“Lord Legolas!”

He was leaning over the flet wall, gazing down the main walkway of his beloved colony, wondering if she would ever see the home he was building for her.

“Lord Legolas.” The voice had acquired a touch of impatience.

He turned towards its owner. “Alatáriël,” he said, “this is my private garden.”

“And it is charming.” She was advancing on him like a cat stalking a bird.

“Private,” repeated Legolas.

She smiled conspiratorially. “So no one will disturb us… Legolas.” She laid her hands upon his chest, sliding them up, over the fabric, deliberately cupping and squeezing his muscles. “You are so strong…” she whispered, “so…” She gave him a twisted smile, which she seemed to imagine was seductive.

Gently, but firmly, Legolas removed her hands. “Your father will be wondering where you are, Alatáriël,” he said, “I had better take you home.”

She came up on tiptoe and whispered in his ear. “He knows where I am. He is busy—talking to The Mistress of the Ceremony. Asking her all sorts of questions about the Harvest Rite…” She slipped her arms around him and, pulling him close, pressed her groin to his.

“Alatáriël! Please!”

“You must be celibate for three months…” she said, teasingly.

“Indeed,” said Legolas, “so please—”

“But I will not tell…”

Against everything he believed in, Legolas exerted his strength, grasping her hands and removing them forcibly from around his waist. He held her at arms’ length. “This garden is private. Please leave. Now. Or I will call a guard.”

“You would not dare!”

“Do not test me!”

The elleth shook off his hands. “Just you wait,” she cried. “Just you WAIT!” And she picked up her skirts and ran from the flet.