VirtualDesire (15 page)

Carefully she dipped her hands into the basin. The hot water
felt wonderful. The cake of crude soap lathered well. The thought of being
clean banished even her shivers. As she scrubbed her arms, her goose bumps
disappeared and warmth took their place.

She worked slowly, savoring the rich lather, the spicy
scent, the hot water. She saved the dirtiest part, her feet, for last. Finally
she bent from the waist and began to stroke away the splashes of mud on her
calves.

Behind her, Vad gasped.

She whipped around, hands spread to conceal her breasts.
Water and soap trickled down her front.

“Gwen.” In two quick strides he crossed the small cottage to
where she stood.

How naked she felt. How suddenly hot. How suddenly
vulnerable. Her vision blurred and her mouth dried. He seemed to have grown
taller, stronger. Smoke from the hearth filled the room with a dull haze behind
him, outlining his shoulders, his silvery hair.

He reached out and placed a hand on her arm, a caressing
hand. He turned her about. Slowly, with great gentleness, he ran his fingertips
along her shoulder, down her back, over the curve of her hip. “You are hurt.”
His voice was low, rough.

A shudder ran down her spine in the wake of his caress.
Flames licked where his fingers touched. She began to tremble. No words formed
on her thick, slow tongue.

He stepped even closer and dropped his weapon on the bed. He
took the soapy cloth from her hand and began to wash her back slowly, in
gentle, circular motions. She arched to the sensation, soothed herself in his
ministrations.

“Why did you not tell me you were hurt?”

She could feel the whisper of his breath on the back of her
neck. The room filled with a foggy mist.

“They’re just…more…bruises,” she finally managed. “They
don’t…really…hurt.”

An errant thought—that he cared about her even if he didn’t
trust her—flickered through her mind. Then he wrung out the cloth and placed it
in the bowl. Her whole body went ice cold when he returned to the fire. It
flared to nearly burning when he took the kettle and renewed the water in the
basin. He dipped his hands into the water and lathered the cloth again.

She could not move, her eyes glued to the motions of his
strong hands. Her feet were somehow attached to the floor, her body frozen to
immobility by an outside force. When he again stroked the warm cloth along her
shoulders, across her back, a long, deep sigh of pleasure escaped her, and she
didn’t care if he heard it.

Vad felt anger crawl through his control.

He had caused these hurts by bringing her into his world.
Her sleek back muscles quivered as he bathed her bruises. He’d never seen such injuries.
The dark marks spread in ugly patches on her delicate skin. Uncannily, he knew
what she must feel. A throbbing, a dull, heavy ache, would underlie each mark.
He felt the throb, knew the ache in his own flesh.

He’d also never seen a woman with such golden hair on her
head and such dark hair… He forced his thoughts from the small swath of hair
covering her femininity.

With the lightest touch he could muster, he stroked the
cloth down the back of her damaged legs, wiping away mud, exposing more of the
bruises and an angry red scrape.

He placed the basin of water on the floor and went down on
one knee behind her. She stood as still as a statue, her head bowed, her hands
clasped over her breasts.

How beautiful was the smooth column of her back, the ivory
curve of her hip. A shimmer of heat ran along his fingers as he bathed her, and
the tantalizing scent of the soap filled the room. Heady, spicy, it teased a
memory, but then she turned, and all thoughts of the soap slipped away from
him. Her flesh was soft and rounded, just the way he liked his women.

She sighed and swayed toward him. Her eyes fell closed.

Heat suffused him. Desire replaced succor. His body grew
heavy with need. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to a livid bruise on
her thigh.

An arrow of want darted through him.

He rose before he touched his lips to the soft flesh of her
belly. “I am sorry for your hurt,” he said, taking her clasped hands and
spreading them open. He placed the cloth in her palms. It should have been cold
now, but was instead almost too hot to touch.

Her eyes fluttered open. Unfocused, vague, her huge, dark
eyes gazed up at him. A pulse beat frantically in her throat.

She licked her lips.

Slowly, lest he awaken her from the trancelike state in
which she seemed to be frozen, he leaned forward and kissed her shoulder.

Not her moist lips.

He could not kiss her lips. He would be lost. Driven to
forget his goals.

Goals of honor.

She tasted sweet. Her skin was soap-scented, silk-textured,
inviting. He skimmed his fingers after his kisses, stroked the hollow of her
throat with his tongue. How hot and fevered felt her flesh.

She moaned.

He forgot why he should not kiss her. Slowly he brought his
lips to hers.

Her kiss was as he remembered—tasting of foreign lands and
forbidden wants. Sweet, hot, forceful, possessive—beguiling.

With a jerk, Vad pulled away. She swayed to music only she
could hear.

Beguiled
, he thought.
I beguiled her
.

Or had she beguiled him?

He no longer cared. He swept her hot, damp body into his
arms and laid her out on the furs.

With little effort, he urged her hands to his shoulders.
Very slowly she stroked her fingers down his chest, then pulled up his tunic.
Heat spiked low in his belly—hotter than any need he could ever remember with
any woman. Her palms kneaded his chest muscles, aroused him, invited him to
touch.

Her breasts were firm and fit perfectly in his hands. “I
want you,” he said.

“Yes,” she whispered, arching against his caress. Quickly,
his hands shaking, he shed his clothes. When he was naked, he walked to the
table; it seemed very far away. He washed his face, his body, sluicing the hot
water down his skin.

When he turned back and gazed at her, he stumbled against
the table’s edge.

She lay stretched out on the furs, one knee bent, her legs
spread open, her lips gleaming. Then she lifted her arms to him.

Her invitation was just as he’d dreamed it on his journey
across the ice fields.

Would she disappear when he clasped her to him?

No. This time she wrapped her arms about him and urged him
close.

His body flashed hot. Chest heaving, he surrendered to her
seductive pull.

Her mouth was greedy. So was his. He wanted to devour her.
Together they feasted on each other’s mouths, tangling tongues, nipping lips.

He pressed her arms wide and climbed over her, resting on
his hands and knees, caging her with his body.

The taste of her throat, her breasts, her belly was sweeter
than the best wine. He drank in the scent of her, nuzzled the tiny triangle of
hair, learned the smooth texture of her inner thigh, as he dragged his tongue
back and forth on her from knee to hip.

“Now. Now,” she said in a moan, twisting her hands in his
hair, and thrusting her hips beneath his kiss. She embraced him with her
thighs, urged him down with her strong arms.

He joined himself to her with a hard thrust. She was hot and
ready—experienced—meeting him, moving in perfect rhythm with him.

They rocked together, sweat springing up between their
bodies. She smothered her cries against his neck. Her nails scraped across his
back in painful counterpoint to the silken heat in which he moved. He wanted
more than just a joining. He wanted to inhabit her.

Suddenly her body arched frantically against him, once, then
twice. Her head lolled back, her arms opened. His knife clattered to the floor.

“By the sword,” he said in a moan.

All around them blurred. The bed spun, tipped.

“Hypnoflora,” he said with a gasp.

He could not stop. Her body possessed him. Tides of desire
swamped him.

“Vad!” called a muffled voice from outside the cottage.
“Vad!”

With a near roar of pain, he tore his body from hers.

His chest heaved as he stood over her, his heart pounding
wildly, every muscle screaming for him to finish what had only just begun for
him.

“Let me in!”

Ardra
. She had come at the perfect moment to save him
from foolishness. His ardor died a swift death.

Vad shook his head and took a long, shuddering breath. He
turned to the door, then realized Ardra’s voice was accompanied by a soft
rapping on the window shutter.

Gwen lay in the deep shadows of the bed, her eyes closed,
her mouth slack. “Sweet Gwen,” he murmured. “This did not happen.”

He touched his lips to her shoulder, then snatched up his
blade. With a groan and an unsteady hand, he dragged furs over her body.

The shutter resisted his efforts to open it.

Ardra’s voice persisted in a whisper from behind it. “Vad.
Open now! Hurry! Hurry!”

Finally he worked the catch and swung the solid wooden
shutters wide. The midday light dazzled him. An icy blast of air swept into the
cottage, and for a moment his head cleared and his mind recognized what he had
done.

“Pull me in,” Ardra said, lifting her arms to him, calling
him to his duty.

He boosted her over the windowsill and set her on the floor.

“We must go. Now. Out this window. There are men watching
this place from the clearing.” Then she clapped her hands over her eyes and
turned her back. “You are naked!”

“I was…bathing,” he said, glancing at the bed.

“Hush. Lower your voice and garb yourself. Quickly,” she
persisted.

He could not make his feet move. “I think the soap was
tainted with—”

“Aye.” Her head bobbed agreement. “With hypnoflora.”

Vad pulled on a pair of thick breeches, too short for one of
his stature. He jammed his feet into his boots.

A swirling mist still hovered in the room. It inched in
Ardra’s direction across the floor.

“Throw the soap out the window,” he said. Ardra reached for
the small cake. “Nay! Do not touch it with your hands!” He must fight the heavy
languor that was stealing over him again.

Taken in by hypnoflora—the mistake of a man half his age. He
pictured the tiny flowers, fields of them, stretching as far as the eye could
see—like snow—men picking them, women crushing them.

The images tumbled about so that he thought he was in the
cottage one moment and the fields with the pickers the next. He leaned on the
table. His head pounded. The heavy scent of the room was one of passions
aroused but, thank the gods, not released. “Why have they done this? What
purpose was served?”

Ardra pitched the soap from the window. “I overheard two men
arguing. It was planned the instant we made our appearance.” Ardra drew the
shutters and helped him cross-garter his legs. “The women want to keep you.”

“Keep me?” He shook his head.

She held out several long tunics. “Aye. The women were very
taken with you. They wish to keep you for…for…I am not sure for what purpose.”
She looked about. “Where is Gwen?”

Vad indicated the bed and drew on a green cloak to conceal
his knives. It also gave him an opportunity to ignore Ardra’s scowl of censure.

She swung about and hurried to where Gwen lay buried. “We
must wake her, clothe her. If the women can convince the men their plan has
worth, they will come straight here for you. They have a pit in which to put
you.”

“A pit…” Vad looked away.
A dark place
. He trudged to
the bed and tossed off the furs. He tried to jam Gwen’s arm into a sleeve, but
she was as limp as a dead eel. “This is hopeless.”

With little ceremony, he rolled Gwen up in the furs and
pulled her into his arms. “You can dress her later,” he said. Ardra snatched up
clothing and made a bundle of it.

Gwen burst into life. She locked her bare arms about his
neck. The look on her face warned Vad before she began to kiss him. “No,” he
said, evading her questing lips. “No. You must stop.”

“Why?” She leaned forward and nuzzled his neck. Ardra made a
sound of disgust behind him.

He imagined that all that had passed between himself and
Gwen was now apparent to Ardra. “It seems the village women wish to keep me.”

Gwen burst into laughter, and he lost his grip on her. She
unrolled in a boneless slither onto the floor.

How far away she looked—how naked—how splendid.

“They want to keep you?” She clutched her belly and rolled
about. “Sure, who wouldn’t?” she said between gales of laughter. “I mean, you
can really cook—”

“‘Tis not his cooking they require,” Ardra snapped. “She is
acting the idiot, Vad, and her laughter will attract the men. She must be very
susceptible to the hypnoflora’s essence.”

And so was he. “It would appear so.” With gentleness—after
all, he’d just known her intimately—he shook Gwen’s shoulder.

Ardra shoved past him and took matters into her own hands.
She slapped Gwen hard across the face. Gwen’s laughter changed to gulping
hiccups.

“We have no time for this,” Ardra said close to Gwen’s ear.
“The women are adamant in their mission. If the men agree, they will put Vad in
a pit, and where will they put us? I imagine wherever they plant their dead!”

The imprint of Ardra’s hand stood out starkly on Gwen’s
smooth skin. Amazed, Vad watched as Gwen’s head rolled about on her neck. When
she jerked upright, a grin lit her features. “I want a dress as nice as yours.”

Ardra threw up her hands at him. “Help me.”

“Gather the bows, some furs, whatever you can carry—do not
forget my other clothes.”

Unaccountably, Gwen wriggled and laughed each time he
touched her—especially on her sides. Finally she was garbed in a haphazard
collection of men’s clothing—enough to make her appear to be a well-fed Selaw
merchant.

Ardra bundled clothing and then lashed the pile with several
furs and outergarments to the two bows. Vad set Gwen on her feet. “Take her to
the boat, Ardra. I will remain here and hold them off until you are safe.” He
thrust the bundle into Gwen’s arms.

“You will come with us now.” Ardra fisted her hands on her
hips. “I know what will happen if you resist them. They will cut off your
feet.”

“I will not run away like a coward.”

Gwen began to hiccup again. “Silly. You can’t run without
feet. Of course, you can still cook…”

Vad ignored her. She did not know what she was saying.

“Close your eyes and stand on one foot,” Ardra ordered him.

He could not do it. The room spun and twisted.

“You are not fit to fight anyone! When the hypnoflora has
worn off, you can return and burn the village to the ground if you wish!” Ardra
shook out the white wool cloak in which she was garbed. She softened her tone.
“Come with us, I beg of you. I need you. The maidens my father took need you.”

“Ah, the maidens,” Gwen said, and sagged onto a stool. “The
maidens will probably want to keep you, too.”

“How dare you make light of—” Ardra began.

“She is not responsible for what she says.”
No
, he
thought.
I am at fault here. I brought her here, I did not recognize the
soap’s danger, I took advantage of her…

“Vad. Vad!” Ardra shook his arm.

Vad took a deep breath. In truth, his head was spinning, and
his limbs took far too long to respond. What chance had he against dozens of
determined men and women? He strode to the window. “Gwen, get on your feet.
Ardra, throw her out the window if you must.”

He climbed from the rear window and reached up. Gwen tumbled
out into his arms. She leaned drunkenly on the wall, gasping the fresh air, her
face a pale oval. Ardra flung herself over the sill into his arms.

“Stay low. Now run,” he whispered.

Ardra led the way, skirts raised to her knees.

He stumbled after her, still clumsy, but his head grew
clearer with each step.

Behind him, he heard a raised voice. He grabbed Gwen’s arm
and urged her to a faster pace.

When they reached the beach, he shoved the boat into the
water with both women on board.

“Look,” Ardra said in a gasp as he jumped aboard. Between
the trees, men and women could be seen running. Their voices echoed against the
foothills.

Vad pulled the sail aloft and secured it as he had watched
Gwen do a number of times. He folded her hand about the tiller. “Ignore it,” he
ordered as an arrow tore through the sail and Gwen gasped. “You are in Ocean
City, sailing the sea breezes, racing the wind.”

“Ocean City…racing?” she whispered. He felt her hand lock on
the tiller beneath his.

“Aye. Ride the wind.” Slowly he pulled his hand from hers.
Arrows whizzed across the bow, but Gwen’s eyes were locked to the fluttering
strips she’d tied to the top of the mast.

“Vad, watch out,” Ardra cried, but it was too late. An arrow
embedded itself in his forearm. She shrieked and flung herself flat.

He jerked the arrow out. Blood welled from the wound.
Another arrow thunked into the wood by his hand.

His bows lay at his feet, but there was no point in firing
on the Selaw. He had no idea what the hypnoflora had done to his aim, and they
still had precious few arrows to waste. He would not do as Ardra had either.
Gwen must remain upright, sailing the boat. He must shield her as best he
could. To that end, he lifted the bow and its burden of furs. Each time an
arrow came too close, he used it as a shield.

Suddenly the boat keeled sharply, nearly spilling them all
into the river. Ardra screamed. Gwen laughed and flung her body practically
overboard as she hauled the sail close and shoved the tiller over.

In moments they were truly riding the wind, skimming the
water, the Selaw arrows falling harmlessly behind them.

Gwen looked magnificent, her hair tousled, her face to the
wind. He knew she was somewhere else, still under the hypnoflora’s influence,
probably on the gray waters of Ocean City.

And where had she been when he’d joined himself to her? Had
she been in his arms? Or had she been in her lifemate’s embrace again? Reliving
her former life?

A burn, not unlike that in his arm where the arrow had
entered, filled his throat.

Finally they drew far enough from shore to no longer fear
the archers. Three arrows were buried halfway up the shaft in his makeshift
shield. “Gather the Selaw arrows,” he said to Ardra, who finally sat up.
“Perhaps we can reuse them.”

Ardra crawled about the boat, pulling arrows from the soft
wood, her eyes round and frightened in her pale face.

Gwen shook her head. An odd exhilaration swept through her
as she sailed along the water, looking neither left nor right, only to the
clouds and the wind-filled sail.

Then she glanced about. She looked down at her own legs.
When had she changed into this awful green costume?

“I see you are with us again,” Ardra said.

“Huh?” Gwen licked her lips. They were dry. Her throat was
scratchy.

She looked closely at Vad. He was dressed very oddly—like
the Selaw men who’d accompanied Ardra. Gone were his thigh-hugging leather
breeches. A long red line of blood ran down his arm where he’d rolled back a
sleeve. The blood dripped from his fingers as he played with some arrows and
inspected their points.

“Vad! You’re hurt,” she cried, but he merely shrugged. He
untied a strip of bloody cloth, dipped it in the river water, then tried to
rebind the wound.

“I will see to it,” Ardra said, and edged to where Vad sat.

Before Gwen could ask how he’d hurt himself, the wind kicked
up and whitecaps danced across the water’s surface, requiring her immediate
attention.

The scent of wet earth and rain filled the air. She
shivered. How had she gotten here? How had Vad been injured? Even the terrain
looked different from what she remembered. Gone were the red, rocky shores, the
stained water, the stunted green conifers. Ahead the river curved between two
high cliffs of dark, striated stone. An apprehensive feeling of being watched
filled her. What if someone awaited them up there?

A small rapid threatened to capsize the boat. She fought the
tiller bar, hauled on the sail with all her strength. She wrapped a cloth about
her hand to protect it from the rough rope.

When she next could look back to where Ardra tended Vad in
the stern, she saw that the other woman was inspecting a deep gash across his
forearm.

“Doesn’t that need stitches?” she called over the rising
rush of the wind.

Ardra nodded. “I have no healing skills. What shall we do?”

Gwen thought a moment. “Maybe we could put in to shore. We
can boil some cloth and wrap it up.”

“We will not be stopping,” Vad snapped. “Just bind it and
let it be.”

This time it was Gwen’s turn to shrug. Ardra bit her lip and
looked anxiously from her to Vad.

Her hooded cloak, lined with white fur and embroidered with
gold, accentuated her ivory skin and amber eyes. As she leaned toward Vad, the
cloak parted to reveal a matching fur-trimmed gown and shiny leather boots.

Well, Gwen thought, rank certainly does have its privileges.
She groped beneath her rough wool cloak and pulled a long strip of cloth from
around her middle.

“Here,” she called. “Tear this up. At least it looks clean.”

In the end, it was Vad who took the cloth and did the
bandaging. Ardra patted his arm and made small, ineffectual fluttering motions
over his work.

The effort of holding the sail against the strengthening
winds made Gwen’s arm tremble. No sooner had she felt the tremor run along her
arm than Vad was there, sitting beside her, relieving her of the burden of
holding the sheet.