There was one way in which Gregory still might be vulnerable, one possible Achilles' heel.  Since it didn't necessarily lead to bedding and marriage, Finister had ignored it.  Now, though, it was certainly worth trying - now, when all she needed was to come close enough to him to slip a knife between his ribs, or to induce him into lowering his guard so she could plant a mental bomb in his brain.  She doubted it would do much good, for Gregory certainly seemed to have little of the knight-errant about him, but the damsel in distress might wring sympathy even from such a stone as he.

Accordingly, she retailored her physical projection to be modest but still alluring (why waste a chance, no matter how slender?).  The body's contours were scarcely spectacular and the face was pretty, but neither was striking or fascinating.  The gown was modest and serviceable, a green broadcloth with yellow bodice and kirtle.  She indulged her dramatic streak and chose a black veil.

Then she sent coded mental instructions to Lork, who, ever faithful, was indeed not far away.  That done, she took up her station farther along the road where it opened out into a meadow.  She found a boulder for her seat, rolled a log to its foot, and tied her ankle to it with three feet of rope, then bowed her head in grief and despair, thinking of the horrible fate in store for her, concentrating on it until it seemed real, until she felt the tears welling up in her eyes.  She held them there, listening with her mind, waiting Gregory's approach.


Gregory rode alert, his mind open to receive, though his shields were still in place.  He detected the thoughts of despair, sensed the sobbing, but also recognized Moraga's mental signature.  Doubly wary, he rode through the leafy arch into the meadow and beheld a most touching tableau.

On a boulder in the middle of the meadow sat a damsel in green and yellow, head bowed in distress, sobbing piteously.  Her auburn hair fell unbound behind her face, making her skin seem to glow even more than was natural.  She was the very picture of Beauty in Distress, a portrait to wring the heart of any knight-errant and inflate his protective instincts, vulnerable femininity to perfection

In fact, too perfect.  Gregory eyed her askance, then decided that the wisest course was to fall in with the situation she had devised and watch how she made it develop.

His mind may have known it, but his heart did not.  As he rode up to her, the alarm, concern, and sympathy wrung from his masculine nature by her pose and her weeping welled up.  For once, he let them show - a little.  He dismounted and knelt by her, asking, "Damsel, what grieves you so?"

She recoiled, gasping and staring at him; then, seeing it was only a clean-favored youth, relaxed, burying her face in her hands as her sobs redoubled.

"What horror could affright you so?"  The anxiety in his tone was quite real; he almost forgot that this was the predator who stalked his family; only a remote part of his mind remembered it, staying vigilant.  "Maiden, what is it?  Tell me, I beg of you!"

"Call me not maiden, for I am that no longer, and therein lies my plight!" she sobbed.

Gregory frowned, feeling an edge of sternness arise, anger at a man unseen.  "Is it a false love who has used you and left you?  The fault is his, not yours!"

"Nay, sir - well, it is that surely, but I suffer only shame for that.  Now, because of it, I am likely to suffer much more."  She raised a tear-streaked face to him.