He's lost. He's so lost. The first moment she lifts that cloth over her head and begins to move, he can't help but watch every single movement like a man in the desert who's caught sight of a river. God. Just. All of her. Beautiful, wild, incredibly fierce - and flirting with him? He can't think it could possibly be flirting, could he? But she looks at him like a lover, he thinks, and all this talk of love and battle songs - it makes him utterly dizzy with the joy of it. Keep ahold of yourself, Vorkosigan, he reminds himself. When all this is done, she goes home to her people. And you will just be the odd Admiral who got her there.

A hero to her and her people, hopefully. But that is all he can hope for. He has to remember that, dammit, or he'll never make it back intact. There will be some piece of him left with her when they pat, lost in the gorgeous movements of her body ...

He takes another long sip of his own wine. His expression almost seems to glow in the dim light; he's drunk enough to be a little drunk, bringing rosiness to his cheeks as he watches her with nothing but awe. Maybe she's not a great dancer, but he surely can't tell the difference. She is beautiful. Too beautiful for him to dare besmirch.

"I would - take any dance from you, my lady," he says, his tones hushed. "Battle and love both."