Warrior's Lady (15 page)

Chapter Eighteen

They located a small ship flying the Fenduzian flag moored off the coast.

Jarrett watched it for a long while, and when he was satisfied that there were only a few men aboard, he left Leyla with the horses and boarded the ship. He dispatched two of the sailors by striking them over the head with the hilt of his sword. The third sensed his presence and turned to fight. It was a brief skirmish, quickly over, and when it was done, Jarrett dumped the man’s body into the sea.

Hurrying now, he returned for Leyla. Regretfully, he was forced to leave the horses behind. A short time later, they were underway, headed across the narrow channel toward the Fenduzian border.

Leyla stood at the rail, the wind in her face, as she watched Jarrett maneuver the sleek craft. His jaw was thick with black stubble and the breeze tossed his long black hair over his shoulder. A bit of moonlight glinted off the hilt of his sword. She had often compared him to a Giddeon pirate, she mused, but never had he looked the part more than he did this night.

He turned his head, his hooded gaze meeting hers, and she felt her stomach curl with pleasure at the fervent look in his eyes. Ah, those dark eyes that made her heart beat fast and her blood sing; those fathomless green eyes that had haunted her night and day since first she’d seen them.

“What are you thinking?” Jarrett asked.

“Nothing.”

“You do not play fair,” he chided gently. “I lack the power to read your thoughts as you so readily read mine.”

“I was admiring thee, my Lord Pirate,” she admitted shyly, and felt the heat climb into her cheeks.

“Were you?”

She nodded and he held out his arm, bidding her come to him.

She moved instantly to his side, sighing as his arm slid around her waist. She would have risked any danger, she thought, any peril, just to be near him, to feel his strength, see the caring in his eyes, hear the sound of his voice murmuring her name.

The pale Hovis moons were low in a cloudless sky when Jarrett anchored the ship in a small cove sheltered from the wind by a ridge of jagged yellow mountains that looked like dragon’s teeth. For a time, he contemplated spending the night on board, but the thought of being enclosed, of being unable to take flight should the need arise, changed his mind.

Finding a large knapsack, he filled it with what provisions he could find and added candles and flint, two bowls, a flask of ale. There were blankets in a small cabin below decks, as well as a limited supply of men’s clothing. He found a clean white linen shirt and a pair of tan breeches that fit him well enough.

After a moment’s consideration, Leyla slipped off her long gown and donned a pair of buff-colored breeches and a red-and-black striped seaman’s shirt. “How do I look?” she asked.

“You’ll do for first mate,” Jarrett answered with a wicked grin. His gaze moved over her in warm appreciation. The breeches clearly outlined her shapely legs; the shirt, though at least one size too large, did little to disguise the feminine curves beneath.

“I had best be thy only mate,” Leyla chided. “As thee shall be mine.”

Jarrett nodded, his expression suddenly sober. “Naught but death shall part us,” he vowed, and felt a sharp pain at the thought that, by marrying her, by keeping her with him, he was undoubtedly putting her life in grave danger. If they were captured by Rorke’s men, she would be of no more value to them than any other woman now that she no longer possessed the ability to heal. They would use her until they wearied of her and then dispose of her.

Leyla took his hand and pressed it over her heart. “Not even death shall part me from thee,” she whispered fervently, “for I shall follow thee even there.”

“No.” He placed his hand over her lips. “For my sake, you must live. You must not risk your life for mine. Promise me.”

She saw the anguish in his eyes, the silent pleading. Slowly she nodded.

A deep sigh escaped his lips, and then he kissed her with all the love in his heart, his hands sliding into her hair, delighting in its softness.

Someday he would buy her jewel-encrusted combs and a golden tiara for her hair, costly gowns and laces, though such riches would never shine as bright as the woman herself. Someday.

“Come,” he said. “We must find a place to pass the night.”

Tor stood in the Great Hall, his face impassive as he endured Rorke’s scrutiny. In a vision, he had seen Leyla imprisoned in the dungeon of Greyebridge, and he had followed the Sight to this place, determined to take her back home no matter what the cost. But upon waking that morning, he had realized that Leyla was no longer in the castle. She had left Gweneth sometime late last night, bound for the King’s Palace in Heth.

“So,” Rorke asked after a time, “why have you come here, Tor of Majeulla?”

“To take my woman home.”

Rorke sat forward in his chair, his elbows braced on his knees. “The silver-haired one?”

“Yes. But she is no longer here.”

“How can you know that?” Rorke demanded, for news of her disappearance had not yet been made known.

“I have the Sight, my Lord.”

Rorke stroked his beard thoughtfully. If he could find the silver-haired woman, he might find Jarrett as well. “Where has she gone?”

“She travels the back roads toward Heth with the man thee seek.”

“You are sure of this?”

Tor nodded. “Quite sure, my Lord.”

Rorke nodded. A motion of his hand brought two guards swiftly forward. “Bind him.”

Tor did not resist as his hands were lashed behind his back, though he could easily have killed the two men with the power of the amulet he wore around his neck.

“Thee has no need to restrain me, my Lord,” Tor remarked, his expression placid. “I will guide thee to the renegade Jarrett in exchange for the woman’s return.”

“
I
do not need your help to capture him,” Rorke replied, his voice thick with scorn.

“Does thee wish to take him alive?”

“Most assuredly.”

“He will resist.” Tor’s gaze settled on Rorke’s face. “Leyla no longer possesses the power to heal him should he be mortally wounded in the struggle.”

“You have this power?”

Tor nodded. “We should leave with all due haste, my Lord.”

“There’s no hurry. The King has stopped at Cornith. There is no one of consequence at Heth.”

“As thee wishes, but Jarrett is known to be a traitor to the realm. His life will be in danger if he is seen.”

Rorke grunted. By Hadra, the Maje was right. Anyone who came across Jarrett would try to claim the reward, and though Rorke had specified that Jarrett was to be taken alive if possible, there was always a chance the renegade might be killed if it came to a fight, and Rorke didn’t want Jarrett dead, not yet.

Due to the King’s absence, Rorke had been obligated to attend to the King’s business at Heth and Cornith during the eight months that Jarrett had been imprisoned in the Pavilion. He had been furious when he learned that Jarrett had escaped, a feat heretofore unheard of.

Rorke fingered the scar on his cheek. He would not rest until Jarrett was returned to the Pavilion—until he, Rorke, had a chance to play the Games one last time, with Jarrett as the pawn.

He smiled as he thought of it. His hands itched to participate in the Challenge, and he wondered which of the three major Games Jarrett feared the most—fire, water or steel.

To have the upper hand at last. He stroked the scar on his cheek, his fingers sliding up and down the ridged flesh as he pictured it in his mind—Jarrett bound hand and foot in heavy chains, the hood in place, completely at his mercy.

There were no words to describe the satisfaction it would give him to see the Lord of Gweneth bleeding from every inch of flesh, to hear him pleading for mercy, his haughty spirit humbled at last. As Rorke had been humbled. His fingernails cut into the palms of his hands as he remembered that day on the field of battle long ago when he had begged Jarrett to take his life rather than let him be captured by the Serimites, but Jarrett had refused and they had been taken captive.

Jarrett had managed to slip his bonds and escape, but Rorke had been taken prisoner and tortured. No matter that Jarrett had returned a fortnight later and rescued Rorke and the other Fen who had been taken captive. Rorke had never forgotten the pain and the humiliation he had endured, had never forgiven himself for his cowardice, had never forgiven Jarrett for the scar on his cheek, souvenir of a Serimite sword.

A wave of self-disgust rose within him, bitter as bile, when he remembered how the Serimite guards had broken his will and humbled his spirit.

On their return to Heth, Jarrett had been hailed as a hero of the first order, invited to sit at the King’s table with the royal family. Rorke had never forgotten how everyone from the Queen to the lowliest stable hand had come up to him, slapping him on the back as they welcomed him home, all of them saying what a brave man Jarrett had been, how grateful Rorke must be.

Grateful, indeed! His face had been hideously scarred. The woman he had loved had turned her back on him, repulsed by his appearance. Her adoring gaze, which had once been only for him, had turned to Jarrett, who had showered Caandis with attention and lavish gifts until another woman caught his fancy. When that happened, Rorke had humbled himself, begging Caandis to come back to him, but she had refused, her eyes wide with revulsion at the thought of sharing his life, his bed. And he had killed her for it.

His appearance hadn’t mattered to Darrla. He had wooed her with infinite patience, treating her as a woman rather than the heir to the throne. He had been properly respectful, humble, not quite begging for her favors, but letting her know, in subtle ways, that he was dying of love for her. He had plied her with gifts of sweets and soft furs, a puppy to keep her company on cold, lonely nights.

His persistence had paid off. She had turned her back on tradition and chosen him, a commoner, to be her husband.

Darrla was a good wife. She had borne him three beautiful daughters and two fine sons, but he had never forgiven Jarrett for those weeks in the Serimite prison, or for Caandis, and he never would.

A cruel grin twisted Rorke’s lips. All the pain and ugliness of the past would be forgotten when he had Jarrett in the dark bowels of the Pavilion…

“We leave within the hour,” Rorke said brusquely. “Be ready.”

Chapter Nineteen

Leyla woke slowly, teased from sleep by the feather-soft kisses that Jarrett was raining over her face and neck. Her eyelids fluttered open and she saw him bending over her, his beautiful dark-green eyes alight, sparkling like emeralds held up to the sun.

Just a look, she thought sleepily, the merest touch of his lips, and she burned for his caresses.

Her arms twined around his neck as she drew him down, sighing with pleasure as the length of his body covered hers. He wore no shirt and his skin was warm beneath her questing fingertips. She never tired of looking at him, of touching him. Her hands drifted over the spread of his shoulders, the width of his back, marveling at the hard muscles that bunched and quivered beneath her hand.

“Good morrow, my Lord Jarrett,” she murmured.

“Good morrow, wife.”

Wife. The title, and all it stood for, sent a shiver of delight down her spine.

He kissed her again, his hands moving in slow appreciation over her body. She was soft and yielding, more intoxicating than mulled Freywine, warmer than the sun. Her hair was spread around her like liquid silver, glinting in the sunlight.

She gazed up at him, her eyes filled with desire, her lips curving in a seductive smile as her hands slid down his chest and belly, slipping between their bodies, inside the waistband of his breeches to enfold him in the palm of her hand.

It was like being held by lightning. The heat of it shot through him, stunning in its intensity. With a groan, he captured her lips, plundering the soft sweetness of her mouth as she caressed him. His hands were restless now, possessive as they moved over her, stripping away her clothing, branding her as his.

He buried his face in the wealth of her hair, inhaling the beguiling fragrance that was hers and hers alone.

“Leyla, beloved…” He searched for the words that would convey the depths of his feelings, but the power to think clearly seemed to fade as she moved beneath him.

“Come to me,” she whispered fervently.

“Leyla.” Her name was a groan on his lips.

“I know,” she murmured huskily, and guided him home.

A long while later, Jarrett released a deep sigh. “We should be on our way,” he remarked. Leyla nodded. Lying on her side, with Jarrett’s hard masculine body folded around hers, moving was the last thing she wished to do. She felt warm and safe in his arms.

Jarrett pressed his face to her neck, breathing in her scent. Closing his eyes, he let his mind wander, wondering if he should forget about trying to find out why he had been sent to the Pavilion, why the King had refused to hear his petition. Maybe he should just take Leyla and leave the realm. They could find a place to live in Aldane. Though the Aldanites were the sworn enemies of Fenduzia, there was an alliance between Aldane and Gweneth. He had relatives there, friends…

For a time, he let himself pretend that was what he would do, even though he knew he would not leave Fenduzia. He could not leave his mother in the King’s Tower. He could not let Rorke take Greyebridge without a fight. “Wife, your husband is hungry.”

“Truly?” Leyla chuckled softly. “I thought I had just satisfied thy hunger, my Lord.”

“Indeed,” Jarrett said, nipping at her earlobe. “Thee satisfies me in every way.” With a sigh of regret, he sat up. “Someday you will have servants to do thy bidding, but for now, I fear it falls to thee.”

She didn’t argue. Walking to a small stream, they washed quickly, then Leyla prepared First Meal while Jarrett gathered their gear together.

A short time later, they were walking toward Heth.

Tor rode behind Rorke, his thoughts turned inward. They had left Greyebridge at dusk the night before. A large ship had carried them across the sea and they had been riding hard ever since, stopping at dawn to let the horses rest while the men ate First Meal.

In his mind, Tor saw the place where Leyla had passed the night—the trees, the small stream. Jarrett had been there too. He felt a sharp stab of jealousy as he thought of Leyla lying in another man’s arms. They had grown up together, betrothed since childhood.

He had loved her even then, the slender girl with hair like liquid silver and eyes as blue as the sky above the Mountains of the Blue Mist. He had watched her grow from a long-legged child into a beautiful young woman, always dreaming of the day when she would be his. Often he had been tempted to carry her off into the woods and possess her, but he loved her too dearly to offend her or cause her pain, so he had remained aloof, polite but distant, waiting for the day when she would be his.

And then she had been captured by the Fen and imprisoned in the Pavilion. For months, he had lived on the edge of despair, fearing for her life, dying inside because there was nothing he could do to help her.

And then, miraculously, she had returned to the stronghold, alive and well, more beautiful than ever. And in love with another man, an outsider.

And now she was Jarrett’s wife.

The knowledge knifed through him, slicing into his heart, rotting his soul. Jealousy and hatred were emotions he had never experienced. Until now, his whole life had been one of peace and serenity, of love for his people, for all living creatures. The thought of taking a life had been as abhorrent to him as it was to every Maje. Until now.

In his mind, he conjured up an image of Jarrett and with slow, deliberate intent, he imagined what it would be like to cut the heart from the Gweneth warrior’s body.

It was an idea that should have sickened him. Instead it brought a smile to his face.

Jarrett would die, at his hand or another’s, it mattered not. Either way, Leyla would be his once again.

An hour later, they passed the place where Leyla had spent the night. Tor straightened in the saddle, his heart pounding. She was near. He urged his horse into a lope, heard Rorke’s startled cry, then the thunder of running horses as Rorke and his men followed him.

Jarrett swore under his breath as he saw the rising cloud of dust behind them, heard the muffled sound of hoofbeats. He knew, with cold certainty, that it was Rorke.

He turned to face Leyla, saw the concern rising in her eyes.

“Tor is coming,” she said. “I feel his mind seeking my presence.”

“Tor?”

“He is coming for me.”

“By Hadra, he’ll not have you!”

Leyla placed her hands on Jarrett’s shoulders and gazed deep into his eyes. “He will be here soon.” She closed her eyes for a moment, her mind joining with Tor’s. “Rorke is with him,” she said, her voice rising in alarm. “He holds Tor prisoner. Thee must go now, while there is time.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“Thee must! They will not hurt me.”

“Leyla…”

“Does thee wish to be imprisoned in the King’s Tower? Or worse, to be returned to the Pavilion?”

The Pavilion. The mere thought chilled Jarrett to the depths of his soul. He could face death, he could face torture at Rorke’s capable hands, but he could not endure the weight of chains again, nor could he bear to think of the constant darkness, deeper than the blackest of nights, that lived within the hood, waiting to drag him down into the depths of despair.

“Go,” Leyla urged. “I am not afraid, except for thee.”

“I’ll come for you as soon as I can,” Jarrett vowed. He drew her close and kissed her long and hard. “Leyla…”

“Go!”

He held her close a moment more, his face buried in her hair, and then he melted into the dappled shadows of the forest that bordered the province of Heth.

Moments later, Tor rode up, closely followed by Rorke and a regiment of the king’s men.

“Leyla!” Vaulting from the saddle, Tor ran toward her. “Thee is well?” She nodded curtly.

“Where is the rebel?” Rorke demanded. Leyla met Rorke’s harsh gaze.

“Milord?”

“Jarrett. Where is he?”

“Not here,” she replied, blinking back a sudden flood of tears. “Not here.”

Rorke’s gaze swept the area. “Captain Taark, take your men and search the woods.” Dismounting, he tethered his horse to a low-hanging branch. “You’ve done well, Tor of Majeulla. I shall see that you are suitably rewarded.”

“I seek no reward, Milord. I will take my woman and return home.”

Rorke studied the Maje’s face for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. “I think not.”

“I have done as I promised,” Tor said, his voice sharp. “I expect thee to do the same.”

“I gave no word to keep,” Rorke retorted. His gaze moved over Leyla, lingering on the swell of her breasts and the soft, sweet curve of her hips that even the baggy seaman’s shirt and breeches could not hide. And her hair. He had never in his life seen hair like that. “You will both accompany me to Heth. Perhaps, when I have settled with Jarrett, I will let you go.”

“Milord…” Tor forced the word through clenched teeth.

“Mind your tongue, Maje, else you lose it.”

Leyla placed her hand on Tor’s arm in silent entreaty. There was nothing to be gained by making Rorke angry, and everything to lose.

She whirled around at the sound of footsteps, gasped when she saw two of the King’s men emerge from the forest dragging Jarrett’s limp form between them.

“Is he dead?” Rorke asked sharply. “I said I wanted him alive!”

“Not dead, Milord,” Taark replied. “Only unconscious.” The captain of the guard rubbed his bruised knuckles, a look of satisfaction on his face. “He put up quite a struggle when we brought him down.”

“He’s bleeding.” The words were torn from Leyla’s lips. Only Tor’s hand on her arm kept her from running to her husband. Blood dripped from his nose; his breeches were dark with it.

“He is not bad hurt,” the captain assured Rorke as they lowered Jarrett to the ground. “Only an arrow wound in his thigh.”

Leyla sent a pleading glance at Tor. “Heal him.”

Ignoring the urge to do just that, Tor shook his head. “No, I will not.”

“Thee must!”

“Do as the girl says,” Rorke ordered brusquely. “I want this man alive.”

With a curt nod, Tor knelt beside Jarrett. He hesitated for a moment, his eyes filled with loathing, and then, with a sigh of resignation, he placed his hands over the long bloody gash in the back of Jarrett’s right thigh.

A thoughtful frown furrowed Rorke’s brow as he watched Tor. He had heard of the remarkable healing powers of the Maje, of course, but he had always been skeptical of their purported abilities, certain their healing was based on tricks and chicanery rather than truth. He doubted no longer.

He could almost feel the mystical power flowing from the hands of the Maje. He watched Tor’s face, saw his lips compress and his eyes darken as he absorbed Jarrett’s hurt into himself.

When the Maje lifted his hands from the wound, the skin beneath was whole as before. There was no sign of injury, no bruise, no scar.

“Bind the rebel,” Rorke ordered tersely. “And the Maje too.”

Furious at Rorke’s treatment, Tor reached for the amulet that dangled from a fine gold chain around his neck, but the charm was jerked out of his hand before its power could be invoked.

Helpless now, he could only submit to Rorke’s men, who bound his hands tightly behind his back, then knelt beside Jarrett, binding him in a similar manner.

The soldier handed the amulet to Rorke, who held it up to the light, studying the harmless-looking hunk of crystal. “Tell me, Maje, what is this fetish and how does it work?”

“It has no power except in my hands,” Tor replied.

“What magic does it possess?”

“The power to take life.”

“Such a thing is possible?” Rorke frowned. “The Maje are sworn to save life. How came you by such a charm?”

“I bought it from the witch at Hannadragorra.” He felt Leyla’s censure. Their people were forbidden to possess such amulets, but he had bought it when he left Majeulla. Certain he could not defeat Jarrett in a fight, he had bought the charm, intending to use it against Jarrett should the need arise, even though to use it would put his soul in darkest jeopardy.

“How does it work?” Rorke demanded. “What words are said?”

“There are no words, Milord, only the strength of my thoughts.”

“I see.” With a thoughtful frown, Rorke slipped the charm around his neck. “Get the rebel on his feet and let’s go.”

The journey to Heth was one Leyla would never forget. Rorke dropped a rope around Jarrett’s neck, taking great delight in jerking on the rope or putting his horse into a trot, forcing Jarrett to run or be dragged. Tor walked beside Leyla’s horse, his hands securely bound behind his back.

The days passed slowly, long hours under a relentless sun, with only her thoughts to help pass the time. On those occasions when she dared to probe Jarrett’s mind, she caught images of rage and black despair as he contemplated a return to the Pavilion. Tor’s thoughts were equally dark and ominous. It shocked her to sense anger and hatred in his mind, for such emotions were alien to their kind.

Nights, she sat beside the fire, her gaze on Jarrett. She yearned to go to him, to remove the rope that bound his hands behind his back, to rest her head on his shoulder and have him tell her everything would be all right even though it was a lie.