The damned floor was too hard.

            Tristan couldn’t sleep upon it, even with three blankets piled under him and a cushion beneath his head.

            There was a strong draft coming from the doorway, the door ill-fitted against the jamb—

            —would it stick in a hurry? were the stairs wide enough to run down? how high was the window? how far the ground?—

            —and the draft chilled the left side of his body, no matter how he arranged the covers over him.

            Lily slept so peacefully just a few feet away, surrounded with softness. He should be happy for her now. He should be relieved that she had the succor he had so desperately wanted for her. That, for now at least, she would gain a full night’s rest.

            He had stretched out on the floor at the foot of her pallet as any true villein might, part guardian, part servant. He knew the role; he had lived the guise of earl for years before it was taken from him. He remembered what to do, how to act, what to say to remain convincing, to follow Lily’s lie and hide his true self from the people here....

            But he could not sleep. Not like this.

            Tristan sat up, rubbing his eyes, smiling grimly. He had slept in a cell with no heat or decent covering for years. This room was an extravagance of solace compared to that. Yet he had been alone then, always alone. Tonight she drowsed nearby, wrapped the comforts of civilization.

            Beneath warm blankets.

            In a gown very loose.

            In a pallet clearly large enough for two.

            The fire had all but gone out; the room now was dusky with night, only a faint, reddish glow coming from the hearth. Hours had passed since she had first lain down. The tavern below was largely silent now, only an occasional snore from the men sleeping there creeping past the floorboards.

            He looked to Lily, fair in the night, her hair loose and free, long curls arranged around her like a pillow of spun gold. His eyes were still used to years of darkness—he thought he could see her better now than even in daylight, with her brilliance dimmed, slumber and dreams taking away the caution that always seemed to shade her.

            Shining Lily, locked away for the rest of her life in a convent. Inconceivable. How could she choose such a life for herself? How could she hide her spirit like that?

            He found himself kneeling beside the pallet, examining her face, her hands against the blankets, the way her wrists seemed so slender, such fine bones, soft skin. Her closed eyes, her lashes long and winsome, as if they belonged to little girl and not the grown woman who had saved him. The delicate slash of her brows, strong yet feminine, relaxed now. Her lips, sweet and pretty and full. He remembered how they tasted, how they felt....

            All the other thoughts seemed to melt away from him, fading into the dusk. As Tristan stared down at her a new word came to him, just one, repeating itself—a dangerous word, encircling him, and her, until it was all he could consider:

            Mine, mine....

            He leaned down closer to her, slowly, slowly, never taking his eyes from her face. Lily slept on, unaware of his thoughts, his very presence, the peril near her now.

            He let his face linger over hers, their lips close to touching, but not quite. The scent of her came to him, subdued and infinitely pleasing, filling him. He felt almost dizzy with it, heady now, lost.

            Tristan lowered his lips to hers.

            She was warm and luscious, for all her sleeping peace. He kept the kiss soft, so nearly not there, teasing himself with the contact between them, allowing his lips to glide across hers, feather light.

            His eyes closed. It was heaven.

            He felt her take in her breath in a sigh and paused, hovering, but she did not awaken. So he continued the kiss, still gentle, fighting the craving within him for more of her, for what was not his, despite the throbbing ache of his body. And because that thought made the craving turn unbearable, Tristan allowed his tongue to savor her lips, to slide along the smoothness there, a deliberate torture.

            She sighed again but this time he didn’t stop. Greedy now, he curled close over her in a tight arch, his hands clenched against her pillows, tasting, tasting, and oh, she was so good, so sharply beautiful to him, and he was so hungry for her—

            Tristan pulled back, breathing too hard, raising his face to the ceiling, to the wall—looking anywhere but at her.

            Lily lifted a hand to her mouth, still sleeping, brushing her lips with her fingertips, turning her head. She let out her breath in a long, languorous murmur.

            “Tristan...”

            What an appalling mistake. This was not heaven—this was absolute hell. He stood, pacing away from her, turning to the door. He was afraid that if he looked at her now he would give in to the craving and go back to her...and awaken her in a way that would turn his name from a sigh to a plea.

            He heard the rustle of her blankets. When he could finally face her again he saw that she had rolled away, her back to him, her hair still gleaming gold, falling down her back to whisper across the covers.

            How would it feel, to touch her hair....

            Tristan took the few short steps he needed to leave the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Excerpted from The Secret Swan by Shana Abé. Copyright © 2001 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.