SeducingtheHuntress (6 page)

A surgeon couldn’t have done the job with any more care and
attention. Gods, how had she ever thought Reuben evil? What she and her people
did to him was little short of the witch hunts of old. He was the scapegoat,
the man guilty of the crimes committed by another
nightmix
.

Reuben paused, his chest heaving in and out as he dragged
oxygen into his lungs. Pine trees loomed around him, distorted, large and
monochromic in
nightmix
vision. He barely noticed. Right then his keen
ability to scent was his biggest asset. His snout dropped to the ground and he
sniffed in pungent smells of decomposed leaves, pine needles and rich, wet
earth.

Nothing human.

Even with his superior senses the rain had drowned
Isabella’s scent and made tracking her near impossible. He’d gotten only so far
on a vague whiff of her on the various pine trunks she’d touched, a snatch of her
sweet, feminine scent on a rock or two.

I’ve lost her.

The sharp pain in his chest had little to do with his deep
knife wound.

All he cared about right then was finding Isabella.

He pushed back into a run, soaked pine needles and mud
spraying from beneath his paw pads with every flex and shift of corded muscles.

Speed was of the essence.

Already darkness had chased away the light. He’d had no
choice but to delay finding Bella to give his body time to heal. Shifting into
a
nightmix
had helped—each change forced the body to rejuvenate, the
cells to alter and reform—but full recovery was still some way off.

Luckily the adrenaline pulsing through his body staved off
much of the pain, which would no doubt be crippling once his hormone levels
dropped.

Guess he could only be glad the deer he’d brought home
earlier had helped facilitate at least some of his recovery. He’d tried to
follow Bella after she’d ran, but dizzying weakness from blood loss and
excruciating pain had forced him to stop. All of which had gotten a whole lot
worse once he’d pulled free the knife.

Fighting for consciousness, he’d forced himself to eat a
chunk of raw meat, and then another and another. Until he’d devoured the whole
carcass and healing energy had begun to pour through him.

But what about Isabella? Without food, clothes or weapons,
and with no way of knowing which direction to go, she was all too vulnerable.

He had to find her before it was too late.

Fire burned through his veins. He couldn’t lose her. Not
now. Besides which, if she’d really wanted to kill him he’d be dead now. Her
well-practiced aim would have pushed the knife slightly to the left of his
chest, straight into his heart. Instead she’d stabbed him closer to where her
arrow had impaled his shoulder.

She hadn’t wanted to kill him. If only she’d admit it to
herself.

But Isabella wasn’t alone in keeping things to herself. He
hadn’t come to terms with his true feelings either. Shame it’d taken her
leaving him to realize he couldn’t lose her. Ever.

He loved her, plain and simple. Their short time together
was irrelevant in the bigger scheme of things. She’d touched something inside
him the first moment he’d seen her astride her spirited horse, her beautiful
eyes glittering with fierce determination and her bow and arrow wielded
effortlessly in her hands.

No disguise could hide even an inch of her glorious
femininity. Even in his panther form he’d experienced a jolt of need that’d
nearly forced an involuntary change back to human.

He shook his head, a throaty growl piercing the rain-thick
air. There had to be a compromise, some way they could work things out.

Yeah, she’ll be real impressed when she finds out who I
really am. No doubt she’ll add “liar” to my long list of failings.

How ironic that his whole life he’d had women fall all over
themselves to be shown even a morsel of his royal favor. Yet the one woman he
wanted above all others might never be his.

A black shadow high in the sky caught his attention. A crow
wheeled above the trees just ahead and to the right. Waiting for a death?

Reuben turned in the direction of the black bird. His stride
lengthened, snarls erupting with every exhalation. Then a snatch of Isabella’s
scent filled his nose. He skidded to a stop, breathing deep of her intoxicating
smell. She was close. Really close. His tail lashed with excitement as he
slowly turned to get a bearing of her whereabouts, his snout lifting as he
followed the scent.

He blinked, but his eyes didn’t fail him. She was hiding in
a pine tree. But she wasn’t moving, wasn’t showing any signs of life. A deep,
rumbling growl sounded low in his chest. She’d be half frozen. She wouldn’t be
going anywhere. Hell, he’d probably be unable to rouse her.

If he didn’t shift shape and physically go and get her,
she’d be dead come morning. Except he knew even before his cells altered that
his body would balk at yet another shift so soon after the last one. Too many
changes were dangerous. And forcing a shift was deadly. It could trigger a
fallout, a flash hit of agony that could happen minutes or even hours after
he’d shifted shape.

He had no choice. He had to get her down and warm as soon as
possible.

With his body protesting every step of the way, he tried not
to rush through the shift. He gritted his fangs…then teeth, riding through the
agony. Deep down he hoped the extra care meant his fallout didn’t happen, or
was at least substantially reduced.

Minutes later he was fully human again. Ignoring
still-screaming muscles and sinew, he scrambled for the tree, feeling sick
knowing that the chance—or not—of having a fallout was a huge gamble. It meant
time was doubly precious. If he succumbed before he got Isabella home to
shelter and warmth…he didn’t want to think about it.

Grasping the rough branches, he pulled himself up, grimacing
at the pain lancing through his chest. The shift had managed to heal a little
more of his wound, but not enough. Not nearly enough. If climbing the tree was
this agonizing, how in hell was he going to descend with Isabella in his arms?

Determination surged. He wouldn’t fail. No matter what he’d
bring her home alive.

Hauling his protesting body to the branch where she
half-sat, half-lay, he bent to touch her bare, pale skin that was tinged
faintly with blue. His palm burned at the contact and something inside his
chest squeezed as though held by a fist.

“Oh no you don’t,” he rasped. “You don’t get to die on me.”

Wedging his feet wide apart on the too-slippery branch, he
gathered her in his arms and lifted her with a pained grunt. He knew without
looking that his wound had wrenched open. A warm wetness ran down his cold
chest, white-hot pain piercing through him. He sucked a breath in between
clenched teeth, momentarily seeing stars. No amount of adrenaline could stave
off this kind of agony.

Guess he could only be thankful his pain threshold was high
thanks to regularly shifting shape.

Isabella was small and light, she probably weighed less than
half his own weight. But she could have been as hefty as the horse she’d rode
for how physically demanding it was to carry her with one arm wrapped around
her, the other clutching random branches and counterbalancing.

Sweat mingled with his blood. His lungs burned right along
with every one of his muscles. He felt faint even after he’d dropped to the
ground with bent knees, his calves screaming as they absorbed his weight.

But there was no possible way he could carry her all the way
home. He laid her on the pine-needle-strewn ground, which would have been
prickly and uncomfortable had she been conscious, but at least the mud and icy
wet was minimal.

He worked quickly and methodically to find and gather the
materials needed for a makeshift stretcher. Taking a breath, he focused on a
part-shift that might well push his body to its limits and over the edge into
fallout. He gritted his jaw, his teeth retracting and sharp canines cutting
through his gums.

It took all his concentration to keep from shifting further
while not cutting his own tongue on his over-large canines. They were sharper
than any knife, perfect for tearing apart a
karrawarren
vine. Without
tools or weapons, cutting or ripping the vine was near impossible as human.
Next he found two long branches and four much shorter branches in which to make
up the stretcher.

He stripped them of their leaves and twigs before laying the
long branches—poles—out side by side. Then lashing together the smaller
branches into two crosses, he tied them to either end of the poles. Working
fast, he laced the remainder of the vine in a crisscross manner going up the
poles before knotting off.

He had no time to be pedantic.

Placing her carefully onto the stretcher, he picked up the
poles at one end and began to drag her, one laborious step after the other.

Isabella smiled, luxuriating in the warmth of her parents’
indoor fire. She’d been cold…bitterly cold. Hadn’t she?

The thought disintegrated at the chatter around her. She focused,
confused for a moment, before she cast a quick glance at her mother, who looked
so much better today after almost two weeks of fitful coughing.

Isabella’s smile widened and her shoulders relaxed. Even
her dad looked happy. She’d sensed his helplessness when the only doctor for
miles around had been busy treating seriously ill patients suffering from
desert fever. Secretly she wondered if her dad hadn’t worried that his wife had
become one of the unfortunate people who’d contracted the fatal disease. Little
wonder he looked so untroubled now. The dark cloud that had dampened his
spirits had finally lifted.

“Benj and Bella, blow out the candles,” her dad said
heartily, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his teeth glinting behind his
short, dark beard.

“Okay, Daddy,” they said in unison. Isabella closed her
eyes and took a big breath.

“Don’t forget to make a wish,” Benj chimed in from beside
her.

I want to marry my own Prince Charming.

She opened her eyes and glanced at her brother. Together
they blew hard. All six candles spluttered, then flickered out.

Her family clapped and cheered. Then her brother leaned
in and said confidently, “Your wish is gonna come true now, wait and see.”

She glowed, filled with absolute certainty. She’d
listened avidly to the old village storyteller, who’d overflowed with tales
about princes on their white steeds, charging in to save the day. She lived for
those stories and couldn’t wait for her own prince to sweep her off her feet!

A ringing in her ears had her eyes widen with alarm. What
was going on? She looked around wildly when everyone abruptly blurred then
disappeared. A nanosecond later she found herself standing at her parents’
door.

Time had skipped forward, she knew that at the back of
her mind even as she somehow knew that her father had ridden off during the
night to demand the doctor’s services. Her mother had worsened since the party,
though she’d retired to bed earlier than usual. Isabella had been kept awake,
utterly miserable and frightened as she’d listened to her mother’s relentless
coughing through the night.

Why hadn’t I wished to make Mummy better?

A lump set in her throat. Her mother had overdone things
trying to make their birthday extra special.

As if under compulsion she raised a fist and knocked,
though dread pulled at her insides.

“Who is it?”

She swallowed at the hoarse, breathy voice. “It’s me,
Mummy. May I come in?”

Silence lingered. Then, “Yes.”

She opened the door with her breath stalling in her
throat. The weak dawn light didn’t take away the fact that almost overnight her
mother’s complexion had become pasty, her cheeks sunken in and eyes dull.

“I heard you coughing,” she whispered.

Her mother nodded. “I’m sick, sweetheart.” Another fitful
round of coughs had her reach for a cloth—speckled with blood. When Isabella
stepped inside, wanting to hug and comfort her, she put a hand up to stop her. “Don’t
come too close. It…It’s probably contagious.”

“What do you mean?” Isabella asked, eyes going wide and
nausea a lump growing in her belly.

Her mother’s eyes grew wet as she retrieved a
darfe
from beside her bed of cushions. Tying the cloth around her mouth and nose, she
sat and murmured, “This should make me safe.”

When she moved into her mother’s arms and was pulled
close, for a moment she felt good. Secure. But then she noticed how frail her
mother’s arms were, how scratchy her breathing. “I’m scared,” she admitted in a
little voice. “I don’t want you to die.”

She woke with a start, disoriented and confused until the
familiar log walls of Reuben’s cabin came into sharp focus.

How the hell did I get back here?

She sat, the blankets she’d been swaddled in falling off her
and baring her breasts. It didn’t matter. A blazing fire crackled and spat,
generating so much heat a fine sheen of sweat moistened her exposed skin.

Reuben was out. But he’d left a jug of water beside the
cushions. She brought the jug to her mouth, the blessedly cool liquid sliding
past her cracked lips and down her dry throat until she’d slaked her thirst.

She scanned the cabin. Her eyes widened. Reuben had left a
hip-bath beside the fire. She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the weakness
assailing her as she investigated.

The bath was half full. And on a corner lip was a bar of
soap. She reached out a hand. The water was warm, evidently kept that
temperature from the heat of the fire. She climbed in and slid into the silken
warmth with a blissful sigh before going right under and wetting her hair.

Coming back up for air, she massaged the soap through her
hair before dipping back under and washing out the suds. Wringing her hair dry
as best she could, she leaned back and let out a grateful sigh, feeling
extraordinarily clean for the first time in days.