It was only when he had turned away, flinging his jupon over his shoulder, that she allowed herself another glimpse of him.

It only takes one man to make a woman a fool.

Rica knew how foolish this particular attraction was. Poets and poems aside, to indulge even a fleeting fantasy would be a lunatic's move.

In sudden panic, she gathered the herbs and donned her surcoat, and found Helga still chatting with the peddler. Rather than interrupt them, she gave a little wave as she passed a few feet away, knowing she would have to explain the next time she came. In the morning. He came only afternoons.

But as she whistled for Leo, she felt Solomon's gaze once more. She turned to find him standing in the shadow of a grove of pines, watching her. She lowered her head and kept walking.

For the first time, she realized all the poems she so loved were grounded in tragedy. Of tragedy, she'd already had her fill.

* * *

From his shadowy post, Solomon watched her stride away toward the castle that loomed atop the hill, all whitewashed stone and bleakness.

There had always been talk of the great beauty of Charles der Esslingen's twin daughters, the sort of lusty talk men indulged while in their cups.

Once more, he was stunned. This afternoon, leaning against the tree, staring so dreamily toward the hills, she had been the most singularly beautiful creature he'd ever seen. Her tunic, damp with the heat of the day, clung to her breasts and waist and long thighs, revealing her form in a manner that seized him fiercely. He had watched, stricken, as she tugged the fabric from her flesh; watched as it settled back like a fond hand over her graceful curves.

He swore under his breath. Too much. In two meetings, he absorbed more deeply the details that made her than of dozens of women he saw every day. Tearing his gaze from the sway of her hips, he focused upon the cool blue mountains. Discipline. His few moments of admiring this beauty were ended.