ALONSA ASKED Günter as they trudged through dead leaves and kicked aside pebbles in search of the best kindling wood. “It is beautiful. Do I know it?” Günter’s hand still lightly clasped hers. She tried to ignore the warmth of his big palm; tried to forget the last time she had felt it upon her body. He glanced at her and leaned down to retrieve a fat stick of wood. “It is nothing. A little tune I am composing.” He handed the wood to her. She took it without thinking. “You have time to compose your own music?” His eyes flickered, then went blank. “Aye, between hacking men to death and bedding every wench in sight, I manage to write a lyric or two.” He dropped her hand and turned away. Realizing she had annoyed him, she hurried to his side. “Günter …” “That is what you meant to imply by your question, isn’t it?” In profile, his clenched jaw said more than his words ever would. She tugged on his arm, forcing him to stop. He turned to look at her. “What?”
