He put an iron-clad arm around her, moved her arm enough to open his visor, saw sea-green eyes, only a few inches below his own, staring straight into his.
The man's quick passion flamed again. Gods of the ancients, what a woman! There was a mate for a full-grown man!
"Thank the gods!" The king dashed up, panting, but in surprisingly good shape for a man of forty-odd who had run so far in gold armor. "Thanks be to all the gods you were in time!"
"Just barely, sire, but in time."
"Name your reward, Lord Tedric. I will be glad to make you my son."
"Not that, sire, ever. If there's anything in this world or the next I don't want to be, it's Lady Rhoann's brother."
"Make him Lord of the Marches, father," the girl said, sharply. "Knowst what the sages said."
"'Twould be better," the monarch agreed. "Tedric of old Lomarr, I appoint you Lord of the Upper, the Middle, and the Lower Marches, the Highest of the High."
Tedric went to his knees. "I thank you, sire. Have I your backing in wiping out what is left of Sarpedion's power?"
"If you will support the Throne with the strength I so clearly see is to be yours, I will back you, with the full power of the Throne, in anything you wish to do."