Warrior's Lady (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

He opened his eyes to darkness that was quiet and complete. For a moment, he thought he was back in the Pavilion. Stark fear clutched at his heart. And then he heard the sound of singing—a single clear voice rising in a prayer of thanksgiving.

Removing the blanket from his face, he blinked against the rosy light filtering through a tall casement window. With a yawn, he sat up, glancing around the room. It was large and square, pale-yellow in color with an arched ceiling. The only furniture in the room other than the bed he occupied was a large throne-like chair and a small square table that held a crystal basin. There were windows in three of the walls and the fourth was covered with a large tapestry that depicted a raven-haired snow maiden astride a golden-horned stag.

Jarrett swung his legs over the side of the bed, then paused. Frowning, he pressed a tentative hand over his ribs. There was no pain, no bruise.

Someone had healed him while he was unconscious.

They had also taken his clothing, leaving him nothing to wear but his whiskers.

Rising, he went to the basin. It was filled with warm water. There was a large towel, a small square cloth, a long-handled razor and a cake of finely milled soap beside the basin.

With a grunt of pleasure, Jarrett washed from head to foot and shaved off a two-day growth of beard. Wandering to the east window, he watched the sun give birth to a new day. And all the while, he thought of Leyla. Surely she had been healed as well. Was she nearby? Would he be allowed to see her before he left? The thought of never seeing her again filled him with a deep sense of loss.

An emptiness in his belly reminded him that he hadn’t eaten for quite some time. Grabbing the sheet from the bed, he wrapped it around his waist and headed for the door, hoping that whoever had healed him would offer him something to eat.

He was reaching for the knob, which appeared to be made of solid gold, when the door swung open.

“Good morrow, my Lord Jarrett. Thee is well?”

Jarrett nodded at the tall, fair-haired man.

“First Meal will be ready soon if thee should care to join us.” The man handed Jarrett a dark-green robe made of soft silk. “The refectory is downstairs, to the left.”

“My thanks,” Jarrett murmured.

“Thee is welcome.” The man’s smile was pleasant. Serene.

Jarrett stared after him for a moment, then slipped the robe over his head. It was long, the hem brushing the floor. The sleeves came to his elbows, and the neck was shaped like a V. It made him feel like a Gweneth monk.

Stomach growling, he left the room and made his way down the stairs. He had no trouble finding the refectory—he just followed his nose.

The room was long and narrow. The tables, also long and narrow, were covered with purple damask. The goblets were of gold, the plates of silver.

The man who had come to Jarrett’s door rose from the head of the near table. “Welcome, Lord Jarrett.” He indicated a chair to his right. “Please, join us.”

Feeling totally out of place, Jarrett moved to the offered chair and sat down. Immediately a girl dressed in muted shades of gray appeared at his side, a tray in her hands. With a smile, she filled his plate with something that might have been porridge, only it was thicker and smelled of wild berries and honey. Still smiling, she lifted a pitcher of frothy goat’s milk and filled his goblet.

Jarrett glanced at the man on his left, who said, “Please, eat.”

Whatever it was, it was the best meal Jarrett had eaten in more than eight months.

He ate in silence, noting that there was very little conversation at the tables and that there were no women in the room other than the serving maid.

The girl brought three other courses and refilled his goblet twice. As he ate, the room gradually emptied, until only Jarrett and the fair-haired man remained.

“Thee has done our people a great service,” the man remarked when Jarrett pushed away from the table. “We had thought Leyla forever lost to us.”

“Is she well?”

“Yes. Thy arrival was most timely.”

Jarrett nodded, understanding what had been left unsaid. Had he delayed his journey, she would not have survived the night.

“We are eager to repay thy kindness,” the man went on. “Only name thy reward, and it shall be thine.”

Jarrett shook his head. “I don’t want anything, except perhaps a horse, if you’ve one to spare.” He smiled wryly. “One accustomed to dragons.”

“To be sure.”

“Where is she?”

“Taking First Meal with her family. Unmarried men and women do not share a table except at Last Meal.”

“I understand Leyla is betrothed.”

“Yes.” A wide smile played over the Maje’s lips. “She is to be my wife.”

So, this was Tor. Jarrett studied the man more closely. The Maje was tall, though not quite as tall as Jarrett, well-muscled. His skin was pale, but not sickly looking. His hair was thick and white, his eyes a deep dark-brown, filled with gentleness.

A vague memory tugged at the corners of Jarrett’s mind. “It was you who healed
me
.”

“Yes.”

“My thanks.”

Tor nodded. “Will thee stay with us long? I will make Leyla my wife when next the moons are full. It would do me great honor to have thee at our wedding.”

A sharp pain ripped through Jarrett’s heart. Wedding! So soon? The time of the full moons was only a fortnight away.

Tor regarded Jarrett for a moment. “Thee art a man of great courage, Lord Jarrett. Leyla has spoken of the Pavilion and what thee suffered at the hands of the Fen.”

Jarrett grunted softly. He felt strangely betrayed that she had spoken of their time together to anyone else, especially to this man, whose clear brown eyes seemed able to divine the innermost secrets of his soul.

“Great courage,” Tor repeated. “Many men would not have survived such an ordeal.”

Jarrett shrugged. “I didn’t feel very courageous at the time.”

The Maje smiled. “Courage takes many forms. For thee to leave here will no doubt take a great deal of fortitude.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Thee has strong feelings for Leyla.”

“Did she tell you that?”

Tor shook his head.

“Are you reading my mind against my will?”

The Maje looked insulted. “Of course not. The feelings of thy heart are clearly revealed when thee speaks of her.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about. She told me all about you, how you’ve been betrothed since she was a young girl.”

“Yes, I have always loved her.”

Jarrett took a deep breath, released it in a long sigh, and then stood up. “My thanks, again, for your hospitality.”

Tor rose to his feet in a fluid movement. “Please make our home thine. We ask only that thee does not enter the small chapel located in the west wing. It is considered hallowed ground.”

Jarrett nodded. He started to ask where Leyla was, if he might see her, and then bit back the words. Seeing her again would only make it that much harder to leave.

“May I tell Leyla that thee will honor us by attending our wedding?”

Jarrett shoved his hands into the pockets of the robe and clenched his fists. He very much wanted to hate the man standing before him, but the Maje exuded such kindness, such concern, that it was impossible. To Jarrett’s dismay, what he really felt for the man was envy, not only because he was to marry Leyla, but because he was so clearly at peace with who and what he was.

“Please stay and let us try to repay thy kindness,” Tor said, his voice filled with quiet dignity. He made a gesture that encompassed the crystal fortress and the lands beyond. “Surely thee would not mind spending a short time in this place? I think thee might find it to thy liking.”

It would be an insult to refuse, Jarrett thought. And he had to admit he was intrigued by the place. As long as he was here, he might as well take advantage of it. To his knowledge, no outsider had ever been allowed into the fortress of the Maje. “I’d be honored to stay.”

“If thee has need of anything, thee has only to ask. Second Meal will be served at midday, in this room.” Tor bowed. “Until then, Lord Jarrett.”

No one bothered him as he strolled through the house. It was a place unlike any he had ever seen. The walls were of a kind of crystal. Light penetrated every room, picking up all the colors of the rainbow. The furniture was of polished ebony, the cushions of feather-soft velvet. The floors were like mirrored glass; the globes of the lamps were of hand-blown glass, the most delicate he had ever seen.

The Maje greeted him politely, careful to keep their curiosity under control lest they offend him. The men were all tall, regal in their bearing, formal yet polite.

The women, dressed in flowing robes of softsilk, were beautiful beyond description.

Feeling like a thorn among roses, Jarrett left the house and made his way to a walled garden located near a small shrine housed beneath an arch of white stone.

With a sigh, he dropped down on a wrought iron bench and closed his eyes. The mingled scents of spring flowers and earth rose all around him, their sweet fragrance soothing him somehow. Beyond the garden wall, he heard the sound of gentle laughter, and in the distance, the ringing of a bell.

The Majeullian stronghold was like a monastery. Except for the presence of women, he might have been in Gweneth Abbey, surrounded by monks who thought only of service and sacrifice. For the first time in his life, he envied them. They had no time for worldly ambition. Their thoughts weren’t tormented by silver-haired goddesses who were out of reach or by blue eyes that captured a man’s heart and soul and haunted his dreams.

Leyla. Her name whispered through his mind.

When he opened his eyes, she was standing before him, a vision of femininity clothed in a robe of periwinkle-blue that made her look sensual and innocent at the same time.

“Thee is well?” she asked.

He nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

“May I?” She inclined her head toward the bench.

Unable to think, unable to take his eyes from her face, he nodded again.

“This is my favorite place.”

She sat down beside him, obviously unaware of the effect her nearness had on him. He took a deep breath and her scent filled his nostrils, sweeter than the smell of the flowers.

“Thee has met Tor?”

“Yes.”

“It was his touch that made thee whole again.”

“I know.” Jarrett gazed into her eyes, aching to feel the touch of her hands upon him just once more.

“We are to be married soon.”

The words cut into his heart like Thai’s knife. “He told me.” Jarrett took a deep, calming breath. “I wish you both every happiness.”

“I thank thee.” Her smile was as bright as the sunshine that warmed the garden. “My mother and father desire to meet thee. They have asked that thee would join us for Last Meal.”

“All right.”

“I will come for thee this evening.” She stood up, her smile warm as a summer day. “Until then, my Lord Jarrett.”

“Until then,” he agreed. And knew he couldn’t stay for the wedding, knew it would kill him to stand by while she said the words that sealed her to another man.

Chapter Twelve

Leyla dressed with care that evening, choosing a full-skirted, gauze-like gown of crystal blue. She left her hair unbound, knowing Jarrett preferred it that way. Her only adornment was a ribbon that matched the color of her eyes.

Because it was too early to go to dinner, she sat at her dressing table, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. It was good to be home. Her parents had welcomed her with tears and smiles, touching her both physically and mentally to make sure she was well. Tor had greeted her with his usual cool reserve, but she had seen the gladness that brightened his eyes when he drew her into his arms for a long hug of welcome.

Today she had spent the afternoon with Tor, making plans for their wedding, telling him of her experiences in the Pavilion, making light of the hardships, the barbaric food, her imprisonment, assuring him that the Fen hadn’t molested her. She hadn’t told him of the nights she’d huddled in her dark cell, weeping in despair, fearing she would never see her family or her homeland again.

Nor had she told him about the extra time she had spent in Jarrett’s cell after she had healed his wounds or how Jarrett’s presence had made her own captivity more bearable. She had felt an awful sense of guilt as she blocked her thoughts so Tor could not sense her true feelings for Jarrett, feelings she was reluctant to acknowledge.

She looked at herself critically, wondering what Jarrett would think when he saw her. She had bathed in rose-scented water, washed her hair twice, then dressed with infinite care, telling herself she was doing it for Tor when she knew, deep within her heart, it was for Jarrett. She’d chosen the blue gown, not only because it made her eyes sparkle and complemented the color of her hair, but because of the way it outlined her figure. Because she wanted to look pretty for Jarrett.

A gentle chiming of bells told her it was time to summon their guest to Last Meal. She couldn’t stifle her excitement at the thought of seeing Jarrett again, hearing the soft resonance of his voice.

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.”