned and very fully clothed. “What’s amiss, my lord? I spoke to you and you didn’t reply. You were looking at me so strangely.”

             Fortunately, life at court had taught him well how say one thing while thinking another. His mouth was responding before his mind had fully caught up with him.

            “I was...contemplating other matters. What did you ask me?”

            “I said, do you think it wise of us to travel by day now, instead of by night?”

            The image of her beneath him, naked, alive with passion, would not vanish. Damon struggled to focus beyond it, to form a logical reply to her question, but when her lips moved, he saw himself kissing them. When her arms lowered and the comb released her hair, he saw himself buried in it. He turned away stiffly, checking the already tightened girth to his saddle.

            He heard her stand up behind him. “Are you well?” she asked uncertainly.

            “Yes.” He took a heavy breath. How could she not know? How could she not feel it too? She was a widow, by heavens, no longer an inexperienced maiden. She had to realize what she was doing to him, that she was deliberately torturing him. It was enough to drive a sane man over the edge, and he had already been there too many times.

            “Damon?” She came up behind him and placed her hand lightly on his arm.

            The simple touch jerked him back to the present. He pulled away from her and turned, baring his teeth in a semblance of a smile.

            “Day versus night, you ask? It doesn’t matter now. We are close to the conclusion of this little sojourn, aren’t we?”

            Her eyes grew wide, even a little fearful. He almost hated her for that, hated that she could feel fear of him, when all he had ever wanted to do was protect her, take care of her, love her.

            Damon took a menacing step in her direction. “Now, what’s amiss with you, Countess? You do not look yourself.”

            Solange shook her head in bewilderment. “I don’t understand you. You are angry. Have I done something wrong?”

            “Something recently, you mean? I don’t know, you tell me.” He was stalking her now, steadily matching each step she took to put space between them. One hand was raised as if to push him away, the other was grasping the folds of the tunic together. The fear in her eyes became stronger.

            “Stop it! Why are you behaving in this odd manner? Are you feverish?” She halted defiantly, daring him to come closer. Brave, foolish little Solange, and so he caught her up easily. She crashed into his chest, helpless because her arms were pinned and he would not let her put her feet down firmly to the earth. He held her tightly against him until she stopped struggling, until she only stared up at him in almost comical disbelief.

            “Yes, my lady,” he drawled. “I think I must be feverish. It is the only reason I can think of to do this.” He covered her lips with his own.

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Excerpted from A Rose in Winter by Shana Abé. Copyright © 1998 by Shana Abé. Excerpted by permission of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.