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."
"I'm not afraid of anything," she said with determi-
nation, taking his hand anyway. He pulled her up be-
hind himself effortlessly, leaving her breathless. She
gave him directions to the baron's home.
Gisella looped her arms around Denzil's waist ar-
mor and leaned into his muscular back. Drawing a
long, contented breath, she filled her nostrils with the
familiar, manly scent of leather and sweat, and some-
thing else -- peculiarly Denzil's. She pressed her face
into the arch behind his shoulder blade and forgot
about anything troubling.
Despite the nightmare's intimidating appearance,
the black animal's ride was the smoothest she'd ever
experienced. Riding Scul was what she imagined it
would be like to ride on a cloud -- a frigid storm cloud.
Beneath her hands and seat, the animal felt as cold as
death, right through the heavy leather saddle. She
snuggled into Denzil, sighing blissfully as they rode.
"We're here." She heard the words rumble through
his chest, and she looked up reluctantly.
Gisella knew the baron and baroness would be busy
with official festival duties all day. She ordered one of
the servants to take care of her horse while she re-
turned to her room, than changed into her most re-
vealing traveling clothes -- a calfskin jerkin worn
without a blouse, and laced pants -- gathered the rest
of her belongings, and hurried back to the front step.
Two of the baron's grooms were flanking her saddled
and bridled horse, trying to keep it calm. Its eyes were
wide, its nostrils flared
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