Warrior's Lady Page 10

  “No, Father. I…we have been apart a long time. I…” She bit down on her lower lip, wondering how to explain that she’d fallen in love with an outsider. Her mother saved her the trouble.

  “It is because of the man, Jarrett, is it not?” Vestri surmised. “Thee has healed him often and a bond has formed between thee.”

  Sudaan stared at Leyla, his gaze sharp. “Answer thy mother.”

  “Yes,” Leyla admitted. “I have fallen in love with my Lord Jarrett. It is my wish to marry him.”

  Vestri and Sudaan exchanged glances.

  “No,” Sudaan said curtly. “I will not permit it.”

  “Nor I,” Vestri added. “He is an outsider, a man of violence. His ways are not ours, his faith is not ours. Our people are few in number, my daughter. Thee must not betray thy heritage.”

  “I will not marry Tor,” Leyla exclaimed. “I do not love him. I never will!”

  “We will not discuss it,” Sudaan said gruffly. “I have made my decision. Thy betrothal to Tor stands.”

  Sudaan’s expression hardened as he took a step toward his daughter. “Know this. Should thee marry against my wishes, I will invoke the Recantation.”

  Leyla stared at her father in horror, the threat of being stripped of her powers rendering her momentarily speechless. Surely he would not do such a thing! To her knowledge, the Recantation had been used only once in the history of recorded time.

  “Go to thy room, child,” Vestri said quietly. “When thee has had time to think, thee will see that thy father has only thy best interests at heart.”

  Leyla clasped her hands to her breast, summoning the courage to ask, “What of Jarrett?”

  “He leaves in the morning.” Her father’s voice was firm, with no hope of reprieve.

  “Tor has invited him to the wedding,” Leyla said, grasping for any excuse that might keep Jarrett in the stronghold.

  She glanced at her mother beseechingly. “It would be discourteous to send him away.”

  “I will speak to Tor,” Sudaan said. “Considering the circumstances, I am sure he will understand.”

  Sudaan wrapped his arm around Leyla’s shoulders and hugged her to his side.

  “I bid thee good sleep, daughter,” he said, his tone softening as he gazed into her luminous blue eyes.

  “Good sleep, Father,” she replied, forcing the words past the growing lump in her throat. “Mother.”

  Blinking back her tears, Leyla fled for the solitude of her own room. She should have known they would not approve, but in her happiness, she had dared to hope they would understand, they would share her felicity.

  She paced her room for several minutes, her thoughts troubled. She could never marry Tor now. Once, she had thought she would grow to love him, but she knew now it would never happen. She loved Jarrett—not just because of the bond that had formed between them in the Pavilion. She loved his courage, his kindness, the warmth that was ever in his eyes when he looked at her. She loved the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand in her hair, the knowledge that he didn’t want to live without her.

  She thought of what her father had said—and knew she would willingly sacrifice all her powers for the chance to be Jarrett’s wife.

  With a sigh, she went to her window and stared down into the walled garden below. A movement in the shadows caught her eye and she felt her heart give a leap of joy.

  Impulsively, she grabbed her cloak. Hurrying down the corridor, she left the fortress and ran to the garden, hoping he was still there.

  Jarrett turned at the sound of her footsteps. “Leyla,” he exclaimed, pleased beyond words to see her.

  “Jarrett, oh Jarrett,” she wailed softly, and hurled herself into his arms.

  “What is it?” he asked gently, grieved by her tears. “What has happened?”

  “My parents refuse to let me cancel the wedding. They said I must marry Tor, that I must fulfill my heritage.”

  It was what he had expected, what he had feared. Ever since he’d promised Leyla he would stay, he had been plagued by doubts, wondering if he was doing the right thing.

  Leyla was so young, so innocent. She had no real knowledge of life beyond the shelter of her mountain, no true concept of the hardships of daily existence. She had been reared in a society where there was no conflict, no contention, only harmony and beauty. Even in the Pavilion, she had been treated with courtesy and respect. No one had abused her. She hadn’t gone hungry or been forced to do menial tasks.

  How could he even think of taking her away from her beloved mountains? He had no idea of what awaited him at his castle in Gweneth, no way of knowing if his home was still standing. And if Fenduzia and Aldane went to war, Gweneth would be caught in the middle. Jarrett had sworn an oath of allegiance to Tyrell, but he was related by blood to Morrad, the ruler of Aldane.

  Bending down, he pressed a kiss to the top of Leyla’s head. He had known it could never be, he thought bleakly. From the very beginning, he’d known she could never be his.

  Leyla wrapped her arms around Jarrett’s waist, holding him with all her strength. She could hear the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek, feel the hard wall of his chest beneath her fingertips.

  She sighed as his arms curled around her, holding her tight. This was where she yearned to be, only here, only forever.

  But it was not to be. She knew it as soon as she heard the sound of footsteps.

  And then her father’s voice cut across the stillness of the night, thick with anger and sharp rebuke. “Leyla!”

  Jarrett swore softly as he met Sudaan’s gaze. For a moment, his arms tightened around Leyla and then, reluctantly, he let her go.

  Only then did he notice that Sudaan had not come alone. Tor stood behind Leyla’s father, and behind him, a half dozen men. They were not armed; the Maje kept no weapons of war. But then, he wasn’t armed, either.

  “Daughter, Tor will take thee to thy room.”

  Leyla looked at Jarrett, her eyes pleading for him to do something, but he only shook his head. And then Tor was leading her away.

  Sudaan waited until Leyla had left the garden before he spoke again. “I would have the truth from thy lips,” he demanded. “Has thee defiled my daughter?”

  “No.”

  Sudaan gazed at him for a long moment, and Jarrett knew the Maje was probing his mind, seeking to know if he spoke the truth.

  “We have made thee welcome as a guest,” Sudaan remarked. “We are grateful for thy kindness in returning our daughter.”

  Jarrett curled his hands into fists. “But?”

  “But I think it will be better for thee and for Leyla if thee departs on the morrow.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Sudaan inclined his head toward the men who had fanned out around him. “We will convince thee. These men will escort thee to thy room. Tor will see thee on thy journey on the morrow.”

  “In other words, I’m your prisoner?”

  “Thee has said it.”

  Knowing it was useless to argue, Jarrett left the garden and made his way back to his room, followed by the six Maje.

  When he closed the door, he heard a key turn in the lock and the muted sound of voices as the Maje decided who would take the first watch.

  He was a prisoner again, though this time his jail was infinitely more hospitable.

  Too agitated to sleep, Jarrett paced the floor. Restless as a caged blue tiger, he prowled the confines of the room. They weren’t going to let him see Leyla again. He knew it as surely as he knew he had no choice but to leave in the morning. No choice at all. The Maje would see to that. They’d taken his weapons and weren’t likely to give them back. And even if they handed him his sword, he couldn’t fight them all.

  He went to the window and stared into the darkness, his future looming before him as black as the sky now that he knew she wouldn’t be there to brighten it.

  They came early the following morning, bringing First Meal into his room along with a change
of clothing and a ewer of hot water to wash with.

  An hour later, Sudaan and Tor came for him.

  “Tor and one of our young men will escort thee to the path that leads to Dragora’s lair,” Sudaan said curtly.

  “Where’s Leyla?”

  “My daughter’s whereabouts need no longer concern thee.”

  “I love her.”

  “Our ways are not thy ways,” Sudaan said, his voice tinged with compassion. “Forget what thee has seen here and return to thy people.”

  Jarrett drew a deep breath. “Can I at least tell her goodbye?”

  Sudaan shook his head. “It will only make thy parting more difficult.”

  “Please.” Jarrett forced the word through his teeth. Please. Please. The plea echoed down the corridors of his mind. How many times had he begged for mercy in the dungeon of the Pavilion, only to have his words thrown back at him? But he didn’t mind begging this time. He would have debased himself to any degree required for the chance to see her one last time.

  Sudaan held Jarrett’s gaze for stretched seconds, his brow furrowed in concentration.

  Jarrett stood firm, not caring that the Maje was reading his mind, judging the depths of his feelings for Leyla. In a moment, he became aware of another presence, and knew that Tor was also probing his thoughts.

  Sudaan grunted softly, and then he nodded. “I will send her to thee.”

  “No!” The exclamation burst from Tor’s lips. “She is my betrothed. I will not permit it.”

  “She is my daughter,” Sudaan said, his voice sharp with reproval. “This man saved her life and returned her to us. I will allow them a few minutes to say Godspeed.”

  “I am against it!”

  Tor’s deep brown eyes glittered with uncharacteristic anger, making Jarrett wonder if all the tales of Majeullian docility might be a myth. He could feel the other man’s animosity reaching toward him, see it in the depths of his eyes, in the clenching of his fists.

  “I will send her to thee, Lord Jarrett,” Sudaan repeated. “Tor, let us depart in peace.”

  Tor glared at Jarrett. “Do not make the mistake of thinking we are soft or weak,” he warned. “Force and fear are not the only strengths.”

  Jarrett loosed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind his visitors. They would let him tell her goodbye. He would see her one last time. For now, that was all that mattered.

  It seemed like hours before she knocked at his door, though he knew it had only been a few minutes, and then she was there, close enough to touch.

  For a time, he could only look at her, imprinting her image in his mind: the pale opalescence of her skin, the shimmering silver of her hair, the deep blue of her eyes, the rosy hue of her lips. Soft, sweet lips that tasted of Sylvan honey. She wore a flowing gown of powder-blue softsilk. There were matching slippers on her feet. She looked like an angel recently come from the courts of heaven.

  “Leyla.” Her name whispered past his lips.

  “I am here.”

  Her familiar reply made his heart ache with sweet regret. He longed to go to her, to enfold her in his arms and feel her life force, her caring warmth. He yearned to bury his face in the wealth of her hair, to cover her face with kisses. To hold her close and never let her go.

  Instead, he murmured her name again, the anguish in his voice betraying every thought, every desire.

  “My Lord Jarrett, I came to thank thee for bringing me home.” She blinked back the tears that burned her throat and eyes as she delivered the carefully rehearsed speech. “I wish to thank thee for making my life in the Pavilion more bearable, for having the courage to flee thy captivity and the generosity of heart to take me with thee. I am honored to have known thee, and wish thee every happiness.”

  She was crying openly now and she saw him through a blur of tears that made him no less handsome. Green eyes, as green as Dragora’s scales. Skin the color of sun-kissed Majeullian earth, warm and rich and brown. Hair as black as ebony. She committed each feature to memory. A nose as straight as a blade, a strong square jaw, the high cheekbones inherent to all Gweneth males. Large hands capable of unspeakable violence. Indescribable tenderness. Arms corded with muscle, strong legs that could carry him up the side of a mountain and across rivers. Broad shoulders that could bear any burden placed upon them.

  “Jarrett.” She laced her fingers together to keep from reaching for him.

  “I know,” he murmured brokenly. “I know.”

  It was time to go. Her father had allowed her only a few minutes to say farewell, and that grudgingly.

  “Jarrett.” She couldn’t seem to say anything but his name. Heart filled with anguish, she could only look at him, wishing that things could have been different between them, wishing she were an outsider, or that he were a Maje, so that they could have joined together. Obedience to the Law. Fidelity to truth. Loyalty to kith and kin. Suddenly, the tenets by which she had lived her whole life meant nothing; only the knowledge that he was leaving, that she would never see him again, had any meaning at all.

  She gazed into his eyes as she closed the distance between them, saw his expression change from doubt to hope as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  Sparks. Lightning. The flaming tail of a comet.

  Jarrett’s mind whirled as her lips touched his. He loosed a ragged breath when she took her mouth from his, and then he was kissing her, his hands moving restlessly up and down her arms. She pressed her length against his, her soft moan of pleasure igniting his desire still more. She was light and warmth, the giver of life, and he knew he would rather die than spend the rest of his days without her.

  “Leyla, come with me.”

  “I cannot. Thee must know I cannot.”

  “I know.” He rested his chin on the top of her head, breathing in her scent, reveling in the silkiness of her hair, the satin-smooth skin beneath his hand.

  Soon, they would come for him and he would have to leave her. Nothing the Gamesmen had ever done to him, no agony of the flesh, had ever caused him as much pain as the thought of never seeing Leyla again.

  He drew away from her, then took her hand and placed it over his heart. “I hurt,” he said. “Deep inside.”

  Leyla nodded, her eyes clouded with tears. “I know.” Taking his hand, she placed it over her breast. “Feel my heart, my Lord Jarrett, and know that I share thy pain, that I grieve because there can be no healing for thee, or for me.”

  Her trembling fingertips stroked his cheek, caressed his lips. “I will never love Tor. I will never give him a child. I will never truly be his.”

  “No.” Jarrett shook his head, her words shredding his soul. “Do not deny thyself the pleasure of a man’s love because of me.” Unconsciously, he used her quaint speech. “Do not deny thyself the love and comfort of a child. I want only thy happiness, Leyla. Do not let thy love for me bring thee anything else.”

  “Kiss me,” she begged. “Kiss me and never stop.”

  His arm curled around her waist and he dragged her length against his, his kiss brutal, possessive, aching with need. Her hands curled over his shoulders and she clung to him, fervently returning his kiss. She could feel the wild beating of his heart, the heat of his desire inflaming her own.

  The sound of her father’s footsteps penetrated the haze of passion. Summoning every ounce of willpower she possessed, Leyla twisted out of Jarrett’s arms and went to stand by the window, looking out into the garden below.

  A moment later, the door swung open and her father and Tor stood in the doorway.

  Tor stared hard at Jarrett, his dark-brown eyes filled with suspicion and mistrust.

  “Leyla, it is time for Lord Jarrett to depart.”

  “Yes, Father.” She turned away from the window and crossed the room, extending her hand to Jarrett. “Travel in safety and peace, my Lord Jarrett. May the goddess Judeau bless thee with health and strength all the days of thy life.”

  Jarrett took her hand in both of his and squeez
ed it hard. “And may the All Father grant thee a long and happy life.” He could feel her hand trembling in his, see the tears that clung to her lashes. “Farewell, Leyla. I will never forget thee.”

  “Nor I thee.”

  “It is time, Lord Jarrett.” Tor’s voice cut across the stillness of the room.

  “I’m ready,” Jarrett replied curtly. Releasing Leyla’s hand, he walked out of the chamber.

  The sound of her tears followed him down the hall.

  Tor’s companion was waiting outside. Wordlessly, Jarrett mounted the horse they’d brought for him, absently stroking the animal’s neck as he gazed at the shimmering crystal palace.

  A moment later, Tor joined them.

  With one last glance at the Maje stronghold, Jarrett followed Tor and the other man out of the courtyard.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jarrett rode between Tor and his companion, the ache in his heart growing heavier with each league that went by.

  He would never see her again.

  They reached the head of the serpentine path that led to Dragora’s lair at midday.

  “Do not come back here,” Tor warned. He handed Jarrett his sword and knife. “Thee will not be welcome.”

  “Take care of Leyla,” Jarrett said. He sheathed the sword, slipped the longboar knife into the sheath inside his boot.

  Without another word, he urged his horse down the narrow twisting path that led to the dragon’s cave.

  He rode for over an hour, hardly aware of his surroundings. The ache in his heart seemed to intensify as he put more and more distance between himself and Leyla. It was like riding away from a part of himself. The best part.

  His horse, a big-boned gray gelding, snorted and rolled its eyes as they neared Dragora’s lair.

  For a moment, Jarrett thought he’d find himself afoot again, but after flicking its ears back and forth, the gray approached the cave without hesitation.

  “Dragora!” Jarrett called, and waited for the flame.

  “Dragora!” He called the dragon’s name a second time, and saw the thin finger of flame brighten the far end of the cave.