Myla By Moonlight (15 page)

The sweeter flavor of her climax bathed his tongue and she cried a wordless note. Her legs twitched and her hips quaked. He softened his touch, easing her down from her frantic flight. Heaving pants rang loud in the darkened space.

“Why?” Her words were raspy, tattered by release. “We did not—”

“We will. Later.” His promised was muffled by kisses peppered along her lower belly.

“But…I flew. Aren’t we… Isn’t that the end of our loving?”

His chuckle warmed her skin under his lips. “One way a woman is much more blessed than a man is that there’s no limit to the times she flies. For a man, once he’s flown, he needs time to recover.”

A shocked stillness rippled the air. “I can fly again?”

He did not answer with words. Instead, his tongue grazed along her stomach. The bones of her hips became a map and his mouth followed their pathway upward to the valley of her navel, the incline of her ribcage, the mountains of her breasts. The vale above her collarbone was made for his tongue and he pressed a kiss firmly there. He stole one kiss from her lips then sank lower again.

Nipping above her knee, he traced a moist line with nibbles and kisses, his fingers seeking the slick source of her heat. He tempted the tiny hidden bud and her buttery softness quivered. She rocked into his caresses and gripped his arms. His name became a breathless chant and he increased his touch. Her feet digging into the pallet, she gasped, flying once more.

Victory shot through his soul but he did not decrease his attentions. He’d won a battle, twice, but there was a war in the tent he was fighting now. How many times could Myla taste pleasure’s heights before his body demanded the same? Slipping his tongue inside her gasping mouth, he sucked the sweetness from her lips and clamped down on his own longings.

She never had the chance for retreat before the upswell of sensations gripped her again. This time a woman’s scream rent the air in an impassioned voice any could have heard. He didn’t care. Her flesh still trembled next to his and heat scorched his hands as they smoothed along her body.

She recognized his pathway now and moaned in exhausted anticipation. Slick beneath his lips, she tasted of honeyed passion tinged with salted exertion. The heady fragrance filling the night infused him with blood-pounding lust and he fought the urge to hurry. No, he would not be hurried with this.

His hand cupped the round flesh of her behind and opened her fully to his mouth. Myla whimpered above him, her fingers shaky and blindly skimming his shoulders. Slow teases and licks drifted her along a calming river until she shifted closer to him, eager once again for his caress.

How could this be? How could she tremble with desire, her body cream to his touch and her emotions soar beneath his caress, if she weren’t real? It wasn’t fair. She felt, smelled, tasted like a woman. Why couldn’t he make her a woman all the time? What piece of the puzzle was he missing? She belonged in this world with him, by his side for always not just in his bed in stolen moments.

His tongue probed deeper while his heart made a vow. He’d find that elusive way to claim her for everyone to see if it took every day of his life. Myla was his. They would succeed. They had to.

Taric pushed her closer to release, sliding firm fingers deep inside her, thrusting in time with her hip’s motion while mouthing her core. Her orgasm shook him as fiercely as it did her, clasping tight to his hand, forcing him to grit his teeth against his own needs. When she tugged him up to her kiss, he could not resist.

Hot, wet flesh cradled him. Nuzzling her neck, he struggled to hold fast to the reins of his desire. One more, he promised himself. Once more he wanted her to fly for him before he joined her.

But Myla shifted and his traitorous body instinctively responded, breaching her and sinking deep inside her embracing warmth. His groan mingled with her hissed satisfaction and she hooked her feet behind his hips, arching to him. With one last frantic grab, Taric clutched his control and restrained the impulse to thrust wildly. Buried inside her womanly depths, he rocked gently, lightly plucking the engorged nub pinned between them.

“Fly for me, my love, fly.”

“With you.”

Her echoed plea glided across his mouth. She used every motion he’d shown her to tease him into relinquishing. She learned so well. Each squeeze of feminine muscles chipped at his hold until it lay shattered around him like fractured glass. Now it was she who tormented him, moving beneath him with fluid grace and alluring beauty.

He captured her mouth and gave her everything, his control, his love and his passion. Sharp nails bit into his back and sides with fierce bites, each twinge fueling his rapid climb toward flight.

Around his length, a quiver grew. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped before a keening wail burst from inside her, the force of her body’s convulsion clinging tight to him. The friction exploded from sweetly frantic to crazed frenzy. Holding her was like trying to hold the wind as she bucked and shivered in climax.

Taric drew back and returned, propelling her flight higher. Internal fingers grabbed hold and kneaded each aching inch. Breath sailed from his lungs. His release erupted with a hoarse primitive cry. Her pure animalistic pleasure shrieked his name.

It faded to a whimper. The only sound left was a dual ragged struggle for air. Her limbs shook with exhaustion, his tremored in fatigue, and they sank intertwined to the thin mattress. Damp sweat painted his face and chilled along his hairline when he buried his face in the curve of her neck. The slender hand tracing his spine quivered.

“How I love you, Taric. I do not have the words to tell you all that’s in my heart. I cannot give voice to words I do not know.”

“No words.” His whispered exhale fluttered her hair. “Just you. You’re everything to me, every breath, every word, every sound. I love you, Myla.”

Had they strength, they might have kissed but it was beyond them. Instead they slept, lips touching, arms entwined and hearts in tune.

Chapter Seven

Sleep cast its dusky breath over them, the scent of slumber thick within the tent. Myla stretched, drew a deep lungful of the sweet air and settled against Taric’s side when the fragrance turned bitter. Her eyes flew open. Her earthly heart skipped and then raced. Along her skin, the air vibrated with energy. A growl began in her throat and her fingers arched into claw-like position. Danger approached.

“Taric, wake.” Within a quarter minute, she’d slid her chiton over her head. She knotted her belt as he cracked his eyelids.

Seeing her actions, he sprung from the pallet. “What is it?”

“Trouble comes.”

“Trouble? What trouble?”

Myla tilted her head, letting magic and enchantment sing to her. The song was confusing. She paused while lacing her sandals, letting the visions swirl through her. Hushed and otherworldly, she did not recognize her own voice. “Balic comes.”

“My father? Here? But you said trouble.” Taric pulled the tunic on and wondered at her statement. What trouble could his father bring?

A glance at Myla chilled his blood. He’d grown used to seeing her like a lover. This was the guardian from his youth. Her feline-like eyes glowed in eerie silvered luminescence and she jammed the combs in her hair. She’d risen, dressed and exited the tent before he’d pulled his breeches on.

The new moon shone harshly across the encampment, providing near daylight brightness, and he hurried to follow her to the edge of the clearing. The night watch spotted them and nodded in silence. Taric motioned for them to wake the others.

If they were surprised to see a strange, beautiful woman with animal eyes exit his tent, they said nothing. Her lips were swollen from his kisses and a faint pink whisker burn marred her throat. Anyone looking at her could tell she was more than his guardian at this moment even if they had not heard her lusty cries earlier.

Openmouthed, she drew air in loudly, like her jaguar in human form, tasting the breeze. She faced the northwest, the wind blowing her hair behind her until it licked the air like a dragon’s tongue.

“Bryton accompanies him…and Mactog. No others. Balic rides Falcon as if possessed.”

Bryton?
Taric opened his mouth but the sound of rumbling horse hooves held his tongue. The sound grew louder until the ground trembled beneath his bare feet. From the night, three riders streaked into view, skidding to a halt in front of them in a cloud of dust.

Balic slid from the gray gelding, his lips firm and his brows twisted. His eyes washed over Myla from comb to hem with a shrewd look but without a flicker of recognition before he turned his livid eyes to his son. Tossing the reins to Mactog, he stalked toward the camp. “Follow me.”

Though it had been nearly two decades, the stern voice sent remembered humiliation through Taric’s belly. He was about to receive a royal spanking, although given his size he assumed it would be figurative. Mactog would not meet his eyes, preferring instead to inspect the leather reins for frays. Taric shot a look at Bryton who stared at his feet. Whatever his transgression, it was well-known to all but him.

Jaw tight, he whirled on his heels and followed his father with Myla at his back. Falling into step beside him, Bryton didn’t speak.

“I thought you were near Bridgecord.” Taric kept his voice low.

“I was recalled this morning by King Balic. I met him en route.”

“Taric!” The deep shout from inside his tent silenced any further words.

Straightening his shoulders, Taric pushed the flap aside and walked in. Balic stepped before the opening, blocking Myla from entering. “My son has no need for a guardian at the moment. Stay outside.”

Gold-green pupils flew to his but she moved not one mouse hair.

“It’s all right, Myla. Please stay outside.”

Only at his word did she nod and step back. Balic yanked the canvas down and turned on his son. The king took his time removing his riding gloves, pulling one finger at a time, slowly. A candle had been lit and Taric assumed Balic had done it himself when he entered. The calfskin gloves smacked the map table, making the flame flutter and the paper jump. Hands to the east and west of his ink-drawn kingdom, Balic glared first at the rumpled pallet then at Taric.

“I had forgotten how lovely Myla is as a woman. Still, I doubt that your mother intended your guardian to become your lover.”

Taric’s fists clenched and his teeth clamped down but the reply eked out despite his restraints. “I doubt mothers think of their newborns in any way other than as babies. She bade Myla to come to me as a guardian and she has served me well as such.” Taric kept his gaze above his father and a hard swallow worked his throat. “She comes to me as a woman by her own choosing as she is free to do. And to give you your own words back, sire, father or not, my love life is none of your business.”

Balic’s lips went white and he jerked to a stand. A rolled and creased parchment appeared before Taric’s eyes and his father’s anger blasted his face with hot breath. “It is when you endanger my kingdom by following your breeches instead of your brains! This makes it my business. Yes or no. Did you ask Elora Marchen to be your bride?”

He refused to cower. Taric raised his chin. “Yes.”

a
b

Bryton bounced one leg although he didn’t move from his side of the tent opening. Myla stood guard to the left, listening to the king’s angry voice. They didn’t speak to each other yet she knew the instant Bryton moved. In two steps, he stood before her, jaw locked firm. He towered over her slight frame, and the waning moonlight kissed his hair to sparkling fire. Emanating from his tense muscles was the song of impatience, of rage, of battled futility.

Anger and loathing blazed from between his thinned lips. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

“I am not the one who left with his tail tucked between his legs.”

“No,” he sneered. “It hasn’t been your tail there, has it, kitty-cat? Maybe magic insulates you from giving a shit, Guardian, but this isn’t just Taric you’re fucking with. You screwed every man, woman and child in this kingdom. Nicely done for a puff of smoke.”

His words made no sense to her. Angling her head, she stared. She had taken no bolts or rivets to any person and never would she harm a child. Before she could ask him to explain, he drew his dagger and pressed it to her throat.

Myla made no move. She sensed no ill intentions in him. Rather what came to her was fear so deep he drowned in it, mired with concern for his friend. The word
brother
floated across his mind with a sob of helpless pain. Myla learned another type of love.

“You love him.” Her soft statement flared his nostrils with a sudden indrawn breath.

Eyes blue as the summer sky shone with unshed manly tears. “As more than my liege.” His tongue flicked out to his upper lip and he pressed the blade harder against her throat. A slight trickle of warmth let her know he’d pierced the skin but she felt nothing. “You bleed. What happens if I just plunge my dagger into you, Guardian? Do you die? Can his bond be undone?”

“You can stab. I will not die, for Taric is too near. You, however, will and by his hand. And then Taric will mourn.”

The dagger fell to his side and a sigh of despair ruffled her hair. “Then Eldwyn is doomed.” Bryton searched her face. “Do you feel nothing? He was born to rule his people and now, because of you, he can’t do anything but leave them to the blood he hopes to shed. His enemies will be his successors.”

“Believe what you will, Sir Bryton, but I had no hand in his destiny. I can do nothing but what I was created for. I protect him, I guard him and I love him. I can do no more and no less.”

Her head whipped to the right seconds before a sharp noise cracked the air. Before the echo faded, Bryton stared at nothing.

a
b

“Explain that foolhardy move to me.”

“At the time, it didn’t seem so foolhardy.” Taric fought hard to level his voice to neutral. Clasping his hands behind his back, he kept his spine stiff and his eyes averted from his father’s.

Balic paced the small confines, gulped a loud breath and slowly blew it out. The candle flame danced but held the wick. “Do you care for her?”

“Elora is…pleasant. I’ve met her twice and we’ve exchanged letters for a while. I hid none of this from you.”

“You didn’t tell me you proposed!”

“Well, I did.” Taric swallowed his ire. He was well past the age of adulthood and being spoken to like a child rubbed his ego raw. “We spoke of marriage as a business arrangement to bring this war to an end. But it doesn’t matter. She rejected me. Elora’s too afraid of her father’s wrath to risk becoming the Princess of Eldwyn.”

Fist banging the table, Balic’s face glowed red in the dimness. “You should never have asked! I will not have a brat raised by that bastard anywhere near my castle.”

“If I’d known the reason this war began, I never would’ve asked her.” Taric felt his tongue slip before he could control it and once loose, it sped him toward insubordination and disobedience. “Rather than let me think it was for territory, you should’ve told me long ago about Marchen and Mother.”

Balic crossed to Taric in a blink. “There was
nothing
between them, nothing but whatever fantasies fill his twisted mind.”

“Papa, you can’t be that blind. He carries her bondmark. Something existed between them for her to go to his bed.”

His face throbbed and his neck snapped before he realized Balic had swung. Taric clenched both fists to hold the reflexive urge to strike back. This was not king to vassal, this was father to child. The slap rebuked an impertinent and disrespectful son. Shame filled his mouth and kept his face averted while the burn of a palm print formed on his cheek. The emotion stung worse than his skin. He deserved this punishment.

A huge shadow passed between them with a deafening roar. Balic stumbled backward in fear, an arm thrown up to protect his face.

Taric fell back in terror. “Myla, no!”

His horrified shout halted the jaguar’s razored claw. The cat lowered her paw but her ears flattened and she growled with exposed fangs. Balic righted himself and gawked at the animal crouched between him and Taric. One black foot inched forward, forcing Balic to retreat against the tent wall. The ominous rumble of her protection filled the space and feline eyes, narrowed in contempt, locked on his father. Her shoulders hunched, prepared for attack at the slightest move. At his feet, her thick tail twitched to and fro, waiting to balance her leap.

“Myla,” Taric breathed, soft and soothing, coaxing her from her deadly mission. “Sheath your claws, my guardian. Appear as a woman.”

With one last menacing snarl, the feline shifted and Myla stood before him in her red gown, her face stonily fixed on the monarch. Her catlike eyes shot fury and her fists were white-knuckled. “He struck you.”

“Deservedly. Myla, stand down. Show King Balic the respect he is warranted. I have nothing to fear from my father or my king.”

“I answer only to you, Taric. He is not my king.”

“No, but he is mine.” At his low words, she turned her face to his. Slowly, her fingers relaxed. Questions filled her gaze that he could not answer at this moment. The line of crimson at her throat startled him and he wiped it away with his thumb. “You’re bleeding. What happened?”

“It is nothing.” With a small nod to reassure him, she winked.

His lips curved along one side. “Return to me, my guardian. We’ll talk later.”

Balic’s eyes, which had widened at the cat’s transformation, now bulged at the plume of mist funneling to his side. A hard gulp worked the king’s throat before he leaned on the plain wooden table and wiped sweat from his brow with unsteady palms. He waited until Taric clasped his hands behind his back before speaking.

“She would have…the cat…”

“Yes. Myla would’ve killed you with little effort. My guardian is quite fierce when provoked.” Lowering his head and his voice, he sighed. “I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean to insult Mother’s memory or you.”

“You have no memories of her to insult…but I do. Taric—” Balic rubbed his eyes in exhaustion, “—whatever you may think, Tarsha came to me pure. That Marchen has her brand means nothing other than that he loved her. He frightened her. She called him unstable and a terror. Before we married he tried to challenge my claim, but her father rejected it. Tarsha herself rejected him. He’s just never accepted that fact.”

“I don’t…” Fumbling with his words, Taric licked his lips. “I thought the bondmarks only appeared when… I thought they only appeared on lovers.”

“No.” Balic snorted in memory. “I hadn’t even kissed Tarsha when my chest raged. Although no one has ever really explained it, I believe it happens the moment you realize you can’t live without them. At least, that’s how it happened with me. One day, when it happens for you, tell me if my theory’s right.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell his father that, for him, it had been different. The moment Myla gave herself without restraint to him, he’d felt his bond sear. But something held his words. “How did you know I asked Elora to marry me?”

The monarch’s face stiffened from reminiscence to anger and he held up the crinkled letter. “Marchen sent notice and you’ve been formally called before the Elders’ Council. Elora is claiming you’ve reneged on a promise to marry her. She’s asking for Bridal Retribution.”