Myla By Moonlight (3 page)

Taric leaned one arm on the table and buried his chin in his palm, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “I remember that. I think I was only about nine summers or so. How did you know though?”

“When you are distressed in any way, I…listen, I suppose is the best way to describe it. You were in no danger but you were most uncomfortable. The moaning kept me concerned for a long while.”

There were no servants in the room so Taric served her himself. One silvered plate in hand, he selected a bounty of tidbits for her to sample and placed it in front of her. Unsure how to proceed, she waited until his own plate rested before him to take up her fork. He watched her expectantly so she speared the brightest object on the dish, a plump strawberry the size of his knuckle. Pink juice dripped from the tines as she raised it to her mouth. A springtime storm erupted on her tongue with a sweet river of pleasure and her eyes widened in delight.

“Oh! I do like this. It is like sunshine in my mouth.”

Chuckling, he moved the small dish closer to her. “Then eat them all. Enjoy, Myla.”

Throughout the meal, he asked questions. She relayed what she could although some things simply had no explanation. They spoke of his father and of Bryton, of the turmoil wreaked by the war and of what plans he had for aiding in the peace talks.

Myla ate all the strawberries. She also found many of the delicacies to her liking such as the roast goose and crisp greens. She didn’t care for the pickled vegetables and when her nose crinkled, he laughed loudly at her, reaching across the table to touch her forearm.

Myla studied the man Taric had become. The weight of his rank had sobered the once-laughing youngster and a mature, coolheaded dignitary now sat before her. Although age had not yet marked his skin with grooves and ridges, responsibility had tamed the wildness of youth. Deep as the oldest oak, his eyes were wizened and his gaze perceptive. Not even the casual laughter he shared with her removed the mantle of royalty from his broad shoulders. The hand that one day would hold the ceremonial scepter still lay on her arm, relaxed and gentle but with a power that tingled her flesh.

He will be the finest king. If there is peace to be found, Taric shall be the one to discover it.
Finding a balance within herself—to allow him to grow and become a soldier—had been difficult. So many times, she had to force herself to permit him to fail and learn from his mistakes. He’d been bloodied and bruised and ached with sore muscles, all while she watched and winced. But he’d become a soldier, a warrior who made her proud. Each time he rode into battle, she was poised, ready to leap, to defend but often he didn’t need her. He never counted on her rescuing him but she always would.

His hand fell away as she raised her goblet, the loss of his touch a near-physical ache. Deep red wine coated her tongue with sensual fruitiness and heated her stomach. Her eyes drifted closed to savor the experience.

“You like the wine.”

“I do.” Along with the drink, his voice flowed over her with liquid sensuality and she kept her eyes closed to savor that as well. It seemed little to take, simple words on the air, words that stirred longings too complex to be examined. With deliberation, she opened her eyes and modulated her voice. “Tell me, what of your hired assassin? Was Marchen behind her blade?”

“I don’t know.” Tossing a crust of bread to his plate, he sighed and leaned heavily on the table. “She claims it was just a man, with no name, who paid her half in advance. The half she took was barely more than a month’s wages for a tavern maid, so it wasn’t a well-paid plot.”

“She got far closer than many before her. It appears they strike at your weakness, my charge. Whether the price be costly or not, the result would have been the same.”

“My weakness?” Taric arched his brows and tongued his lip. “Are you saying women are my weakness?”

“Perhaps, or more likely that you underestimate most females and would not think to have your guard high with them. Women can be as cunning and as deadly as any male.”

He nodded with a soft snort. “You certainly are. I guess I do think of women as something to be protected rather than feared. I’ll be more careful in the future.”

She dipped her head in acknowledgment when the twinkle in his eye dimmed.

“Myla, do you think me weak because I couldn’t send her to her death even though she broke the law?”

“What punishment did you impose?”

“Ah, I sent her to…Haverstead for ten summers of labor.”

Myla canted her head. Haverstead was a dismal, dreary island of no more than three miles at its widest. The land would have been worthless except it boasted the richest soil for medicinal herbs. The very air stank of menthols and foul-smelling plants. Little life existed in the surrounding waters as even the ocean was tainted with fetid odors. Life there was not pleasant in the least.

“Why? Would you have sent a man there?”

“No, the law is clear, Myla. In fact, the law is so clear, it states any
man
found guilty of an assassination attempt is to be put to death. It says nothing of a woman.” His smirk was far too satisfied and cocky. She laced her words with warning.

“Taric, you may seek to be merciful to whomever you wish, but be firm. The next time a female attacks, will you be able to be so lenient? What if she had injured your father or your stepmother? Could you be so kind if it was your child a woman sought to kill? Set the laws fairly and uphold them. Do not allow for compassion to her gender to color your view. Never underestimate a woman with a blade.”

Jaw firm, he studied her and his cockiness fled. “Wise counsel, my guardian, and you know me well. I’ll remember your words.”

A nod lowered her lids. Without asking, he poured more wine into her cup. “Can you read my thoughts then?”

“No.” She shook her head but then paused. “Well, sometimes when you are very determined, certain thoughts do echo quite loudly. But most times, it is more a sense of your emotions, your impressions, a shifting in the world around you. It is very hard to explain. I just know when you need aid. Last evening I nearly came too late and for that, I am eternally sorry.”

“Too late?” Pushing away from the table, Taric leaned back into his chair and fixed his eyes on her. “You kept the woman from stabbing me, how is that too late?”

“I—I was attempting to give you some privacy, Taric. My gift is foreshadowed knowledge of when you shall need me. When danger prickled my spirit, I at first mistook it as normal…excitement. I erred.” Her cheeks heated and she wondered if the wine was to blame or the sudden comprehension on his face.

Shifting in his seat, his gaze dropped to the table. “Oh. I see. Uhm, has that happened before? Your…confusion when I, uhm, am with a woman?”

“Only once before. You were much younger. That time when I realized…the reason for your…racing heart, I simply returned and slept. You were so…entangled, I knew my return would be unnoticed.”

Taric bit his lip. “How young?”

“I believe she was your first woman, judging by the nervousness I also felt.”

Myla cast her eyes around the room, unable to meet his laugh. Edgy with untasted emotions, she leapt up and paced. The movement felt good, stretching muscles she had not yet used since taking form. The heavy weight in her stomach was not unpleasant but it did make her feel slothful. She was a weapon first and foremost and likely to become rusty if not honed and used as intended.

For the first time, she took note of his chamber, feeling his gaze on her back as she walked the room’s length. Her fingers reached out to touch the stone wall. She smiled. How smooth it was. She pressed her cheek against it, letting the cool rock chill her skin. Pulling away, she looked around at the décor.

Taric had changed little while growing and bits of his personality were strewn about. An array of feathers tucked behind a small painting of a hunting scene recalled many happier times for him. Each bird represented a great accomplishment and a fine feast for him as a youth. Beneath her feet, a rich rug in forest green warmed the stone. The hearth boasted a seating area and a mantlepiece decked with memories—his first stag antlers, a festival ribbon, the knife he and Bryton had used to make themselves blood brothers, a framed drawing of his parents’ wedding.

A carved animal caught her eye and she crossed to the fireplace. A jaguar no larger than her hand and painted a glossy black snarled with one paw raised. The carving churned the meal in her stomach. Taric had placed her with his most cherished things. The upswell of emotions came too powerfully and she turned from the mantle.

A thin book and a bowl of peanuts rested on the stand by his bed. Wide and plush, the bed lacked the swags of many others she had seen through his eyes but she knew why. Taric felt closed in behind fabric walls and couldn’t breathe. He slept best with the night wind on his cheeks and left the uncurtained window open unless it was bitter cold. The bed coverlet was not the green of yesterday. That had been stained by her blood. The memory of his embrace rushed over her with a heated wave and she forced her mind away from it. “May I ask you something, my charge?”

“Of course.”

“Why do you contemplate marriage to Elora?”

Chapter Two

His indrawn breath split the air. “You know much for a woman I haven’t seen in many months.”

“Hmm,” she replied noncommittally. “I know what thoughts shout through your head and what turns your stomach in distaste. Beautiful as Elora Marchen is, she is not your match and you well know it. But still, you would forfeit the legacy of your blood for peace.”

“Peace means less men die, less women are widowed and less children starve. How can I ignore a possible solution that benefits everyone?”

She fixed him with a hard, unflinching stare. “Do you think the people of Eldwyn would truly accept an embittered queen upon the throne? Are not they the very men who die to keep the tyrant at bay? Do you think by allowing your bloodline to die out, the better peace has been achieved? If there is no blood heir to the crown, your wife’s family will gain power. It simply delays Marchen’s claim to Eldwyn lands until your death. And if you think to live a long life while bedded with the seed of your enemy, you are more fool than prince.”

Angrily, Taric shot to his feet. Liquid fire shimmered in his glare but Myla held her ground steadily. “You don’t know my bloodline will die out.”

“Taric,” she chided and shook her head at him. “No child has been conceived in your family without a true heartmate in centuries. Look only to your father. When Tarsha died, she took Balic’s heart. Twice did he remarry and yet you have no half brothers or sisters. Marry Elora and you do not save your people, you condemn them.”

From the aggressive way he stalked the length of the room, her words hit hard but they carried the ring of truth. If they hadn’t, he would not have belligerent waves parting the air in his path. He had touched these thoughts late at night when sleep would not come. Her tongue was merely vocalizing his own deepest fears. The fury and grit on his face when he whipped around was his sense of royal obligation seeking answers.

“So you tell me, Guardian. How can I stop this mindless killing over land that soaks blood and doesn’t care whose body it’s spilled from? You tell me how to bring peace so children I may or may never have don’t fear for their lives.”

“You do as you were trained.” Striding over to him, she reached out tentatively and stroked his arm. “You find the weakness of your enemy and strike hard but mercifully. Peace cannot be sought from those unwilling to give it but you do not have to be the iron hand that crushes the innocent.”

“Marchen has no weakness.” His petty snort sounded more childish than princely and she arched her brow at him. Sighing, he covered her hand with his own. “None that I’ve discovered, anyway. I guess I just have to look harder. Besides, Elora said no to my proposal. The argument is pointless.”

His words skimmed off her as his skin touched hers. Myla heard him but her mind galloped with sensations. The callused and darkened ridges of his fingers kneaded her hand in a gentle caress. Her mind thrust back to his lips pressed to her knuckle last night. Perhaps she was not designed for eating because a lump rose from her stomach and lodged in her throat at the memory. Slipping her palm from his forearm, she stepped back and licked too-dry lips.

“I should return now. Thank you for the meal. The thought was most gracious and I—”

“Wait!” His frantic clutch at her hands stalled her voice. “Bryton wanted to meet you. Would you stay, please, and just say hello to him? Half the time he believes I imagine all my tales of you.”

“You—you tell tales of me?”

“A few. You’re part of me, Myla. I’d never hide you from someone as close to me as he is. Other than you and my father, he’s the only person I trust. Will you meet him? For me?”

Silenced by his declaration, she nodded. Taric told tales about her? He thought of her when she rested within him? The jolt of lightning that scored her veins propelled her heart into a frenzied run. While his back was turned, calling out the door, she drew a deep breath.

Bright as a coin, Bryton’s cuprous head appeared above Taric’s shoulder with a hesitant smile. Myla had not seen Bryton with human eyes for many summers. Now large and brawny, little of the child remained until she looked deep into his eyes. The glimmer of devilry there showed that the sprightly scamp of her memory had not completely vanished. But he was no longer a carefree child bent on mischief. The sleeveless summer tunic left biceps thick as oak limbs bare, and her eyes flew to his kill marks.

One burnt dagger point discolored his skin for each time he had intervened to protect Taric from death, inflicted by her master as a display of courage. Despite her existence, he had seven peaked marks on his left bicep, an impressive amount for a captain not yet thirty summers. His father bore a dozen marks on each arm, the most ever recorded. Bryton looked to be in line to surpass that number if the war continued.

His handsome face was unlined and thankfully unmarked. The position of captain was honor-rich and had many strange and secret rituals, each one steeped in history and glory. They dedicated themselves to their charges by word and deed. The unnatural death of their master was a sign of dishonor in the captain. If ever a charge’s assassin went unpunished for more than one full calendar, it spoke of cowardice and inattentiveness. They inflicted on themselves the lowest mark of shame, a line of tears carved into their cheek.

Bryton didn’t have the highest mark, a full dagger blade burnt into his chest, and Myla was grateful for that. Captains only received that insignia when their assassinated charges’ murderers died by their hand. A mystical shimmer rippled the air over Bryton’s chest and Myla’s breath stilled. Was that a premonition? No. Her eyes narrowed and she silently promised he would never earn that valued mark, not for Taric, not while she stood guard. She would not allow that to come to pass.

In deference to Bryton’s place in Taric’s heart, she regally bowed her head toward the bodyguard. “I bid you good eve, Sir Bryton.”

At her formality, he sputtered, “Oh, you too. I mean…it’s nice to meet you, Myla. May I call you Myla?”

“It is my name and the only one I possess, so please.”

Taric clapped the gaping man hard in the back before walking to her with an outstretched hand. Her palm slid easily into his and she was struck by how large his hand was. It seemed only a moment ago she had accepted her charge of a squawking infant. Now a grown man, her charge was no soft-skinned babe. He drew her to sit near the cold fireplace in a soft high-backed chair and motioned for Bryton to join them. Taric lowered himself beside her on a low wooden stool. His friend settled into the opposite chair and she realized Taric had given her his normal seat. She started to rise. A firm hand on her arm stilled her and she looked at him.

How had she never noticed the way his hair curled about his ears? The deep lion-gold borrowed a shimmer from the torchlight and shone like sunlight against an autumn grove. Her fingers itched to touch it. Was it as soft as it appeared?

Myla did not realize her thoughts had strayed from the conversation until Bryton’s deep chuckle rang out. “I wish I’d known the jag was you, Myla. I might not have had to spend the night with damp blankets.”

She remembered quite well the night he spoke of although she didn’t know about his wet bedding. At the time, her mind had been filled with keeping razor-sharp wolf-teeth from her master. “I did not mean to frighten you, Bryton. Did Taric not tell you there was no danger? It was only the wolf I sought.”

“And you got him, too. There wasn’t much left after you’d finished.”

Eyes narrowed, she fixed the young man with a predatory stare. The smile slid from his lips and a gulp worked his throat. “I spare no mercy for any man, woman or beast who threatens the prince. Heed that, Sir Bryton, and you shall never need fear my claws.”

A low snort sounded from her right but she didn’t move her gaze from the wide-eyed man seated before her. Slowly he nodded and a little curl lifted the side of his mouth. “Formidable bodyguard you have, Tar—beautiful and fierce, such a lovely but deadly combination.”

Myla blinked. Bryton thought she was beautiful? She had never given much thought to how she appeared when human. She was just as she was. Did Taric find her appealing also? Darting her eyes to him, she found him thin-lipped and his brows drawn tight.

“Time for you to leave now, Bry.”

She sensed the tightly controlled anger pulsating from him and wondered where it came from. The captain stood and Myla rose also. He reached for her hand and placed a soft kiss on the back. Strangely, she didn’t feel the zing and twitches she had when Taric had done the same. Perhaps blood loss had made a difference. Bryton seemed to find her sternum fascinating and she glanced down in puzzlement. There was no mark or crumb on her chiton.

“Bry, stop it.” Voice deep and warning, Taric grabbed his friend’s arm and shoved him toward the door. “I didn’t ask her to meet you so you could drool over her, now out!” The men exchanged a few low words in bitterness but Bryton left with a laugh. Taric slammed the door behind him. Hands on his hips, he glared at the wood before facing her. “I’m sorry, Myla. I hope he didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“No, I found him most pleasant but he did seem to find my chiton fascinating.”

A rumble of soft thunder poured from him and his grin snatched her breath. “Myla, he wasn’t admiring your dress. He was gawking at your…uhm, he found you very attractive. He was flirting.”

“Flirting?” Quizzically, Myla pondered the word. Comprehension dawned and her lips circled. “Oh, flirting. I did not…”

“It’s all right. I can’t really blame him. You are very beautiful.”

The silence between them buzzed awkwardly. She hadn’t meant to look into his eyes but once she had, she was snared like a rabbit in a trap. Something foreign in his gaze dazzled her. It set her pulse racing and made her skin itch. A belly just sated with food suddenly ached to be filled again and yet she couldn’t eat another bite. Longing gripped her but she was unsure what she needed. Whatever it was, it needed to come from Taric.

Clearing his throat, he broke their connection and strode to pick up his wine goblet. He drained the cup and poured another. When he reached for hers, she stalled his hand with a touch. “No. I must return now.”

“Why? I mean, I like talking with you. I don’t have to watch my tongue or worry you’ll reveal a confidence. Won’t you stay here a little longer? I still have hundreds of things to ask you.”

Against his bare forearm, her fingers seemed too pale, too cool. An internal fire brewed in him, a warmth she craved to touch but didn’t know how.

He returned his cup to the table, took her fingers from his skin and held them. Suddenly, the blaze leapt from his flesh to hers, skimming up her arm and settling low in her hips. A word formed in her mind. A word she had no purpose for but it teased her, made her want to explore every meaning of it. It was an action and a thing, a request and a response, a thrill and a fear. The word was
desire
.

“I—I must return.”

“You still need time to heal. I didn’t think of that.” Concern angled his brows and she turned her face away. She was incapable of lying to him but omissions were not lies. “Promise me you’ll come again, that we can just spend some time together. I want to know you, Myla. You’re the dearest person to my heart but I don’t know you.”

“I obey when you call, Taric.” Frayed, her voice rasped the air and his frown deepened. Guilt swamped her.

“Before you leave…” He took both her hands in his and squeezed. The tenderness of the move swirled through her befuddled mind. Perhaps he was right and she wasn’t fully healed. What other reason could there be for her strange and confusing emotions? “…I need to thank you. I’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve helped me but I don’t think I’ve ever given you my gratitude. Thank you.”

“There is no need for thanks, Taric. I chose to become your guardian. This duty is not my burden but my purpose.”

“You chose…? I don’t understand, how did you choose to… Myla, will I ever understand how you came to be mine?” The laughing confusion on his face was endearing and a softness seeped into her chest. “Magic lives inside me but I don’t understand it at all.”

“There is naught to understand. Your mother called for a guardian. On some plane, I heard and chose to become whole. I became a consciousness and a servant to your needs. It is very simple actually. I am because of you. You are my reason for this life.”

Cheeks that had been rounded while teasing smoothed with sober humility. Bowing his head, his eyes shuttered and he swallowed. “You humble me.”

He brought her hands to his mouth reverently and pressed a small kiss to the knuckles of each. Unlike Bryton’s farewell, the feel of his lips on her flesh channeled a maelstrom of sensations into her body and she jerked her hands away. Desire, the foreign word that had rapidly become a throbbing reality, scared her. A new flavor licked at her, coating her tongue in forbidden splendor but with a bitter aftertaste.

Unused to the taste of fear, Myla shied from it. She took a single step back and allowed her eyes to wash over his face, sucking in the features like a sponge. From the arc of his tawny brow to the dip above his upper lip, his face was pressed into her mind like a flower between the pages of a tome, preserved for eternity in this single moment.

“I bid you farewell, my charge.” Closing her traitorous eyes, she misted. The loss of her solid body did nothing to erase the feel of his mouth. Instead, it spread through every strand of her being, warming her.