Warrior's Lady Page 9

  Leaving her room, she hurried down the wide, candlelit hallway to the south wing and knocked lightly on the door of Jarrett’s room.

  He opened the door at once, making her wonder if he, too, had been eagerly awaiting the time when they could be together again.

  For a moment, they gazed at each other in silence.

  Leyla felt her heart catch in her throat. He had never looked more handsome. He wore a loose-fitting red shirt that revealed a dark vee of bronzed skin, tight black breeches that outlined his muscular thighs, and knee-high black boots. His hair, freshly washed, glistened like carbonite, his green eyes were bright and clear. He looked like a Giddeon pirate, she mused. All he lacked was a cutlass.

  Jarrett drew in a deep breath, awed, as always, by Leyla’s ethereal beauty. The gown she wore exactly matched the color of her eyes. The square neck, edged with a froth of lace as delicate as a spider’s web, revealed a tantalizing glimpse of smooth ivory flesh. Her hair fell in careless waves around her shoulders, shimmering like a cloud of silver silk. She flushed under his prolonged gaze. He found it most becoming.

  “Thee is ready?” she asked.

  Jarrett nodded, wondering if she could hear the rapid beat of his heart even as he hoped she wasn’t reading his mind.

  With a smile, Leyla took him by the hand and knew immediately that it had been a mistake. The warmth of his touch went through her like heat lightning, bright, unexpected, devastating. And he felt it too. She knew it by the sudden tensing in his arm, the sharp intake of his breath.

  “We’ll be late.” She released his hand, only to have him capture hers. “I…” She gazed up at him, her pulse racing. “We should go.”

  Jarrett nodded. Mesmerized by the sight of her, by the beguiling scent of roses that lingered in her hair, he slowly pulled her toward him, his arm slipping around her waist.

  “No, thee mustn’t…” She pulled back, her gaze darting up and down the long corridor. “Please, it isn’t seemly.”

  He held her a moment longer and then, with regret, he let her go. Wordlessly, they walked down the hallway toward the family dining hall.

  Leyla’s parents could only be described as regal, Jarrett decided as they sat down to dinner. Her mother, Vestri, was a slender, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman. Her father, Sudaan, was a shade taller than Jarrett. He had a mane of iron-gray hair and eyes as blue as his daughter’s. His grip, when he clasped Jarrett’s hand, was firm and strong. They quickly put Jarrett at ease, their sincere smiles of welcome and inquiries about his health making him feel like a guest in the stronghold instead of an intruder.

  Vestri sat at the foot of the long, damask-covered trestle table, Sudaan at the head. Leyla sat beside Tor, whose arm rested possessively across the back of her chair. Jarrett sat across from Leyla, fully aware of Tor’s scrutiny.

  The meal, consisting of light brown bread, vegetables and fruit, some of which Jarrett had never seen before, was leisurely. Each course was served with its own special wine.

  Leyla ate without tasting a thing, all too conscious of Tor’s presence beside her. Guilt did not make for a good appetite, she thought, but she couldn’t help wishing it was Jarrett who sat beside her, Jarrett who filled her wine glass, Jarrett whose arm rested on the back of her chair.

  After dinner, before anyone could suggest a diversion, she asked Jarrett if he’d like to go for a walk. He hesitated before answering, and she saw him glance at Tor, as if asking for permission.

  Leyla stood abruptly, her back straight, her cheeks hot. “If thee would rather not…”

  “I’d enjoy a walk,” Jarrett said. Rising quickly to his feet, he thanked her parents for the meal, bade Tor good sleep, and followed her from the room.

  In the hallway, Leyla whirled around to face him. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged, unable to explain her feelings, not certain she understood them herself.

  “Leyla, I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For whatever I’ve done that’s upset you.” He smiled down at her, his green eyes filled with warmth. “I really would like to go for a walk.”

  “Very well.”

  Outside, they strolled side by side. Not quite touching, she was nevertheless aware of his every movement.

  It was a clear night, the three moons shining brightly, the air fragrant with the scent of night-blooming midnight flowers and giant cactus ferns.

  Gradually they left the brightly lit crystal fortress behind and descended into a verdant valley watered by a narrow, winding stream. Fluffy pink cattails skirted the sandy shore. Graceful willows swayed to the music of the breeze.

  “Pretty place,” Jarrett remarked.

  “I often came here when I was a young girl. Each morning and evening, the unicorns come here to drink with their young.”

  “Unicorns?”

  Leyla nodded. “Has thee never seen one?”

  “Never.”

  “Perhaps it is because thee lacks the faith and innocence of a young maiden,” Leyla mused with a gentle smile.

  “I don’t think I was ever innocent,” Jarrett replied. Or young, he thought ruefully.

  As far back as he could remember, he’d seen too much of reality, of hardship and war, to believe in unicorns or winged fairy maidens. He’d learned to ride before he could walk, doing mock battle with a small wooden sword. As soon as he could lift the real thing, he’d been tutored in the ways of war. At the age of twelve, he’d ridden into battle against the Serimites for the first time. At the age of thirteen, he’d seen his father killed. At the age of fourteen, he’d avenged his father’s death…

  “Thy thoughts are troubled.”

  Her voice was as soft and welcome as the first spring rain, calling him back to the present.

  “Sorry.”

  “Would thee care to go riding on the morrow?”

  He knew he should tell her no. Every minute he spent in her company would only make it that much harder to leave. “Very much.”

  “I will come for thee after First Meal.”

  “Leyla…what about Tor?”

  “What about him?”

  “Won’t he mind, you spending so much time with me?”

  Her gaze met his, open and direct. “He will not like it, but thee is here as our guest. It is my duty to entertain thee.”

  “Your duty?” His voice was harsh. By Hadra’s Fire, he didn’t want her spending time with him because it was her “duty”.

  Her gaze, warm and serene as a summer’s morn, met his without flinching. “My duty,” she repeated, “and my wish.”

  “Leyla!” He moved toward her, but she held out her hand to ward him off.

  “Thee mustn’t.”

  “Leyla…”

  “I am betrothed,” she said, as much to remind herself as him. “Tor is an honorable man. I must not betray his trust in me.”

  “I understand.”

  “I do not think so,” she murmured.

  “Then tell me.”

  Leyla shook her head. How could she tell Jarrett that she was afraid to let him touch her, afraid that one kiss would shatter her tenuous resolve to marry the man her parents had chosen for her? How could she tell him she loved him with every fiber of her being and then let him go?

  “Let us talk of something else,” she suggested. “There is a waterfall beyond that meadow. Would thee care to see it?”

  His eyes told her he understood exactly what she was doing. “Sure.”

  They walked across the wide, grassy meadow in silence. Long before they reached it, they could hear the thunder of the falls, see the frothy spray as it splashed against the rocks.

  Jarrett had to admit that the waterfall was an awesome sight, appearing almost out of nowhere, cascading over gigantic white boulders into a turbulent river, making the dancing drops of water sparkle like crystals. Downriver, the surging water slowed, forming shallow pools near the shore. The moonlight danced on the face of the water, turning
the quiet pools into mirrors of silver.

  But it was the woman at Jarrett’s side who captured his gaze again and again. She looked like a storybook princess. The wind blew her hair away from her face and molded her gown to her figure so that he could see every graceful curve. Her lips, as soft and pink as the cattails that grew along the shore, were slightly parted, issuing an unspoken invitation he could no longer resist.

  Before she could protest, before he quite realized what he was doing, he drew her into his arms and kissed her, the pounding of his heart louder than the roar of the waterfall. She tasted sweeter than Sylvan honey. Her lips were soft and pliant beneath his, bidding him to linger, but he dared not. Another moment of such incredible pleasure would surely strip away what little self-control he had left.

  With regret, he forced himself to let her go.

  He had expected her to slap him or, at the least, berate him for his barbaric behavior. She did neither, only took him by the hand and led him back the way they had come. She bade him good sleep at his door and left him in his room, befuddled and bewitched and completely beguiled.

  As promised, Leyla arrived at his door immediately after First Meal.

  Jarrett stared at her, surprised to see her wearing snug brown breeches, a long-sleeved, loosely woven lavender shirt and soft-soled boots.

  “Thee does not approve?” she asked, a hint of amusement lurking in the depths of her eyes.

  “Oh, I approve, all right. I just never expected to see you wearing anything so…” He hunted for the right word. Breeches were considered masculine attire, but he’d never seen anything that was more feminine, more revealing or more provocative in his life. “Forget it,” he said.

  Her laughter sparkled like early morning dew. “The horses are ready. Are thee?”

  “Lead the way.”

  They followed a narrow, tree-lined trail up the mountain. The air was cool, crisp and invigorating. The sky was a bright azure blue, the tall, yellow-green grasses still damp.

  Jarrett’s horse tossed its head, prancing in its eagerness to run.

  Jarrett glanced at Leyla. “What do you say? Shall I give him his head and let him go?”

  “I will race thee to the top,” she replied, and dug her heels into her mount’s flanks. The mountain-bred mare gathered its haunches and sprang forward, quickly taking the lead.

  Shouting an ancient Gweneth war cry, Jarrett urged his horse into a gallop, and the big black gelding lined out in a run.

  It was a heady feeling, to be racing up the side of a mountain in the early hours of the morning. His heart pounded with the sheer exhilaration of it and he drummed his heels against the black’s flanks, wishing he could outrun the bitter memories of the last eight months.

  As they reached the crest of the mountain, Jarrett drew back a little on the reins, grinning as Leyla’s mount surged into the lead.

  Leyla’s face was flushed with victory when he drew rein beside her a few moments later.

  “You ride like a Gweneth warrior,” Jarrett remarked, his voice tinged with admiration.

  “Thee let me win.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Dusault has never beaten the black before.”

  Jarrett shrugged. “There is a first time for all things.”

  Leyla grinned at him, then slid from the back of her horse. Taking a flask from her saddlebag, she offered Jarrett a drink.

  It was brandywine, smoky and sweet, and he took a long, appreciative swallow. Dismounting, he handed her the flask.

  “I love it here,” Leyla said. She took a small drink, then laid the flask aside. “There is a legend among the Maje that the goddess Judeau gave birth to her twin sons on this peak. The first-born son touched his mother’s heart and became the first Maje. The second-born son touched the soft inner flesh of her thigh and became the father of all other races.”

  “What happened to Judeau’s husband?”

  “He was killed by an evil sorcerer, and when he died, his soul united with the sun. Judeau went into mourning. She gave all her riches away, except for the jewels her husband had left her. These she threw into the night sky, and they became the stars. When she died, her soul merged with the moon nearest to our world. Whenever you see the sun pass in front of that moon, you know their souls are touching.”

  Jarrett smiled at Leyla, charmed by the fanciful tale, enchanted by the woman. She glanced up at him and their gazes met, and held.

  “Leyla…”

  She shook her head, afraid of what he might ask of her, afraid of what her answer might be. Her body yearned for his touch. He was tall and strong, more virile, more masculine, than any man she had ever known. She loved the color of his hair, the depths of his eyes, the feel of his skin that she knew so well. And she loved him. The words trembled on the tip of her tongue but she dared not say them. Once put into words, she could never take them back. To say it would be the first step toward disobedience to her parents, to her people.

  Jarrett studied her face, wondering at her silence. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  It was the last thing she had expected him to say. “Tomorrow? But why? The wedding…thee promised to stay.”

  “I cannot.”

  “But I do not want thee to leave.”

  “I cannot stay,” he said, his voice thick with anguish. “I cannot watch you marry Tor.”

  “I do not want to marry him.”

  She spoke the words so softly that he was sure he had imagined them.

  Leyla bowed her head, ashamed because she had no wish to be obedient to her parents’ wishes, confused by her feelings for a man who was so different from her own people. All her life, she had known she would marry Tor. They had grown up together, knowing that one day their lives would be joined. Her parents called him son. But it was Jarrett who made her blood tingle with excitement, Jarrett who had given her life meaning in the foul dungeons of the Pavilion, Jarrett who had risked his life to bring her home. Right or wrong, it was Jarrett who held her heart.

  “Leyla, look at me.”

  “No, I am too ashamed.”

  “Ashamed? Of what?”

  “Everything. Nothing.” She looked up at him then, her eyes filled with tears. “I have never disobeyed my parents or the Law of the Maje. Until I was captured by the Fen…” until I met thee… “my life had order, serenity.”

  She shook her head, her expression as bewildered as that of a child told that the truths she’d been taught were wrong. “Please do not go away.”

  Leaving her was the last thing he wanted. But he couldn’t stay, couldn’t watch her marry another man. To do so would be the worst kind of torture.

  Agitated, he ran a hand through his hair. If only he could just grab her and carry her to Gweneth. “I cannot stay. Do not ask it of me.”

  “I beg it of thee.” Knowing it was wrong, she placed her head against his chest. Closing her eyes, she listened to the strong, steady beat of his heart.

  “Leyla.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, his lips moving in her hair as he whispered her name over and over again.

  They stood that way for a long while, content to be in each other’s arms, to pretend, if only for a little while, that nothing else mattered.

  She leaned against him, secure in his strength. He was so different from Tor, from her father, from any man she had ever known. The Maje were peaceful, serene, full of wisdom. They had no weapons save their agile minds and whatever gifts had been bequeathed to them. Were it not for the terrors and dangers of the Mountains of the Blue Mist, her people would have been overrun long ago, subjected to tyranny and captivity.

  But Jarrett was different. He was a fighter, a warrior. He used a sword as if it were an extension of his body. Clubs and knives and the shedding of blood were second nature to him, and she knew intuitively that he would die for her if need be.

  With Tor, she would be always at peace. Each day would be the same as the last, with no pain and no surprises. He would treat her wi
th kindness and respect. They would have children who would be blessed with the gifts of the Maje. They would grow old together, but there would be no magic between them. His touch would not make her heart soar, his kisses would not make her heart sing or drain the strength from her limbs.

  A life with Jarrett would be fraught with turmoil, but she would also know the wonder of discovery. Their children would be born in passion. The nights in his arms would be filled with flash and fire, like a comet crossing the heavens, and she knew she would gladly turn her back on her own people, on the life she’d been born to live, to be with Jarrett. If only he would ask her.

  “Leyla.” His hand stroked the wealth of her hair, the curve of her cheek. “What do you want from me?”

  “Whatever thee wishes to give.”

  “My heart? My soul? My life? They have all been yours since the day you first placed your hands upon me.”

  “I do not want thy gratitude, Lord Jarrett.”

  “It isn’t just gratitude.”

  “What then?”

  “Can you not see it in my mind, hear it in my thoughts?”

  “I would rather hear it from thy lips.”

  “I love you, Leyla,” he murmured. “I think I have always loved you.”

  “As I have loved thee,” she replied ardently. “From the first day I was brought to thee, I loved thy courage, the sound of thy voice. I knew it was wrong but I was glad they had imprisoned thee.”

  “I cannot be glad for the pain,” Jarrett said with a grin, “but I am glad of thee.”

  “Thee will not leave? Promise me.”

  “I will not leave thee, but what of Tor?”

  “I will annul our betrothal.”

  “Are you sure this is what you want? I have nothing to offer you but a castle fallen into ruin. That and my love.”

  “It is enough,” she replied, her heart swelling with joy. “Enough and more.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Telling her parents she had decided to annul her betrothal to Tor was the hardest thing Leyla had ever done. For a long moment, they stared at her, too stunned to speak.

  And then her father cleared his throat. “I cannot believe thee is serious. What has happened to change thy mind? Has Tor behaved toward thee in an unseemly manner?”