Myla By Moonlight (12 page)

“Forget about him.” He drew her close and pressed a sweet kiss to her lips. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes.” She smiled in memory. “I dreamt.”

“Of what?” His grin brightened the gloomy interior.

“The meadow.” A dimple appeared and she touched it, her fingertip tracing the curve above his lip. “Are all dreams so pleasant?”

“I wish yours to be.” His fingers stroked her cheek for countless silent moments before he closed his eyes in regret. “I have to go.”

“I know. Shall I return now?”

“If you’ll come to me again tonight.”

Lips curved wide, she kissed him. A funny sound broke from her throat and it shocked her to recognize it as a giggle. “You call and I’ll obey.”

“
I’ll
…I do love the shorter words. I love you, Myla. Return to me, my guardian, and come when the night has fallen.”

Lilac mist surrounded them as her hand reached for her chiton. Within a blink, Taric lay alone but with his heart pounding in exhilaration. The bitter words of his best friend stole his smile and he pressed his lips firm and quickly dressed. He had a few words to say to Bryton as well and went searching.

His bodyguard stood beside the smoldering fire ring, kicking dirt over hot gray embers. His wavy hair, tied back in a strip of leather, was dulled to deep brick by the dampness.

Fog hung thick and blinding, shrouding the gray morning in haze and hushing Taric’s voice. “Have the men left for Bridgecord?”

“Not yet.” One more vicious kick sent a small cloud of dust over the smoking pile. “They’re almost ready to ride out.”

“Go with them.”

Bryton whirled, shock and anger etched across his tense face. “Go with—?” Rust-colored brows met above his nose in a scowl.

Separating Bryton from him, from his duty, was a slight. If the distance persisted, some would view it as royal dissatisfaction in his performance and a degradation of his status. This was far from the truth. Taric valued him too much to allow bitterness to alter what they shared and sought only space for flaring tempers to cool.

A deep breath expanded Bryton’s chest and he bowed with such exaggerated insult, Taric fisted his hands to prevent himself from knocking him over. His friend had never bowed to him and that he did so now in mockery spiked his fury. Those around saw and scurried away. The two rarely fought but when they did it was likely to end with blows.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“No problem, Your Hind-ass, none at all. Except the man I pledged my faith to just screwed me and everyone else in his kingdom for a romp with a pretty piece of pussycat.”

“What I do with Myla is none of your damned business.”

“Really?” Bryton glared. Quickly he stepped in and gripped Taric’s shirt and dagger. Taric didn’t flinch at the knife sailing toward him. It sliced through linen with a rasp. Bryton tore the shirt open and slapped him in the chest. “Guess again, Prince Hard-on. You just bonded with a magic spell. How the fuck does that secure your line? What child can she give you, kittens? You going to take the pick of the litter to wear your crown?”

Taric glanced down at the bright red imprint of Bryton’s hand. Beneath it, above his heart, was the wide line of the Segur bonding mark. His destiny was set. Myla was his heartmate. A smile tickled his mouth before Bryton’s words sank in.

His destiny was set. Nothing could now change the future. He had to find a way to keep Myla with him, make her his princess and one day his queen. There could be no other mother for children he’d barely thought about but knew were his duty.

His fingers shook, touching the roughened edges of the mark. He knew when it had happened, when the mark appeared. Looking back, he knew the exact instant. A warmth had exploded in his chest but he’d been concentrating on heat farther south. Myla had given him her virginity and her love freely and he’d gladly voiced his heart. In that moment, his chest had warmed. He became bound to a woman who wasn’t real.

Fog captured his breath and pasted earthy grit on his tongue. He breathed deep, sucking in moist cool air to calm his pounding heartbeat. He caught Bryton’s furious and frightened eyes. Only Bryton was close enough to challenge him.

Normally, Taric listened to his view, his opinion, but not this time. Myla meant too much and his emotions were too raw and tender. “You’re going to have to trust me in this. I know what I’m doing.”

Bryton snorted and spun away. “Yeah, I saw what you were doing. How could you, Tar? Your family isn’t exactly prolific. If you don’t have an heir, what happens to the crown? To Eldwyn? You don’t have any siblings, Myla killed your uncle before he had any children, so who inherits?”

Brow wrinkled, Taric considered. He’d never given it much thought, actually. Children one day in the distant future just seemed a foregone conclusion. He racked his brain, mentally viewing the family tree in his father’s library. It didn’t have many branches at his level and he couldn’t recall any specific names. There were distant relatives—he vaguely recalled meeting an elderly aunt as a child. He thought she had a daughter…

“Shit, you don’t even know, do you?” Disgust tinged Bryton’s tone and he shook his head. “You always did suck in history. Let me give you a hint. Your great-great-aunt Claudina had a daughter named Vesa. Vesa had three children, only one of which had kids—her son…Emerto.”

The fog seeped into Taric’s exposed chest with chilling fingers and his eyes flew to Bryton’s face, but his friend kept speaking.

“Emerto, as you know, has two children, Elora and Emeric. So unless you can figure out how to knock up a cloud, you just handed your kingdom to your enemy. Nice legacy. The history books are going to love you.”

“Shut up, Bryton.” His insides screaming, he wanted to lash out, deny the truth but his throat clenched and he could barely breathe. Destiny couldn’t be that cruel, could it? There had to be someone else, some forgotten cousin or…

His shoulders shot back. No, he wouldn’t worry about it because he would not fail. He’d figure out how to keep Myla here, in his world, have children with her. He would not let his kingdom fall into his enemy’s hands. He’d burn every timber to ash first, lighting the torch himself.

Chapter Six

Bryton rode west with fifty men and a sorrowful, resigned look to his normally bright eyes but with his back straight. Taric led his troops east, the parting as bitter as any he’d had.

Within hours, his battalion found a portion of the brigade rumored to be assembled. A battle raged long and bloody with casualties high on both sides. Taric fought as if possessed, as if he alone could halt the destruction and any who came close fell in a swath of red. The song from his sword’s swing rang through the wind.

Bryton’s absence stayed foremost in his mind as his sword arced and fell. Each twist and jab reminded him that his back was unguarded and he called on every ounce of training and skill he possessed. He hefted his weapon again and again until numbness seeped into his screaming muscles. Thunder struck out with gleaming hooves, felling approaching men until the crush became too close and forced Taric to climb from the steed’s back. He slapped the ebony haunches and the horse fled away from the fight to await his whistle.

Marchen, as before, sent the fiercest of his warriors straight for the prince. Taric wondered anew what his weight in gold tallied to for these men. A year’s wages? More? Did he carry the promise of a manor home or a title with his demise? What reward did the Eldwyn Butcher promise to the man who brought him the prince’s death?

When his blade was buried to the hilt in an opponent’s chest, a flash of silver shone behind him. Taric yanked the weapon free and whirled to find a helmeted knight behind him, his sword severing a bearded head from a neck. Without pause, the fully armored soldier lunged again and engaged an approaching foe. His steel shimmered with near-holy light in the bright sun and Taric struggled to place the armor. He’d seen it before but where?

There was no time for pondering. A trio of militants broke rank and descended toward them, axes drawn. He and the helmeted knight moved in perfect unison, a deadly waltz that left only them standing.

“Who are you?” he shouted in a brief break.

The helmet visor rose and feline eyes twinkled at him. Behind his plated shielding, his stomach plunged to his knees and he gaped at his guardian. Shock ripped the words from his tongue. She feinted to the left and halted a blood-caked blade no more than twelve inches from his shoulder.

Above her outstretched arm, a mace hurled toward her. Taric spun his sword into flesh. Limb and weapon fell to the bloody grass, an agonized scream splitting the air. He halted the cry with another quick jab, silencing it forever. He’d saved Myla as she was saving him. The irony made him grin.

Seeing her clad head to toe in mail, he would never have guessed she possessed the curves he’d caressed the night before. She was a fighter, a soldier and a killer. Myla as a lover was incredible. Myla as a jaguar was mesmerizing. Myla as a warrior was breathtaking. If war could be called music, she would be its dancer for her grace and speed were choreographed to a deadly melody. Each twirl and vault of her stance seemed more ballet than fight but her blade drew blood time and time again. In the midst of death and bloodshed, she captivated him.

Night descended and the enemy seemed to vanish, their numbers found neither up nor down the borderline. His wounded sought treatment, the worst heading home to Thistlemount along with the dead, the lesser injured rejoining ranks.

Days passed. Skirmishes occurred along the way, small outbursts of activity from a handful of soldiers that were quickly handled and quieted by steel. But the threat of a larger backlash existed in all minds and every soldier prepared for the clash.

It never came. Either Marchen had pulled his troops or they had deserted like a belch in the wind.

Daily, riders carried messages between Taric and his captain, always speaking only of causalities, maneuvers and goals, never of friendship. Bryton had similar reports, a harsh battle then a retreated foe with no sightings since.

Taric’s sourness grew. Myla came to him at night and he lost himself in the sweetness of her embrace, ignoring the prickle of unease that fluttered along his spine.

Two enemy scouts were discovered late after camp had been made, boys barely old enough to shave but who glared at Taric with hatred. He sent them back to Thistlemount in shackles but doubled the night patrols. Staring into the night sky, he wondered what information they’d gleaned before discovery and how it would play out.

a
b

Emerto Marchen reviewed the latest reports. Two of the three scouts had not returned. No matter, they were inconsequential. All that mattered were the bits and pieces of information provided from their skulking. Taric and the idiot with the fire-topped hair had fought over a woman and parted on bad terms. Interesting. He filed the knowledge away for later use. Two other messages held far more appeal.

First, Taric walked the camp in the company of a great black jaguar. The feline stalked the outlying ground, blending with the shadows and searching for prey as if it possessed intelligence. Once satisfied, it would slink inside the tent and not be seen until dawn the next day. Second, Taric had a heartmate. Marchen fingered his lip with a grin. This was the most promising bit of news. Balic’s only child had given his heart. How better to injure his nemesis than to bring torment to the one he held most dear?

He’d been trying to get rid of that princely pain in the ass for decades, but Taric wiggled out of every attempt like a worm through a grave. He’d nearly had the little bastard in his hands once. Arnon Segur had been easy to tempt into betraying his older brother. After all, if Taric were gone and Balic were to die, who would inherit the crown? Somehow, the little brat escaped. Taric had slipped through his fingers just as his mother had before him.

His fingers dropped from his lips and stole to his scarred chest.
Tarsha
. Her hair had shone like a candle flame in the sunlight and her eyes had danced with evergreen. He’d loved her from childhood, felt her mark burn his chest after a single innocent kiss in the hayloft. Far more talented than he in the enchanted arts, she enthralled him with her ease and power.

She would have come to be his in time, he knew it. Until Balic had appeared on a diplomatic errand for his father and ripped her from under his nose. Tarsha was besotted with the handsome young man from Thistlemount. It was an infatuation Marchen had brushed aside as the whim of a fickle young woman enchanted by the lure of royalty. How wrong he’d been.

Heart-tearing agony had torn through him when his formal challenge was denied and she’d become Balic’s bride. Grief and pain had nearly maddened him. Marchen squeezed his moist eyes tight and fought a wave of misery recalling how beautiful Tarsha had been, gowned in the colors of autumn, walking to her promised groom.

It should have been him at the end of that church hall, accepting her hand, tasting those plump lips once more. In his furious misery, he’d poured every minute droplet of pale magic he had out in a single bolt of lightning. It burned the sycamore grove to a cinder.

It was then he’d realized what his true power was. But he didn’t want to smudge Tarsha’s memory with thoughts of his now-grasped potential. Had he known then what he was capable of, he’d have seen things turn to his favor. Balic would have rued the day he ever set foot in Windmere. Then, he was just a heartbroken young man with surges of powerful magic he couldn’t control. He’d lost her.

He never got to see her leave. He never got to say goodbye. Balic had him placed in irons until the bridal entourage had departed, claiming Tarsha was frightened of him. It was a lie. Tarsha would have known he’d never hurt her. He’d just wanted to catch her alone one minute. One minute would have been enough to convince her of his love. But Balic prevented that moment with iron. The memory of those thick manacles bit sharply.

Marchen thrust himself up from his chair and stomped to his desk. The fingers that slid the drawer back shook with agonized recollection. He’d never gotten to touch her one last time. As if his heart’s destruction hadn’t been complete enough, Balic not only stole his love, he’d crowned her and then killed her.

Barely four summers after leaving as his princess bride, his queen had returned for burial in her family’s cemetery. Stone-faced and silent, a squalling brat in the arms of a nurse behind him, Balic had sprinkled dirt on her casket and strode away without a word. It had been Marchen who sat at the graveside for two days, wailing in despair, his blackened bondmark searing in agony.

No, Balic never loved Tarsha as he had. But he’d loved her child. The entire kingdom heard each tale of the boisterous young prince and the indulgences his father allowed him. Even now, the spoiled adult kept an exotic cat for a pet. Taric had never mourned the vision who’d given her life for his own. It proved how little Balic had cared for his bride, to not teach his spawn to grieve as was proper.

No matter. Marchen had mourned her every minute of every day, erected a memorial statue of her in his garden and planted a grove of evergreens. The color of her eyes in summer, they comforted him that they never lost their color. As he never should have lost Tarsha. Tarsha would know, even in death, who had truly loved her…and who had not.

Marchen wanted Balic to ache as he ached, with a gut-twisting agony that never ended. Death was too fast for the crowned bastard. For decades, Marchen had struck swift and hard, his army paid for by the sweat of his brow and the influx of goods from faraway lands but driven by the memory of a single kiss. Each Segur vassal’s death stung at Balic like a bee into horsehide. He never hurt enough, would never hurt enough. The property losses hit Eldwyn’s treasury and fostered discord in the people.

Gathering soldiers had been easiest far south in his own land of Sotherby, far away from Thistlemount. Here, the lavish lifestyle of the crown could be exaggerated and its military protection downplayed. Not all liked having a monarchy and he played to that dislike. Now with the foreign mercenaries, he was all but assured victory. The purchased freedoms of jailed rapists, murderers and worse had been cheap. Marchen could care less what they did and who they did it to as long as it hurt Balic and hurt him a great deal.

Marchen lived on, a shell of what he could have been with love at his side. He’d married a pregnant widow and foisted her daughter off as his in exchange for a beautiful house, costly dresses and a closed eye when she brought him another bastard.

A pale blue hair ribbon, its sheen lost long ago beneath stroking fingers, rose from the desk and he pressed it to his nose. He could almost smell the fall leaves in Tarsha’s hair, even after all this time. But now, the definitive weapon in his arsenal had been delivered to him. Balic hurt most when his child hurt. And no greater hurt existed than to be denied your heartmate.
Hurt the son, cripple the father.

“Pegot!” he bellowed, tucking the long-lost girl’s hair accessory into his belt. A stout servant appeared before him. “Fetch my daughter. It’s time Elora confronted Prince Taric regarding his waning attentions.”

a
b

His hands sent magic tingling through her with each stroke. A purr more suited to her feline vibrated her throat and she leaned back onto his chest.

“You like this.” Chuckling softly, Taric nipped her earlobe.

“No more than you. I have to pry the brush from your hand so you will seek your rest.”

“I admit it, I like brushing your hair. It’s…soothing. I love how it feels of silk.” He kissed her neck. “How it smells of sunshine—” lower on her neck, “—how it makes you purr like a cat being stroked.”

His tongue tracing his kiss line, Taric set the brush aside. Myla tilted her head, luxuriating in the feel of his lips. Surely, she should be used to the sensation by now. She did not possess one inch of skin he hadn’t stroked, kissed or licked in the past nights. By day, he chose to keep her close by in jaguar form, using her keen sense of smell to warn of danger approaching. By night, she lay within his arms, using other talents he’d taught her.

“I do like being stroked as your cat. It’s very…sensuous.”

“Sensuous is very good.” He kissed her once more before leaning back on the pallet, propped on an elbow. “My cat…Soot. Tell me, why a house cat? That’s not a very protective animal.”

“No, but it does provide comfort.” Turning to him, she coiled her freshly smoothed hair into a rope and draped it over her shoulder. “You were of an age when you didn’t welcome a woman appearing in your bedchamber. The middle time between childhood and adulthood can be troubling. As your pet, you didn’t question my appearance beside you when you were feeling lost. I sought to ease your mind when I could.”

“I missed that damn cat after it ran away. Or I thought Soot had run away. Why did you stop coming?”

“You sought your comfort elsewhere.” Naughtily, she arched her brow, reminding him when Soot had disappeared. His blush trilled a laugh from her throat. “Taric, you blush! Isn’t that the way of boys as they become men? To turn from feline to female forms for…stroking?”

“Maybe,” he growled. “But now I get both feline and female. I much prefer the female.”

She bowed into his mouth, caressing his lips with hers. There was much indeed to be said for human lips.

Lazily, he reclined with a grin. “Why always a cat?”

“It is who I am. I am both feline and female. I can be no other.”