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"You can let go of my hands now. I won't try to escape," Lydia promised.
"Any attempt would be futile," Dragon told her.
"I'm no dummy. I've already figured that out. Where did you go tonight?"
"This is my castle. I'll ask the questions." He folded back the sheet and began to sponge her shoulders. She shivered.
"You undressed me, didn't you?"
"Then I suppose it's foolish to ask if you're the one who smeared this smelly salve all over me."
His silence spoke for him. She stared at him with eyes the color of a robin's egg. He'd never seen eyes quite that wide, quite that clear, quite that shining. A man could fall in love with a woman merely by looking into her eyes.
"Don't even consider doing it again," she said.
He folded the sheet again so that her back was revealed. "I would gladly let you apply the salve yourself, but you were wounded in places you can't reach."
Sudden tears came to her eyes. "Then why don't you let me die? If you're going to keep me caged up in here, you might as well let me die. Why don't you?"
"It would not be honorable to let you die until I know whether you are the enemy."
She snatched the cloth and threw it at him. "I'm not the enemy, you bullheaded barbarian. I'm a bookseller from California who went to sleep in my chair and woke up in the woods with a dragon breathing down my neck. . . ."