Captive Heart (17 page)

Lyn was near to tears when I returned. “His fur’s so thick and it’s so dark. I’m not sure I can find all his wounds. And if I bind them now, what if he shifts? Will the binding strangle him, or fall away completely?”

“What harm to him if he shifts back now?” I asked. Because I couldn’t bear to see him in this form. “How can we make him be a man again?” I gripped her wrist. “Be Marrok?”

She shook away my hand. “He
is
Marrok.” Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I want the man back too. But I only knew he was cursed. I know nothing more of werewolves than you.”

“I won’t have him die a wolf.” My voice was grim.

That made her smile a little. “I don’t think his hurts are mortal. Not if we can tend him. Prevent contagion. And something of werewolf lore pricks at my memory—that they heal faster than mortal men. They do seem to recover faster in
other
ways.” She blushed.

As did I, remembering my envy at how much quicker Marrok always seemed to be to rouse.

“But I still have to staunch his wounds.”

“Marrok!” I spoke sharply into the wolf’s ear and was rewarded with a twitch and a sneer. “You’ve played at wolf long enough. It’s time to be a man again.”

He opened his eyes, and the silliness I’d felt at chastising a wolf vanished. Those might have been dark wolf eyes that opened, but it was Marrok’s soul that stared back at me.

“God’s bane!” I shouted at him. “You’re a man, not this
thing
you’ve become. Be a man, for pity’s sake! Be a man—for
my
sake.” My voice broke on a sob. “Because I-I don’t think I can love you like this. And I don’t want to—not—love you.”

Bending my head over him, I closed my tear-filled eyes.
Love
. I had said it. I had meant it. But could I still love Marrok now?

The hand on my cheek brushed a tear away. “I don’t want to—not—love you, either.” Marrok’s voice was weak.

I opened my eyes.

Marrok, son of Adam, lay before me in all his bloody, naked splendor. My heart welled at the sight, and I knew—
knew
—I loved him still. How could I not? How could I have doubted?

I fell over him, locking my lips to his, not caring about the wolf blood on them. He returned my kiss first with surprise, then with ardor, then with pain.

Lyn’s strong hands on my shoulders pulled me away. “Enough of that. It’s breath and binding he needs now.” Though that didn’t stop her from brushing her lips across those sensitive planes where mine had just left.

Together we cleaned him up and bound him, swaddling his neck where the pack leader had gripped his throat and held him.

“You’ll have scars there,” Lyn told him.

“Just more to count when we’re in bed,” Marrok said.

“Let’s make that soon.” But for now, I held them in my arms, chaste and safe, until the sun rose.

By morning light, Marrok’s wounds, looked raw and rude, but already his lesser scratches were nearly healed. Gareth’s patches of flayed skin would likely sting far longer than Marrok’s.

Thankful beyond measure I was that neither had been hurt worse, but a forced delay now when we were so close to Nessie? Merlin and Persant had told me I needed both champions to win back my sister, but I had seen Gareth fight—what if he was enough alone?

I commanded Gareth yet. If I ordered, he would ride away with me and leave Marrok here. To mend, I could tell him and tell myself. But thought of Nimue sending more thieves or villeins or wolves to cut Marrok down in his sleep or even awake and too weak to defend himself…

If I sent Gareth from Marrok’s side and Marrok were to die, Gareth would surely be lost to me in grief and resentment. And for what gain, assuming he
could
win through alone? Nessie was no doubt broken by now. Whatever Ironside intended for her he would already have done. Might still be doing, true, but it was as Merlin had said. She would still be alive whenever I found her. Ironside would see to that. Another day would not change it.

Sweet Nessie
, I grieved,
stay just a bit longer within whatever green fields and happy times your mind devises. God keep you—we’ll be there soonest.

I bowed my head and wept—for Nessie and for me for being forced into this choice.

“You will
not
ride today.” I heard the irritation in Gareth’s voice through my tears.

“And you will stop me how?” Marrok sounded strong. I sniffed away my tears in hope. Was he actually stronger now than what my eyes had seen?

“Leave off!” he growled.

When I looked, they were sitting, Gareth holding Marrok with one hand about his neck, tight enough only to make his point.

“When you can bear my hand on you, we’ll ride, not before,” Gareth said calmly.

“The wolves were merciful. Look down. See what part of me would happily bear your hand right now.”

Gareth’s sharp inhalation made me look. Under our stares, Marrok’s half-risen staff twitched higher. Surely Gareth wouldn’t…

I was wrong.

Gareth took him in his firm grip and squeezed him to full attention. Then he began to stroke. Marrok made encouraging noises at the back of his wrapped throat as three pairs of eyes watched his progress. A handful of strokes then Gareth dropped down, palms to the ground, and swallowed him.

I watched the play of Gareth’s shoulders as he laved and moiled Marrok, felt myself responding as though Gareth’s tongue and mouth were on me, in me, too. Marrok trembled. I cut my eyes to his to watch his pleasure.

“Look at me,” I commanded, begged.

Our eyes met and the smile that began on his lips turned to a grimace of ecstasy. “Annh,” he shouted out, and my mouth was there to catch the cry.

Then Gareth’s lips, slick with Marrok’s essence, joined ours.

After a noon meal of crisped bread and hard cheese, Gareth relented to Marrok’s insistent plea to ride. As a compromise to good sense, we put Marrok on the palfrey who had bolted with me and asked Marrok’s war horse to carry our packs. The mare had shown a level head since, and it seemed more evident now that she had been compelled to flee. Her gait, otherwise, was smoother and surer than the excitable stallion’s, and there was no doubt Marrok would ride her more comfortably.

We drew rein frequently to rest and Marrok grew in strength as the day progressed. During our third rest, I removed the bindings from his wounds, which were closing with remarkable speed. There seemed no further threat of bleeding or contagion, though for comfort he left off the wearing of his tunic. Neither Gareth nor I complained.

As the shadows lengthened, our thoughts turned to finding a suitable campsite. Tomorrow would see us to Ironside’s castle and we all wanted—needed—Marrok well-rested and as hale as possible by then.

I knew we were close now to Nessie—and to Nimue. I only underestimated how close we were. And how powerful Nimue truly was.

In the westering sun, rocked along by the palfrey’s traveling gait, Marrok sang to us to pass the time. His was a throaty bass, richly suited to battle marches and slow ballads. He was singing one such ballad—a bawdy lay about a blacksmith in search of a wandering jezebel—when Gareth suddenly pulled rein. “Don’t you ever tire of your own voice?” he snapped.

“Gareth—” I spoke his name only to soothe whatever tension had taken him.

“Don’t defend him! Or that
thing
he also is.”

Troubled, I reined my horse about to face him. “I thought that was behind us.”

“Perhaps you think too much.”

My eyes widened. Never had his voice sounded so cold toward me, even when I had assuredly deserved it. He was clearly agitated. Even his stallion felt it as the horse danced under him.

“Mind your tongue.” Marrok’s tone was sharp, not quite a threat.

“You seem to enjoy minding it yourself.”

That should have been playful, dripping with innuendo to come from Gareth’s lips.

“Whatever you have to say, say it plainly.” Marrok was so far holding control of his temper, though I doubted he could leash it long.

“Then hear this clearly. Lyn is not your lady and I am not your lord. You are a
thing
, not a man. An abomination. And Scripture is quite clear on what needs be done with demons and abominations.” He drew his sword. “They shall not be suffered to live.”

Horrified, I kneed my horse close and placed my hand on his that gripped the hilt. “What’s gotten into—” I broke off, recognizing the dead-eye stare above me.

Behind me, Marrok’s blade slithered from its scabbard.

“Hold!” I cried to him. “It’s Nimue! She has him compelled. He knows not what he’s doing.” Frantically I reined around. If I couldn’t stop Gareth’s madness, I had to stop Marrok’s. “Hold.”

“Are you man to answer my challenge or beast to flee it?”

I shook my head toward Marrok in plea, then swung back around to Gareth. “A knight doesn’t challenge a wounded man.”

“I am not a knight.”

Gareth was beyond me, beyond my magics to help. Nimue was too powerful, and I had nothing but Sight to guide me. I could only appeal to Marrok and not even him if his wolf-brain took over.

“Go. Run. Please!” I begged him.

“I am not a coward.”

“Of course not! Don’t you see—that isn’t Gareth. Gareth would die before challenging you. By saving yourself, you’re saving him. You don’t want to kill him, and if he kills you, how can he live with that when Nimue returns him to himself? Fight him and the only one who wins is Nimue. Fight him and I lose you both. Please, for you, for him, for
us
—run!”

I prayed it was still Marrok to whom I spoke and not his wolf. I hung on the edge of eternity not knowing what the next moment held.

Then he turned his mare and whipped her away.

Gareth kicked his golden stallion, hard, and the horse sprang away in pursuit. They had tried to catch that mare before and failed, though this time she was carrying at least half again my weight. With patience, the stallion might could catch the mare, but with the way Gareth rode today, pushing the steed with uncharacteristic abuse, if they didn’t catch them in the first wild flight, they likely wouldn’t.