The Sword And The Pen (23 page)

She didn't protest as he cupped the back of her head with his hand and drew her face to his. His breath caressed her cheek, and his lips hovered a whisper away from her mouth. "Make love with me?" he asked again.

Her body clamored for the release he could provide, but her mind and heart screamed in panic. Giving her heart to him again would destroy her.

"This is not sensible," she managed to say. "We need to focus on the coming battle."

"I don't want to be sensible," he said to cut off her objections. "All my life I've been sensible, careful, cautious. There'll be time enough come morning to plan. Tonight, with you, I want to be wild and crazy. I want you. Say yes."

His words made no sense. The Donoval she knew was not a normal, reasonable man. He was not sensible, careful or cautious. He'd always been, in bed and out, a warrior, ardent and untamed. He claimed and conquered. Took what he wanted.

She returned to her previous concern. "What of your injuries? I've never seen you hurt to this degree. We don't want--"

One hand threaded through her hair, kneading her scalp, and the other drew her closer until her breasts pressed against his chest. "You can take care when you ride me."

The taste of his breath drove rational thought from her mind. "Donoval." His name came out on a gasp.

"Call me Donnie."

The sound of the nickname he hated on Donoval's lips shattered her resistance. Donnie was the man she wanted, the dream she'd created in her mind. Tender and loving. Passionate and wild. The man, the lover who valued her above all else. He was everything the king might have been but hadn't shown her.

"Donnie," she whispered against his lips.

With a groan, he covered her mouth with his. He stroked his palms down her body. All clothing fell away, leaving them naked. Skin to skin, they lay atop the bed robes. Warmth that had little to do with the heat radiating off his body surrounded and invaded her.

She pressed her lips to the tender skin behind his ear. Soft wisps of hair tickled her cheeks and throat. A shudder ran through him. His palms settled over her buttocks and pulled her closer. Hard and heavy, his erection pressed against her belly. Like heat lightning, excitement sizzled through her veins.

Then her belly rasped over the bandage near his groin, reminding her of how close he'd come to dying. She lifted herself away until just the tips of her breasts brushed his chest.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She trailed a fingertip along the lower edge of the bandage. His skin twitched. "If that blow had gone a hair's-breadth deeper. . ." Unable to continue, her voice trailed off. For the last three years she'd told herself her feelings for Donoval had died, that she no longer cared. Seeing him wounded put that lie to rest. She still questioned what she could and did feel for him, but admitted she was far from indifferent.

He wove his fingers through hers and placed their joined hands over his heart. The steady thud soothed her lingering fear.

"But it didn't strike deeper. I'm still here. Alive and in one piece." He shifted so they lay side by side, flinched then grinned. "Okay, I'm a bit bruised and battered, but mostly in one piece."

Donoval had always discounted his injuries, but he never joked about them. After a battle, his sexual hunger had been ferocious--at times frightening. Though he never revealed his feelings, she felt that only by conquering her could he banish the horror and fear he buried deep within him over the destruction he wrought. At those times she'd opened her body and heart to him, giving him everything and receiving nothing beyond physical gratification in return.

His new, self-deprecating humor unsettled her. It left her unsure of what to expect.

"I don't wish to injure you further," she said again.

"The only way to do that is to leave me." The fierce hunger in his eyes was familiar, as was his hard cock pressed against her abdomen, but he didn't grab and demand. Instead, he cupped her cheek in his hand and gave her a crooked smile.

"If it'll set your mind at ease, we'll take it slow and easy. We've got all night," he suggested.

Slow and easy were not words Serilda associated with Donoval. Fast and furious. Hard and intense. But never slow and easy.

A memory of a dream teased her mind. Hands stroking. Exploring. Searching. Finding. Lips and tongue kissing. Licking. Tasting. Giving and receiving hours of sweet torturous pleasure. What was this dream? What was this memory?

The feel of Donnie's hands moving gently over her breasts dissipated the vaporous visions and replaced them with exquisite reality. Warm and wet, his lips closed over one nipple. Swirling his tongue around that sensitive peak, he coaxed a whimper from her. In a silent offering of surrender, she arched her back.

While he suckled at her breast, he slid his hand down her belly to part her damp curls and stroke the slick, swollen center of her sensation. Her breath caught in her throat, trapped by the eruption building inside her. It had been a long time. Too long, since she'd allowed herself to feel anything, physically or emotionally. Too long, since need had outweighed duty. She couldn't contain or control herself. She climaxed. Liquid fire surged through her veins. In the heat, reason evaporated. In that moment, the changes in Donoval didn't matter; nothing mattered but the feel of his hands around her, on her, in her.

Minutes passed. Her body shuddered with aftershocks as Donnie continued to stroke her gently.

"So much for slow and easy." He chuckled against her breast then proceeded to demonstrate what slow and easy really meant.

Hours later, body slick with sweat and sated with pleasure, Serilda lay against Donoval's chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his strong heart as he slept. She knew she should leave his side but couldn't find the will. Despite her best intentions, she'd fallen under his spell again. She should know better.

Where commands and orders failed to bring her to heel, soft words and tender touches had slipped passed her defenses and brought her to her knees. Without a whimper of protest, she'd offered him everything.

Disgust at her weak will burned away physical contentment. She couldn't allow herself to love him. In return for his assistance she'd promised him her homeland, her people, her body, but no, she refused to give him her heart.

She started to rise. Muttering in his sleep, Donnie turned toward her. He draped an arm across her chest and a leg over her thighs, pinning her against him. Despite the anger seething inside her, she told herself he needed rest. If she moved now he'd wake. Tomorrow would be soon enough to put distance between them. She closed her eyes and let sleep steal over her.

Her dreams were tormented. Would he be up to the coming battle?

The low rumble of the camp coming to life woke me. I opened my eyes to sunlight streaming in through the gaps around the tent flap. The smell of bacon cooking and coffee brewing tickled my nose and set my stomach to growling. Every bone and muscle in my body hurt, but I felt fantastic.

Since the battle, I'd begun to accept the Donoval aspect of myself, and he had begun to accept me. I no longer felt him fighting to break loose. Though I still didn't have complete command of his skills, we'd become one.

Asleep, her head tucked under my chin, her breathing soft and easy, Seri curled against my uninjured side. Memories of our loving sent a shiver of satisfaction through me. Hours of slow and easy had given way to fast and hard, then returned to a more languorous lovemaking, all of which left us exhausted and content.

I'd never considered myself highly sexed. Though in the early stages of our marriage I enjoyed sex with Wanda, when our relationship went bad--it was mostly my fault, I admit--what little desire I'd had for her or any woman died and went un-mourned. The years after we split, being celibate never bothered me. The reward just didn't justify the effort.

Seri's appearance had rekindled my passion--and not only for sex, but also for existence. She made me realize how isolated and alone I'd become. She'd brought me back to life.

Satisfaction faded as I acknowledged she hadn't made love to me, Brandon. She didn't even remember me. She didn't remember being in the real world. She didn't remember being my Seri. Here she was Serilda d'Lar, warrior woman of Barue. And though she denied it even to herself, in this world she loved King Donoval.

Trying to figure out the how and why of her appearance in my world and my transportation to hers made my head pound. Bizarre as they were, Grandma's tales were the most logical explanation. In the end it didn't matter, though. If this was all a dream, a hallucination, then I was locked away in a padded cell somewhere, and whatever happened couldn't hurt me.

My aching, abused flesh didn't feel imaginary, certainly. The heat from the fever I feared I'd developed from my wounds felt real. The cuts and bruises on my body felt real. I felt real. Seri's warm body pressed against me felt real. The memory of making love to her felt exquisitely real.

A new thought process overwhelmed me: What mattered most was how much of Seri's story I'd rewritten before I'd ended up a secondary character in my own book. I searched my mind, but couldn't recall. Before I'd blacked out, had I finished revising that final, deadly scene? And if I had managed to make the critical changes, would things happen as I'd written, or did my presence here throw everything up for grabs? None of Grandma's stories mentioned what would happen if the writer ended up inside his fictional world. According to her, my father had never returned to say--assuming I was experiencing something similar to what he had. Yesterday's battle and what happened between Seri and myself hadn't gone exactly as I'd written it, so I just didn't know.

Seri must have felt my tension, because she stirred and opened her eyes. For a moment I basked in the love shining there; then her body stiffened and her gaze hardened. Before I could say anything, she sprang to her feet. I shivered, not from the loss of her warmth, but from the ice in her eyes as she threw on her clothing.

"Seri." I sat up, groaning as my body protested.

"I've asked you not to call me that silly name."

Her rejection of what we'd shared triggered an answering anger in me. "You didn't object last night," I goaded.

Her nostrils flared. "Last night was a mistake. One I'll not repeat." Shoulders rigid, she turned her back.

"Get dressed." She tossed me my pants and shirt. "In two days your troops will arrive. We've much planning to do." She strode out of the tent.

Pain, not all of it physical, slammed into me, but anger drove me to my feet. Ignoring the protest of my aching muscles, I dressed and went over to the table. Maybe studying the maps and working on a battle plan would distract me from thinking about this irritating woman. But I doubted it.

Surprisingly, after a few minutes I found myself wrapped up in creating a battle strategy. I guess I'd put more of me in Donoval than I thought--or his shared personality was giving me pointers. But this felt like something that had come from the core of me.

The plan I came up with would require precise timing, but it could work. I thought about attempting to write an easier strategy in novel form, give Seri and myself more options, but given doubts about my ability to change what I'd already written about the layout of Roark's castle, I wasn't confident of the outcome. Better to work with what I knew than depend on hope. Of course, this plan would only work if Donoval's troops showed up.

Looking back, I decided my hasty rewrites from the day before had perhaps yielded partial results. In my original version of the battle Seri survived, but during the fight young Jole was taken hostage--the action that led to the final confrontation between her and Roark where they both died. When I wrote myself/Donoval into the scene, I'd taken out the part about Jole's capture. As far as I knew, the unknowing prince was safe.

Of course, nowhere had I mentioned Donoval being injured or Serilda and him making love.

As the creator of this world, I should have more control! Instead, I felt as if some cosmic editor was redlining my work, making sure I kept the conflict on track even when I wanted to derail it.

No, I couldn't be sure what might happen, even if I attempted more rewrites. I'd have to live with what I had and hope it worked. Or, more to the point, I'd have to make my plans come to fruition myself.

*** *** ***

I leaned over the map. Though outside the weather had turned cold and grey, sweat trickled down my back. The tent flap opened. A breeze blew the parchment across the table. It struck a candle and one corner burst into flame. Swearing in aggravation, I grabbed it and mashed it out.

"Damn it! Be more careful." I shook the parchment at the intruder, grimacing.

"Pardon, my lord."

With his usual composure, Jole took the map from my hand and smoothed it back onto the table. Wide-eyed at the vitriol in my outburst, Mauri peeked around the opening. I sighed and plopped down in a chair.

"Plans not going well, my lord?" Jole asked. He motioned Mauri into the tent then secured the flap behind her. I had an amusing thought: If he weren't destined to be king, the boy would make a great butler.

Clutching a steaming pot of tea with the edge of her tunic, Mauri scurried over to the small table beside the bed. She carefully poured some tea and handed me a cup. I grimaced at the bitter odor, and at the circumstances. I'd hoped Seri would bring this medicinal tea, but she hadn't returned to the tent since morning.

"Drink," Mauri urged.

The pungent smell made my eyes water. "I'd rather have some wine."

"I'll bring some with the evening meal," Jole offered. "But for now you'd best drink the tea."

"And if I don't?" I felt and sounded sullen.

The flap opened again, letting in a blast of frigid air. I looked up into Seri's scowling face.

"I'll hold you down and pour it down your stubborn throat."

"You and what army?"

I tossed the tea out onto the ground and jumped to my feet. We stood nose to nose. Her breath felt cool on my heated skin.