“And after that, I suppose, you sort of did what you pleased with men?”

She should have known he'd want to know. Men always seemed to want to know. She shrugged, resigned to the whole truth. “Here and there. Not often. Well, only twice. I had a feeling that it hadn't been . . . done right. The way the men on the Vivacia talked, I suspected it should at least have been fun. It had just been . . . pressure, and a bit of pain, and wetness. That was all. So I finally got up my nerve and tried a couple more times, with different men. And it was ... all right.”

Brashen lifted his head to look into her eyes. “You call this 'all right'?”

Another truth she didn't want to part with. She felt like she was giving away a weapon. “This was not 'all right.' This has been what it was always supposed to be. It was never like this before for me.” Then, because she could not bear the softness that had come into his eyes, she had to add. “Maybe it was the cindin.” She fished the tiny fragment that was left out of her lip. “It made little sores inside my mouth,” she complained and looked away from the small hurt on his face.

“Like as not, it was the cindin,” he admitted. “I've heard it affects women that way, sometimes. Most women don't use it much you know, because it can, um, make you bleed. Even when it's not your time.” He looked suddenly embarrassed.

“Now he tells me,” she muttered aloud. His grip on her had loosened. The cindin was wearing off and she was suddenly sleepy. And her head had begun a nasty throbbing. She should get up. Cold room. Wet clothes. In a minute. In a minute, she'd have to get up and go back to being alone. “I have to go. If we get caught like this . . .”

“I know,” he said, but he didn't move. Except to slide his hand in a long caress down her body. A shiver seemed to follow his touch.

“Brashen. You know this can't happen again.”

“I know, I know.” He breathed the words against her skin as he kissed the back of her neck slowly. “This can't happen again. No more. No more after this last time.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - VISITORS

RONICA LOOKED UP FROM HER ACCOUNT LEDGERS WITH A SIGH. “YES? WHAT IS IT?”

Rache looked uneasy. “Delo Trell is in the sitting room.”

Ronica raised her eyebrows. “Why?” Delo usually ran in and out as she wished. She and Malta had been best friends for at least two years now, and the formalities between the girls had eroded long ago.

Rache looked at the floor. “Her older brother is with her. Cerwin Trell.” Rache hesitated.

Ronica frowned to herself. “Well, I can see him now, I suppose. Not here, put him in the morning room. Did he say what he wanted?”

Rache bit her lip for a moment. “I'm sorry, ma'am. He said he was here to call upon Malta. With his sister.”

“What?” Ronica shot to her feet as if jabbed.

“I do not know your ways all that well, in this regard. But to me, it did not seem . . . correct. So I asked them to wait in the sitting room.” Rache looked very uncomfortable. “I hope I have not caused an awkwardness.”

“Don't worry about it,” Ronica said crisply. “Malta invited this 'awkwardness.' But young Trell should have better manners as well. They are in the sitting room, you said?”

“Yes. Should I ... bring refreshments?” The two women looked at one another. In the face of this social dilemma, the lines between mistress and servant were near invisible.

“I ... yes. Thank you, Rache. You are correct. This is best handled with formality rather than scolding him like a rude boy. Even if that is how he has behaved.” Ronica bit her lower lip for a moment. “Advise Keffria of this as well, and ask her to join us. Bring refreshments and serve them. Then, wait a bit before you tell Malta she has guests waiting. She has created this, she should witness how it is dealt with.”

Rache took a breath, a soldier preparing for battle. “Very well.”

After she had left the room, Ronica lifted her hands to her face and rubbed her eyes. She glanced back at the accounting ledgers she had set aside, and shook her head. Her eyes and head ached from poring over them anyway, and she had yet to find any way to make the debts on the pages any smaller or the credits any larger. This, at least would be a distraction. An unpleasant distraction from an impossible problem. Ah, well. She patted at her hair, then straightened her spine and headed towards the sitting room. If she hesitated, she'd lose her nerve. Cerwin Trell might be young, but he was also the heir to a powerful Trader family. She needed to put him in his place, but without direct insult. It would be a fine line to tread.