Warrior's Lady Page 4

  Jarrett swore under his breath as the fire’s heat reached out to chase away the cold that enveloped him.

  “Are you also a witch?” he asked with a wary gaze.

  “Nay, my Lord. ’Tis but another of my gifts.” She met his gaze, a ghost of a smile hovering around her mouth. “But then, are not all women witches of one kind or another?”

  “True enough,” he agreed. He shifted on the blanket, grimacing as the movement awakened the pain in his thigh.

  Reminded of his wound, she drew the knife she had secreted in the pocket of her skirt and made a neat slit in his breeches. For a time, she studied the wound, wondering how he had ridden so long, how he had managed to stay in the saddle.

  “Thee,” she muttered, shaking her head. “So stubborn.”

  “Get it out.” He forced the words through clenched teeth.

  Yes, she thought, it had to come out, but how? Would it be easier, less painful, to push the arrow through his thigh, or to cut it out instead?

  Sensing her dilemma, Jarrett took a deep breath. “Push it through,” he said, knowing it would be easier and quicker.

  She looked at him for a moment, seeing the taut lines of pain around his mouth. The thought of laying hold of the arrow, of driving it through healthy flesh, chilled her to the marrow of her bones, but there was no help for it. She couldn’t heal his wound and relieve his pain until she had removed the cause.

  Teeth clenched with determination, she took hold of the short, narrow shaft, emptying her mind of everything but the need to get it done.

  A harsh cry of pain rumbled in Jarrett’s throat as the arrow penetrated farther into his flesh before leaving it, and then he let out a long, shuddering sigh.

  He gazed at her through eyes filled with pain and fever. Then, taking her hand in his, he lightly kissed her palm.

  “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice heavy with fatigue, then, his eyes closing, he took her hand and placed it over the wound in his thigh.

  She stared at him, her palm tingling with heat from the touch of his lips, a warmth vastly different from the internal heat that flowed from her body to his.

  No man had ever kissed her. Ever. Her heart was pounding erratically, her cheeks felt flushed, and all from one kiss, and that kiss only on her hand.

  Her gaze wandered over his face. His lashes were thick and very black against his pale skin. As she watched, she saw the tension drain from his expression, saw his muscles relax as she absorbed his pain, a pain she hardly felt. She was only aware of her hand upon a well-muscled masculine thigh, of the heat that burned in the center of her palm, a warmth that had nothing to do with her power to heal and everything to do with the searing memory of his lips on the delicate skin of her hand.

  She started to draw her hand away, but his own hand still covered hers, lightly but forcefully.

  “Thee must let me go,” she said, suddenly frightened by his power over her. “Thee is healed.”

  He nodded, his eyes still closed. But he didn’t release her hand. “Your name. I would know your name.”

  “Leyla.” She had not meant to tell him, but somehow lacked the power to refuse.

  “Leyla.” He repeated the word softly, drawing it out, liking the sound of it. He opened his eyes and gazed into her face. “Leyla.”

  A slow smile spread across his face, making his green eyes sparkle.

  “I am free again,” he murmured. He reached for her other hand. Leaping nimbly to his feet, he swung her round and round. “Free, Leyla! Free! Do you know what that means? No more dungeons!”

  He lifted her off her feet and hugged her close. “No more darkness!” he exclaimed. “No more chains. Free!”

  He twirled her around again, his face buried in the cleft of her breasts and then, slowly, he came to a stop and stood her on the ground before him, one of her hands clasped between both of his. “Free.”

  Unfettered by the black hood and the heavy shackles, he seemed taller somehow, broader, a little frightening in his intensity. She had never been with a man in quite this way before, alone as they were in the midst of a sheltered glen.

  “Leyla…” She was beautiful, so beautiful standing there with the forest behind her and the gossamer light of the three moons shining upon her silver hair.

  Her nearness sent a quick heat surging through him. He gasped at the unexpected suddenness of it. So long, he thought, so long since he’d even thought about a woman. So long since he’d even wanted one…

  “No!” She jerked her hand free, her eyes wide and frightened as she backed away from him.

  “I guess you’re reading my mind,” he muttered, cursing her power to do so.

  “I cannot help it, thy…emotions…are so strong.”

  He couldn’t deny that. He wanted to laugh, to cry, to bury himself in her softness and let her erase every dreadful memory.

  “Leyla, do not be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you, I swear it on my mother’s life.”

  He opened his arms and she went to him without hesitation.

  “I believe thee, Jarrett. And I will hold thee all the night long if that is thy desire, but only in friendship. Does thee understand?”

  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  They had no food, no water, only a fire to turn away the cold. They sat down with their backs against a log, one of the horse blankets spread beneath them, the other across their legs.

  Like a mother comforting a child, Leyla put her arm around Jarrett’s shoulders and drew him close to her breast, one hand stroking his hair.

  “Can you read the minds of everyone you meet?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He looked up at her curiously. “Only mine?”

  “I can communicate with other Maje telepathically.”

  She gazed into his eyes, keenly aware of the attraction that hummed between them. She had a strong urge to hold him, to protect him, to shield him from harm. They were motherly instincts, given to all women, and yet there was nothing maternal in her feelings.

  “I have never been able to read the mind of an outsider before,” Leyla confessed, and wondered why she could read Jarrett’s thoughts so clearly, and what it meant.

  Jarrett grunted softly, pleased that she could divine his thoughts though he could not say why. At times, it was damnably inconvenient.

  Closing his eyes, he gave himself over to her touch, feeling all the tension drain from his body. How good it felt, to be held in a woman’s arms, to lay his head upon her breast and breathe in her warm, sweet scent.

  Her warm, sweet scent, like sunshine after a storm, like the flowers that grew in the walled gardens at Greyebridge Castle…

  Gently, Leyla eased him down until his head was resting in her lap.

  “Sleep, my brave warrior,” she whispered, and held him close all the night long.

  He woke with the dawn, wary as a winter wolf on the prowl. Cursing the weakness that had let him sleep the sleep of the dead, leaving Leyla vulnerable and unprotected, he rolled to his feet. Grabbing the Giant’s sword, he quickly surveyed their surroundings, but all was peaceful. The horses grazed in the tall grass; Leyla was asleep, her hair flowing down her back like a cape of shimmering silver.

  A hand on her shoulder brought her instantly awake, her eyes wide. “Have they found us so soon?”

  “No, but it’s time to move on. We need food and water.” He glanced down at his bloodstained shirt. “I need something else to wear.”

  She nodded in solemn agreement, thinking he looked somewhat like a Giddeon pirate standing there, his long black hair blowing in the faint breeze, his jaw beard-roughened, a sword clutched in his hand.

  Jarrett saddled their horses, lifted her onto the back of the mare and swung aboard his own mount. If he remembered correctly, there was a small town a short distance to the north. If luck went with them, he might be able to barter one of the horses for food and clothing. And if no one would trade with him, he was not above stealing what they needed.

 
He pushed the horses hard, constantly looking over his shoulder for some sign of pursuit, knowing he’d rather die than go back.

  They stopped to rest the horses at midmorning. “Leyla, I have a favor to ask of thee.”

  “Ask it.”

  “If we are captured by Rorke’s men, I want your promise that you won’t let them take me back alive.”

  She shook her head in violent refusal, her whole being rebelling at the idea of taking a life, especially his.

  Jarrett took her hand in both of his. “You must promise me,” he said, his hands tightening on hers. “I cannot go back.”

  She gazed deep into his eyes and in their depths she saw the awful fear that tormented him, fear of being lost and alone in the darkness, fear of being helpless, fear of madness. But no fear of pain or death.

  “I cannot go back,” he said again, and she heard the despair in his voice, the faint note of pleading that shattered her resistance because she knew what it had cost him to ask such a thing of her.

  She placed her free hand over his. “It is against all that I believe in, all that I am,” she replied softly, “but I will do it for thee, Lord Jarrett of Gweneth, because I cannot refuse thee anything in my power to give.”

  The town lay nestled in the lee of a wooded hillside. There were few inhabitants about as they rode down the narrow street. Jarrett’s stomach rumbled loudly as they passed a bakeshop filled with brown bread, honey buns, cakes and biscuits.

  They rode on until they came to a stable. Dismounting, Jarrett approached the owner, inquiring if he would like to buy the mare.

  The liveryman walked around the bay, checking the horse’s feet, running his hands over the bay’s long legs, checking her teeth.

  “How much d’ye want for the beast?” the man asked.

  “Ten ducates.”

  “Ten!” The liveryman shook his head. “Eight.”

  “Ten,” Jarrett insisted. “And I’ll throw in the saddle.”

  The man grunted, then nodded. “Done.”

  Their first stop was at an outside tavern for food. Leyla watched in amazement as he devoured a whole loaf of brown bread, washing it down with a tankard of potent Freywine, while she nibbled at a hot honey bun and drank a glass of cold goat’s milk.

  Next they walked through the marketplace, buying victuals and a bottle of ale. From there, they went into a rather disreputable-looking clothing store where he purchased a pair of serviceable black breeches, a black shirt and a pair of soft black leather boots that reached to his knees.

  Leyla felt her heart catch a little as she saw him in his new attire. How magnificent he looked, tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair shining in the sun.

  He looked at her speculatively. “Go,” he said, pressing a coin into her hand. “Buy yourself a new dress.”

  A new dress! How long since she’d had anything new to wear?

  He followed her into the shop, standing nearby while she tried to make up her mind. He did it for her, choosing a full-skirted gown of sunny yellow, as well as a pair of soft-soled ankle boots and a cloak. She refused to try the dress on in the store, made uncomfortable by the nearness of the shopkeeper and a trio of unsavory-looking warriors who were haggling over the price of a broadsword.

  Leyla clutched her new clothes to her breast as Jarrett took her hand and led her outside. He stowed their purchases in one of the saddlebags, lifted her onto the back of the white stallion, then effortlessly swung up behind her.

  Taking up the reins with his left hand, he slid his right arm around her waist, drawing her back against his chest. The shock of his nearness, the pounding of his heart, the strength of his arm about her, made it suddenly difficult to breathe.

  He rode out of town as if they had all the time in the world. Only when they were out of sight did he urge the big white stallion into a lope.

  They rode for several hours, heading east, always east, toward the sea. She did not have to ask to know he intended to go to Gweneth before he took her to Majeulla. She wanted to argue, to remind him of his promise to take her home, but she understood his need to return to Greyebridge first, and so she kept silent, trusting him to keep his promise in good time.

  At dusk, they came across a cave recessed deep in a wooded hillside.

  Jarrett tethered the stallion well away from the entrance to the cave, where it could graze on the stubby yellow grass. Lifting Leyla from the saddle, he approached the cavern.

  Pausing at the entrance, he lit a candle, which he handed to Leyla and then, sword in hand, he entered the cave.

  Their muffled footsteps sounded loud in the silence. Leyla stayed close to his side, her senses filling with the scent of decay.

  “There’s no one here,” Jarrett said, his gaze sweeping the cavern. “No one has used this cave for many months.”

  Leyla tipped the candle to the side, letting some of the wax dribble onto a narrow ledge, then stuck the end of the candle in the hot wax.

  The cave was long and narrow, the ceiling arched like a cathedral, the floor of hard-packed dirt.

  “I’ll get the saddlebags,” Jarrett said. Taking the bow and quiver from his shoulder, he dropped them below the ledge, then returned to the mouth of the cave.

  Thirty minutes later, they were seated around a small fire, eating dark-brown bread and tangy yellow cheese.

  “How did thee happen to be imprisoned by the Fen?” Leyla asked.

  “It was all a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding?” She licked the last crumbs of bread from her fingertips. “How?”

  “I received an order from the Minister of War to slaughter a handful of Aldanites who had taken refuge in the church at Greyebridge. When I refused to obey, I was branded a coward and a traitor. My title was revoked. All my holdings, save for Greyebridge Castle itself, were forfeit to the King by Rorke’s order. I was on my way to Heth, to seek an audience with the King and explain what had happened, when I was captured by Rorke and sent to the Pavilion.”

  “Why did they not take thy castle as well?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why did thee refuse to slay the Aldanites?”

  “They had taken sanctuary in my church. How could I kill them? They weren’t warriors or spies, only a handful of frightened women and children.”

  “Are they not enemies of the King?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Are you suggesting I should have killed them?”

  “No. My people shun war and refuse to fight. But fighting was thy life. Thy reputation is well known, even to us.”

  “I don’t make war on the helpless,” Jarrett replied quietly.

  “How long ago did all this happen to thee?”

  “Eight months.”

  Eight months. A soft sound of sympathy rose in her throat.

  Jarrett stared into the distance, remembering how it had been, the humiliation of captivity, the pain of the Games that never seemed to end, the degradation of having to beg for mercy when all he wanted was a sword and a fair chance.

  He looked around the cave, at the scrap of deep blue sky visible at the entrance of the cave, at Leyla. It was all behind him now. In spite of everything, he was still alive. He was free. And she was there beside him, her luminous blue eyes filled with understanding.

  He took her hand in his, feeling the warmth of her touch. “Leyla…”

  “Thee must not.”

  “Are you reading my mind again?”

  “It is not necessary. I can see what thee is thinking in thy eyes.”

  “One kiss?”

  It was wrong. It was foolish. But she could no more resist his kiss than she could have let him die.

  “Leyla.” He placed his hands on either side of her face and pressed his lips to hers lightly. He didn’t close his eyes and neither did she.

  The fire that sparked between them was as bright as a Hovis comet, as hot as the pools of Mereck. “Leyla.”

  She jerked away from him. “No more.”

&n
bsp; “As you wish.” He reached for a flask of ale and took a long swallow, then another, savoring the taste of it. The potent brew burned through him. It was so long since he’d had anything to drink except water, anything to eat except the tasteless gruel served in the dungeons of the Pavilion. So long since he’d had a woman…

  His gaze moved over Leyla, lingering on her lips, the soft swell of her breasts, the delicate beauty of her hands.

  His body stirred to life as he remembered the touch of her hands on his flesh.

  Too late, she realized her danger. She gasped as his hand closed over her arm, dragging her toward him. His mouth swooped down on hers, stifling her cry of protest. His tongue plunged into her mouth, savoring the sweetness within. She bucked like a wild mare beneath him, her nails raking the side of his face.

  With a harsh cry, he drew back, lifting a hand to his cheek.

  Leyla scrambled to her feet and backed away from him.

  “I’m sorry.” He shook his head, disgusted by his churlish behavior. “I…” He searched for words that weren’t there. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  The hurt in her eyes, the look of betrayal, cut him to the quick. “Leyla, forgive me.”

  She nodded, then turned away from him, making her way to the back of the cave where she had made a bed of sorts. Jarrett had insisted she take the blanket, saying he would sleep beside the fire. She drew the coarse blanket around her shoulders, her body trembling convulsively. She had been warned that outsiders were brutal, primitive and not to be trusted. Now she had seen it for herself. Now she knew why the Maje always married their own kind. The Maje were a quiet, peaceful people, not given to violence or passion, seeking only that which was calm and beautiful, wanting only to heal where others sought to destroy, looking for serenity when others seemed to thrive on turmoil and war.

  Jarrett was a warrior. In his own land, he had been a Lord, leader of his people. Once they reached Greyebridge, once he had assured himself that all was well there, she would demand that he fulfill his promise and take her home.

  Leyla sat up, not knowing what had roused her. Eyes gazing into the darkness, she listened to the sounds of the night, and then she heard it again, a hoarse cry that echoed within the walls of the cave.