Warrior's Lady Page 6

  Gradually, his eyelids grew heavy and he settled down beside the fire’s embers, thinking of home, wondering if his mother was still there…

  He was drowning in his own blood, unable to scream for the thick red liquid that clogged his throat. Gar stood behind him, cracking a whip made of heavy chain, while Siid touched a match to a torch made of reeds. And then Thai appeared beside him, a twelve-inch knife in his hand, a knife stained with blood. His blood. He felt the whip cut across his back, felt a dancing finger of flame lick his thigh, felt Thai’s blade at his throat.

  And he couldn’t scream, couldn’t utter a sound, as his nostrils filled with the smell of fear and blood and burning flesh—his fear, his blood, his flesh.

  Leyla! His mind screamed her name, begging her for mercy, for forgiveness. Help me! Please, help me…

  She was dreaming of home, of gently rolling hills and verdant valleys, of blue rain and lavender sunsets. Dreaming of her mother and father, when, unbidden, there appeared a man with black hair and fathomless green eyes, a strong man, a warrior.

  She tried to banish him from her dreams, but his image only grew stronger and she smiled as she heard his voice whisper her name as no other ever had…Leyla, Leyla, Leyla!

  Her eyes flew open at the sound of his anguished scream, and then she frowned. The night was as silent as the sunrise, yet her mind was filled with his hoarse cries.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him thrashing about, his sweat-sheened face contorted with pain, his mouth open in a silent scream of terror.

  She would not help him, she thought. She would not help this barbarian who broke his vows and kept her prisoner.

  Thee will regret this before the night is over.

  She tried to find satisfaction in knowing that her prediction had come true.

  Another anguished cry rose in her mind, bringing tears to her eyes. She stared at his writhing form, glimpsing the unspeakable horror that held him in its power, feeling the awful pain that engulfed him.

  “I will not.” Even as she formed the words, she was moving toward him, laying her bound hands upon his chest, calling his name.

  “My Lord Jarrett. Jarrett! Come to me now. I am here.”

  “She?”

  “I am here,” she said again, and wondered at the quiet power of those three words.

  “Hold me.”

  “I cannot.”

  He blinked up at her, not understanding until she held out her hands.

  Flooded with shame, he drew his knife and cut her free.

  When she reached for him, he shook his head. “No. I don’t deserve your help.”

  “’Tis true,” she agreed, putting her arms around him, “but thee has it just the same.”

  He let her hold him then, his body rigid with guilt for the way he’d treated her, wondering what would happen to him if she wasn’t there to wake him, to comfort him with her touch. Would he wander in his nightmare world forever, driven to madness by the vague shadows of illusion that were too strong to fight on his own?

  “Relax, my Lord,” she whispered. “No more demons will haunt thee this night.”

  “Don’t.” He drew away from her. “Don’t waste your powers on me. I don’t deserve your kindness.”

  She did not bother with a reply, merely drew him into her arms again, holding him close to her breast as her hands stroked his hair and massaged the back of his neck.

  “Forgive me,” he murmured, surrendering to the magic of her touch. “Forgive me.”

  “’Tis done,” she whispered, and felt the sigh of relief that rippled through him.

  Moments later, he was asleep.

  The tables were turned in the morning and it was Jarrett who refused to face Leyla. He had lied to her, abused her, tied her up as if she were no more than a slave, and she had repaid his treachery with kindness.

  He muttered his thanks for the food she prepared, left her to her privacy when the meal was over. Feeling like the worst kind of wretch, he sat near the edge of a small pool, staring into the glassy water, wondering how he would endure the demons of his past without her. But he had promised to take her home, to the mist-draped mountains of Majeulla, and take her home he would.

  His return to Gweneth would have to wait.

  Chapter Eight

  The following morning, after First Meal, Jarrett lifted Leyla onto the back of the horse and turned south, toward the majestic Mountains of the Blue Mist that had been home to the Maje for eons of time.

  Located in the northern part of Fenduzia, the mist-shrouded mountains were enshrined in legend and mystery. It was said that no one could ascend their heights and live save those who were born there. A fire-breathing dragon guarded the long, winding path that led to the village. Poisonous snakes and plants infested the foothills, taking their toll on unwary, and unwanted, visitors. Rivers of sparkling blue water had lured thirsty men to their deaths. Others had died more slowly, trapped in shimmering pools of quicksand. No one knew how many men had risked all in hopes of capturing a Maje and thereby being assured of their healing powers in times of need.

  “Are they true?” Jarrett asked. “All the rumors I’ve heard about the legendary home of your people?”

  “They can be.”

  “Can be?”

  “Much depends on one’s point of view.”

  “You talk in riddles. Is there a dragon? Are there rivers of death and pools filled with quicksand?”

  “Yes. But the dragon is harmless if one knows the secret of its lair. The poison in the water can be dispersed. The pools can be crossed, if one knows the way.”

  “And the snakes?”

  “The Maje are immune to their venom. Our mountains are a part of us, her earth is in our blood, her mysteries come to us with the first breath of life.”

  “Why did you leave the safety of your home? How is it that you came to be held captive by the Fen?”

  “I wanted to see another part of the world. I wanted adventure. I wanted to see the ocean.” She shrugged. “I had been warned never to go past Dragora’s cave alone, but…” She shrugged again. “I was young and foolish. One day I went for a walk and I just kept walking.

  “When I reached the foothills, I saw Gar and Thai. They were hunting. I had never seen any of the Fen close up, so I hid behind a tree to watch. A short while later, Gar chased a wounded stag into the trees where I was hiding. When the stag saw me, it turned. Its horn caught Gar in the stomach. I started to run away, back up the mountain, but I couldn’t leave him there. He was bleeding and in pain and I was drawn to him. His was the first serious wound I had ever seen. While I was healing him, Thai came up behind me. There was no way for me to escape.”

  “Did they ever…did they hurt you?”

  “No. Gar was very grateful that I had saved his life, but not grateful enough to let me go. They kept me with them for a while, then, eager to return to the Games, they sold me to the Pavilion.”

  They rode in silence for a time. Jarrett tried to think about the home of the Maje, but all he could think of was Leyla. His arm was around her waist and he could feel her warmth, her every breath, through the thin fabric of her dress. The scent of her hair, of woman, filled his nostrils.

  He had to get away from her, at least for a few minutes. A shallow pool offered the perfect excuse for a rest. Reining the stallion to a halt, he slid to the ground. Turning, he lifted Leyla from the saddle and quickly let her go.

  “We’ll rest here awhile,” he said.

  Leyla nodded. It was a lovely spot. The pool was shaded by tall trees, surrounded by large, leafy ferns and red midnight flowers.

  “Shall we take Second Meal here?” she asked.

  “If you wish.”

  She looked at him for a moment, trying to see what he was thinking, but his mind was closed to her. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Fix the meal. I’m going to look around.”

  Without waiting for her reply, he turned on his heel and walked away, needing to put some spa
ce between them. She had bewitched him, he thought, beguiled him so completely he could think of nothing but her, the shape of her mouth, the texture of her hair, the color of her eyes, the sound of her voice. Never had he craved a woman’s touch as he craved hers.

  He walked steadily onward, following a narrow path into a grove of tall trees. As he moved deeper into the forest, his hand moved instinctively toward his sword. Years of training as a warrior rose within him, making him cautious. He found a measure of relief in the simple exercise of walking. It was a good feeling, being able to come and go as he pleased, to see the sun. The newness of it, after eight months of captivity, still had the power to excite him. His arms and legs, freed of the constant restriction of the shackles, felt light as air.

  He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of earth and trees and grass. The world looked new, brighter, somehow. He touched the rough bark of a tree, stooped to pick a wildflower. Pausing, he listened to the warbling of a bird.

  He was alive. Alive and well, because of Leyla.

  The mere thought of her filled him with warmth. Eight months of captivity. Eight months of torture and darkness. Eight months without a woman…and now he was free, and the one woman he wanted was forever out of reach.

  Leyla. The pain of wanting her, of knowing she would never be his, made him ache deep inside.

  With a sigh, he turned and retraced his steps toward the pool.

  He paused when he reached the edge of the forest, all his senses suddenly alert. His gaze swept their campsite. All seemed well. Leyla was sitting on a tree stump, her back toward him. The stallion was grazing on a patch of grass.

  But something wasn’t right.

  He looked at Leyla again, at the rigid set of her spine. Eyes narrowed, ears straining, he watched and listened. And then he heard it, the faint creak of saddle leather off to the left.

  Drawing his sword, he waited in the shadows, knowing that death awaited whoever made the first move.

  The moments slid by. Sweat trickled down his spine, beaded across his brow, dampened his palms. And still he waited.

  The attack, when it came, still took him by surprise. He heard footsteps behind him, the excited whinny of a horse to his left, the answering call of another horse to his right.

  Pivoting on his heel, he brought his sword up, parrying a blow to his neck. The Giant’s sword was heavy in his hand as he dropped to one knee and thrust the blade upward, plunging it almost to the hilt in Thai’s belly.

  The horsemen were practically on top of him by then. Scrambling to his feet, Jarrett braced his back against a tree, giving them no room to maneuver their horses around him.

  Gar dismounted first, his lips drawn back in a feral snarl. The Fen warrior attacked viciously, careful to stay out of range of Jarrett’s sword, giving Siid time to dismount and come around on the other side. It was a simple but effective tactic, forcing Jarrett away from the tree and into the open.

  The harsh clang of metal striking metal shattered the stillness of the glade. Leyla glanced over her shoulder, a gasp erupting from her lips as she saw the two Fen warriors advancing on Jarrett. She swung her legs over the log, the better to see the battle as she struggled to loose her hands.

  She felt her heart go cold as she saw Jarrett valiantly fighting against Siid and Gar, his sword flashing in the sunlight like lightning during a storm. His green eyes were bright with the heat of battle and there was a faint smile on his lips. It occurred to her that he was enjoying himself even though she feared he could not win. He hadn’t held a sword in eight months. The Gamesmen had practiced every day. And they were good, she thought in dismay. So very good. Even as she watched, she saw Gar’s cutlass slice into Jarrett’s arm, saw the bright splash of blood that rose in the wake of the blade.

  Jarrett hardly seemed aware of the wound as he turned to parry Siid’s next thrust.

  With a small cry of pain and frustration, she gave one last tug on the rope at her wrists. There was a moment of triumph as her hands came free and then she was bending to untie her feet.

  A harsh scream drew her attention and she saw that Gar was down, bleeding badly from a crippling wound in his right thigh. But it was the blood splattered across Jarrett’s chest that held her attention. The urge to go to him, to lay her hands upon him, was almost overpowering.

  Tossing the rope that had bound her feet aside, she stood up, one hand pressed to her heart, as she watched the two warriors. They were closely matched in size and reach, but Jarrett had been wounded and that gave Siid the advantage. All he had to do was wait, wait for the loss of blood to weaken his opponent.

  She could not let that happen.

  Picking up a rock, she crept up behind Gar and struck him across the back of the head, rendering him unconscious. And then, going against everything she had been taught, all she had ever believed in, she reached for Gar’s sword.

  A movement from the corner of his eye caught Jarrett’s attention. Thinking it was Gar, he risked a glance in that direction. Leyla! He swore under his breath when he saw the sword in her hand and realized that she meant to come to his defense.

  That one moment of distraction gave Siid all the chance he needed and he lunged forward, his sword slipping under Jarrett’s guard, piercing flesh and muscle only to be deflected by a rib.

  But Jarrett was moving too. Spurred on by pain and anger and the overwhelming need to get Leyla out of danger, he took a step forward, his sword blocking Siid’s next thrust. At the same time, he drew his knife with his left hand and drove it into Siid’s chest.

  With a hoarse cry, Siid dropped heavily to his knees, then slumped to the ground.

  Dropping the sword, Leyla ran up to Jarrett, her face pale, her eyes wide with horror. For all the time she had spent in the Pavilion, she had never seen two men locked in mortal combat.

  “Is he dead?” she asked tremulously.

  “Not yet,” Jarrett replied tersely. “What of Gar?”

  “He is unconscious. Come, let us… No!” She grabbed Jarrett’s arm, restraining him when she realized that he meant to slay both of the fallen men. “Please.”

  Jarrett glared at her, his blood running hot with the need to strike the final blow, to see the three Gamesmen dead once and for all.

  The look in his eyes frightened Leyla more than anything else.

  “Please,” she begged. “Let us leave this place.” She placed her hand over his chest. “Thee is hurt.”

  The sweetness of her touch and the sound of her voice cooled his anger. “We’ll go, if that’s what you want.”

  She smiled up at him. “Come, lie down. Let me care for thy wounds.”

  Suddenly too weary to argue, Jarrett followed her to where she’d spread a blanket on the grass. Stretching out, he closed his eyes, surrendering himself to the familiar touch of her healing hands.

  The passage of time was hazy. A few minutes, an hour, time lost all meaning as she placed her hands upon him, suffusing him with heat, withdrawing the pain, replacing it with peace and harmony in body and soul.

  He opened his eyes when she took her hands from him, swore under his breath when he saw her walking toward Siid.

  Rolling to his feet, he ran after her, catching her by the arm before she could lay her hands on the Gamesman. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “He is wounded.”

  “Leave him.”

  “I cannot.”

  Jarrett stared at the two unconscious men, remembering…remembering the smell of his own burning flesh as Siid placed a live coal against his thigh, remembering the sting of Gar’s whip across his back. “Leave him. Leave them both.”

  “Jarrett, I cannot.”

  “You will!” He grabbed her by the shoulders and drew her up against him, his face only inches from hers, his eyes blazing with fury. “You asked me to spare their lives. For you, I will do it, even though my blood screams for vengeance. But I will not allow you to heal them.”

  Before she could argue further,
before she had time to rest from the strain of healing his wounds, he swept her off her feet and dropped her, none too gently, onto the back of Gar’s horse. Taking the animal’s reins, he mounted his own horse and rode away from the pool without looking back.

  Chapter Nine

  Leyla rode in furious silence. She was a Maje, sworn to use her powers to heal whenever possible. Because of Jarrett, she had done violence. Because of Jarrett, she had been forced to withhold the gift with which she had been blessed. No matter that the Fen were the enemy, that they had meant Jarrett harm. Once the violence had passed, the need to heal had risen within her, and he had denied her that right. Her birthright.

  She stared at his back as her horse trailed his. Her father had been right. The men who lived beyond the Mountains of the Blue Mist were beyond understanding.

  With an effort, she drew her thoughts from Jarrett and summoned Tor’s image to mind. Helpless to resist, she found herself comparing the two men. Tor’s skin was fair where Jarrett’s was dark; Tor’s hair was white as parchment while Jarrett’s was as black as the inside of Dragora’s cave. Tor’s eyes were a warm, rich brown, like the earth; Jarrett’s were as green and unfathomable as the pools of Majeulla. Tor was a man of deep inner peace, sought out for his wisdom and his incomparable gift of sight; Jarrett was a warrior, a renegade, a man of violence and passion…

  She had seen that passion in the depths of his eyes, felt it in his arms when he held her, tasted it when he kissed her.

  She lifted her fingertips to her lips, felt her heart skip a beat as she remembered the touch of his mouth on hers. She had never known a man’s kiss before, never realized the power of such an ordinary act. He had grabbed her and kissed her and his touch had sizzled through her, hot as Dragora’s breath, shocking her senses. Tor would not kiss her like that. He would ask her permission before daring to indulge in such intimacy. His touch would be as gentle as the morning rain, as soft as dandelion down. He wouldn’t make her heart race or her blood sing. He wouldn’t make her limbs go weak, or cause the world to spin out of focus…