Myla By Moonlight (13 page)

“Why did you sing to me as an infant?”

Her lids slid closed but chagrin pouted her lip and entranced him. “You were a babe, but even tender ears learn. Magic is…melodic, rhythmic. The cadence begs for music. While you slept, I sang spells of rest and growth, tranquility and harmony, things to aid you. Your father worried you’d lack a mother’s love. I could not give you that so I gave you peace. A small gift but all I knew to give.”

He studied her intently, a burning spark battling the candle flame glowing in his maple eyes. “You haven’t returned for several days now. How do you feel?”

Not meeting his gaze, she drew her finger across his arm, the tiny hairs swaying under her touch. “I—I returned last night after you slept.”

“What?” Bolting upright, he stared at her with twisted brows. “You returned to me?”

“Yes. I felt… It was… I had no choice. Too long in this world and my senses dim. It was not for long, just a respite to…replenish my guardianship.” Head angled, she fixed him with a questioning stare. “You are angry with me. Why?”

Taric didn’t speak for a while. He rose from their pallet and poured wine into a plain tin cup. He set it untasted on the map table and paced.

Myla watched him. He was troubled on many levels. The argument with Bryton weighed heavily on his mind, as did the constant vigilance the troop was under. There had been no more outbreaks in the past four days and he grew edgy looking for his foe’s army. Tension surrounded the eternal problem of Marchen’s cruelty and wondering what destruction he would devise next.

Twisting her head in the opposite direction, her brows dipped. No, this was new. He had a different worry, one that plagued him. She’d waited for him to discuss it with her, share his thoughts but so far, he had not. He’d dreamed as she returned to him last night. Dreams as muddled as a thick stew, filled with snippets of sexual memories and flashes of battles. This new worry had roots in each and also with her. “Taric, tell me of your trouble.”

Long legs slowed but did not halt their metronome glide. “First, I want you to tell me some things, Myla. Do you remember the night I was born? The night we both were, I suppose.”

“Yes, I remember it. I remember every moment.”

Eyes closed, her human mind sifted through the pages of memories until she came to the first one. From somewhere, she had felt a stirring, a calling, beckoning her. She’d streamed toward the call. Her initial impression was twofold, love and blood. Wet with the sweat of childbirth and quivering with expended magic, a woman she now knew as Queen Tarsha beseeched her.

The immense outpouring of devotion toward the tiny infant intrigued Myla. What was this small, loud being and why did it command such utter commitment? Touching the woman’s mind, Myla understood the bond of mother to child, the total love freely given for another. Such unfathomable emotion astounded her.

A guardian she was asked to become, to protect him and love him with all her might. There was no dark motive, no claim of riches or payment, just the heart of a parent pleading for care in her absence. Such selflessness piqued Myla’s essence. Her acceptance of her duty was the beginning of their bond.

For a long while, he had no real need of her. His body and mind growing, she simply watched from within, delighting in each new discovery, learning alongside him the world to which he had been born and she now inhabited. Myla discovered many things those first few seasons. Taric’s father possessed crippling sadness and empowering love each time he gazed at his son. Through him, she learned that love doesn’t die because it is not seen. Balic often watched his child and thought of the golden-haired woman who had called to her. Once, his small son sleeping in his arms, he cried bitter tears and whispered tales Taric never heard of his mother, of how she longed for him, planned for him and now watched him from the other side of death. Myla pressed each word to memory for Taric, for later, when he might need them.

Taric grew, his spirit of adventure wild and unharnessed. Her first act of guardianship occurred when he was not quite three summers. He liked sneaking from his nurse and hiding, laughing when found. This time, he sought to hide near the pond. His cinnamon eyes sparkled with curiosity at the gliding swans. With a gleeful giggle, Taric charged toward them. His shoeless feet slid from beneath him and he rolled rump over shoulder down the embankment.

Myla caught him at the water’s edge. “Careful, young prince. The pond is deep and feathers are not for eating.” Taric smiled with childish abandonment and reached for her combs, snagging them with strong little fingers. “No, Taric. Those are mine. How will I see with my hair about my face?”

“Sing!” he demanded.

At that moment, she realized he had not always been asleep when she came to him at night. The musical, magical words she’d let penetrate his slumber would have to cease. He was growing too fast. That she had given in to the temptation to be human while he was too young to recall shamed her and she colored at being caught. She could not come again unless he had need of her.

“No singing. Your nurse and your father look for you. Go now, back up the hill and find your father.”

“Papa find me!”

“No, Taric, Papa will not find you here. You go and find Papa.”

When his father spied the boy climbing from the pond hill, anger flushed his face and his hand connected with Taric’s backside. Myla nearly leapt forth in protection until the wave of insufferable fear touched her. Balic had been terrified when his child went missing and his relief lay barely masked behind gruffness.

Love, she had learned, was not always so joyous. It brought fear and uncertainty.

“Myla?” Taric’s voice drew her from her recollections. She found the same look on his face now as Balic had those many summers ago. Love and fear shadowed behind sternness. “Will you tell me about that night?”

“You wish to know of your mother?”

“No.” Crossing to her, he knelt before her on the pallet and took her hand. “I mean, I do, but not now. Do you remember the words my mother said to call you?”

“Of course.”

“Will you tell them to me?”

Not understanding, she tilted her head one way and then the other, searching his face. “I shall but they have no power. They’re just words unless mixed with magic.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Very well.” Myla repeated the calling spell, its timbre ringing even now through her soul. “She called and I came. Is this what you seek?”

Lines of concentration marred his brow but he nodded. He rose and began pacing once more, one arm about his waist, fisted hand to his jaw. Desperation poured from him.

It trickled down her spine with dread. “Taric, what’s so important in those words?”

“I don’t know yet. You said you had to return to me. Why? What would happen if you didn’t? If I commanded you never return to me?”

Stunned, she widened her eyes. Not return? The thought was foreign, incomprehensible and she gaped for a moment. “I—I’d die.”

He whipped to her so quickly she saw the air shimmer around his body. Color drained from his face and his baritone was a rasp. “Die?”

“Yes. I’m not human, Taric, not completely. Part of me is and part of me is magic. I need to feed both. If I stay here, in this world as I have been, I must eat and rest here. You’ve seen this. But after a while, my magic dims and I weaken. If it grows too weak, it will die and, not being wholly of this world, my human body would also die.”

With bruising strength, Taric crushed her to him. His arms held her so tightly she could barely draw air.
Fear and uncertainty
. Across her brow and along her cheek, his kisses carried anxiety to her lips. “Don’t die, Myla, never die. Return as you need. Never, ever put yourself at risk for that.”

“Do not fear for me, my charge. I’ll never leave you.”

“Swear it.” Cupping her cheeks, he angled her head back until she read the desperation etched on his face. “You can’t lie to me, so swear it. Swear you’ll always be with me.”

“I swear it. I will never leave you alone.” Tiny lines sprang from the corners of his eyes and he squeezed them shut, pressing his forehead to hers. Beneath her palm, his heart knocked frantically.

Her concern mounted.
How did a woman get her man to speak to her of what plagued him?
She hadn’t learned that tactic and her failure was sour in her mouth.

“Come on.” Taric drew a shaky breath and gripped her fingers. One-handed, he gathered items from his leather bag and pulled her toward the tent flap. When he raised it, man and cat stepped into the moonlight.

Taric grinned down at the immense jaguar padding silently beside him. Myla had taken Bryton’s off-hand comment to heart. He doubted anyone knew there was a woman in the camp but all knew of the jag. A few times, he had seen the men offer her bits of meat or speak softly to her, coaxing her toward them. Only at his nod did she allow them to stroke her head and she never ate from their hand. She preferred to wait until enclosed in his tent to eat in human form.

His grin widened. Myla did not like salted or dried meats, wrinkling her nose in disgust. For her, he allowed the men to hunt and enjoy fresher meats than normal during battle. They should thank her but it would mean revealing her presence.

Myla-as-jaguar never strayed far from him, a few feet at most, unless she was patrolling the edges of the campsite. It was she who scared up the two scouts, her growl sending both lads running straight into the night watch.

After a brief word with the night guard, Taric led the way down a short embankment behind a copse of pine trees. Myla lumbered behind him until he rounded the tree line. With a short chuff at him, she bounded ahead, scouting for danger. When she returned, he had already kicked off his boots and pulled the tunic over his head.

“Bath time, my guardian. The river isn’t as swift here and we’re well hidden. Be my woman and bathe with me.”

The night shimmered and she stared at him. “I shall stand guard. You bathe.”

“Myla, bathe with me.” Laughing, he pulled his breeches off and tossed them on the grassy edge. His splash sent silvered droplets over her.

Myla wiped her face and glared at him. “It’s cold.”

“I’ll keep you warm.”

“It’s wet.”

Swiping dripping hair from his face, he studied her. Brows drawn tight, her lips pursed into a tiny bow, she crossed her arms. Devilment tickled his spirit and he sent a wide-spread armful of water toward her. She shrieked like a girl and ducked.

“Myla, come in, it’s not that cold. The meadow stream was colder.” Shaking her hands as if soaked, she fumed silently. He teased, “If I have to come and get you, I will.”

“I don’t swim. Not as a woman.”

Shock stilled his approach. “You can’t swim?”

“I can…as a cat.” For a tense moment, they stared at one another.

“I can teach you,” he offered softly. Her green eyes flicked away briefly but she shook her head. Cocking his head, he challenged, “Are you afraid, my guardian?”

She didn’t like that
. Face flashing with irritation, she yanked the chiton over her head, the leather belt falling to her feet. Her sandals hit a bush and it shuddered. The red silk sailed to the bush branch and hung like a signal flare but Taric barely noticed.

He had never seen her naked beneath the moonlight and his throat closed in want. The glimpse was too brief. Without warning, she placed one hand over the other, stretched them above her head and dove. Her jaguar broke the glittery surface beside him. Myla scoffed at his tease but in her own defiant manner.

His humor echoed back to him through the night. “I prefer to bathe with my lover, not my pet. Be my woman, Myla, and trust me. I won’t let you drown.”

The cat swam away from him with a chuffing huff. If it were possible, he could have sworn she grumbled with each powerful stroke. After two laps around him, each one made with livid slanted eyes, the jaguar shifted.

Taric’s hands slid around her waist instantly and he felt the warm fur melt into gooseflesh. The touch that gripped his shoulders was clawed in nothing more than short fingernails.

“I’ve got you,” he soothed. Her grasp grew frantic. “Put your feet down, you can stand.”

Shivering, the water skimming the upper curve of her breasts, she released one hand long enough to push wet hair from her face. “I don’t like this. The ground shifts.”

“Just hold on to me.” Stepping closer, Taric drew her into his arms. Hard and pointed, her nipples bit into his chest and her arms clutched tighter. He was suddenly very grateful the water was cold. Her chin quivered against his shoulder. “We have to warm you up. Come on, swim with me.”

“I can’t.” Panic softened her words and she wrapped herself tighter around him. Despite the frigid temperature, his body began to respond, thickening against her belly.

“Trust me.” Stealing a quick sip of her chilly mouth, he glided deeper into the slow river, pulling her with him.

Her nails dug into his skin but she didn’t fight him. In a few moments, she relaxed enough to help, kicking out and stroking one arm. The other stayed firmly around his shoulder. Warmth came with movement.

When she began to smile, he returned them where he could stand. “Now, first lesson, lie back on my arm and float.”