Marcus watched, hidden by the thickness of trees as the young woman knelt down by a small bush and started to pluck the berries. Her gown was plain, a dull red against the lush green of the grassy hills. It was a shame her long blonde hair was bound in a braid. It made him itch to run his fingers through it. A woman's hair should flow loosely over her back so that it could catch in the wind. No matter, once she was a part of his camp, she would keep her hair loose. It was the way of the females. Just for second, he felt doubt. He knew the people of her village told stories. Stories of how dangerous centaurs were, how they r*ped their women and pillaged their homes, burning them to the ground, of how they killed mercilessly. How far from the truth, Marcus thought with disgust. But one thing
