The rest of the band, who had been standing there staring at Isra, followed, leaving her alone with this huge blond man who looked so much like Roman but at this moment was not. “Are you hurt?” he asked again in a gruff voice, his eyes sweeping over her ruined gown. She could only barely see the dark washes over the wide skin of his forearms in the gloom. Isra shook her head and then wondered if he could see the motion. “No.” She didn’t know if she had cut her head when she’d fallen, but she couldn’t feel anything now, so she chose to believe it was only bruised. “I’m sorry, Isra,” he said, and she could hear the loosening of his voice, as if the Roman she knew was trying to return. “I should never have allowed you to return to the cart alone. I failed to protect you. Please forgive me.” Even though an instant ago terror had still gripped her, turning her skin to ice, her heart galloping in her chest, his words melted her fear like a scrap of old candle wax dropped into a fire.
