Melisande sneaked furtive peeks at the huge Norman who walked beside her, his arm linked in hers and holding her hand gently atop his arm. He caught her glance, as he always seemed to do, and laughed. But she could not stop, all the same. He was compelling. His charcoal eyes, that seemed black as an eagle's in the shadows, midnight blue by firelight, and the color of charcoal in the light of day, seemed always to brim with laughter behind their long, thick fringe of nearly straight black lashes. His lips had a sensuous curve about them that seemed an inseparable part of the deep thunderous roll of mirth that poured forth from him, and of the gravelly whisper of his voice that lured her inescapably to him. And his body? Was there any part of it she did not long to touch? She was not exactly sure she hadn't. She could not let him die. This perfect man must not die. Yet even now, he wore that damnable cloak. And even now, it poisoned him. She must find a way to save him. For all that he wore it constantly, he still seemed strong enough, but that would change quickly if the cloak had its insidious way.
