Myla By Moonlight (7 page)

His heart pounding against his ribs, Taric fisted his hands while Marchen passed him to enter the dining hall. It took every ounce of training he had to calm himself enough to stroll into the neutral hall of Delmas Luta.

Bryton was already in his place, behind Taric’s chair, a firm do-not-touch expression dulling his normal laughter. Not even the buxom serving girls drew his attention. That single fact made Taric aware how uneasy his friend was in the company of his enemy. Bryton never overlooked a set of beautiful breasts.

The courses were long and bland or far too sweet. Talk was kept to the arts, history or farming. No mention of the blood spilled or the lives lost dampened the meal. Nimon Luta’s weasel-like eyes darted from man to man with sharp moves. By the time the third course was served, Taric had envisioned plucking them from his skull at least twice. The reason for this meeting, the supposed treaty of peace with the middle land of Luta, sat like a fat grandmother inside the hall. It overshadowed everything. No one mentioned it but everyone was on their best behavior. Enough was enough.

“Delmas, would you tell me why you didn’t let my father or I know Emerto was also invited to these talks? It seems a rather suspicious move on your part.”

“Bitterness at your tender youth is unbecoming, Taric,” Marchen rebuked him with a superior air.

“So are temper tantrums at your advanced age, Emerto,” Taric fired back with a calm demeanor. “Yet you insist on behaving like a child who’s been denied a sweet, throwing your armies around to destroy innocent people when thwarted on a grander scale. The age-old agreed-upon Rules of War mean nothing to you.”

Narrowed eyes of cold iron lit on Taric and he felt the icy hatred pour out. “Rules set by men dead a century ago are worthless today.”

“Values and honor don’t go out of style. They’re the fiber of a man and in turn, the security for his people. You undermine the entire kingdom with your disregard.”

Marchen shoved to his feet and his chair hit the floor. “No Segur will ever speak to me of honor!” His voice boomed off the ceiling.

Taric remained seated and toyed with his goblet, outwardly smirking but internally picking that statement apart.

Delmas Luta rose clumsily and waved a drumstick around. His nervous laughter sent bits of spittle and pheasant across the linens. Sweat trickled down his round face and pooled beneath several chins quivering in fear. “Gentlemen, please, this is the dinner hour. Here at Claverham, we have no quarrel with Segur or Marchen. I insist on peace in my domain and at my table…please?”

Marchen snapped his embroidered tunic over a trim stomach and smoothed a full lock of hair into place. A cold, practiced collectedness blanched his features. “Of course, my apologies, Delmas.” A servant righted his chair and he sat, sending calculated visual daggers at Taric.

“Mine also,” Taric murmured, holding the glare.

Delmas attempted to direct the conversation to horse breeding but conversation stayed flat until Marchen struck out with premeditated charm. “Your men don’t enter Claverham, Taric. I’m left to wonder what signal that sends to your host.”

“No hidden symbol, Emerto. My men will not place a burden on his storehouse or his purse. They’re at the ready and can fend quite well for themselves from the forest. Besides, I have no need of their protection or reason to fear Claverham and its inhabitants…do I, Delmas?”

The portly man chuckled self-consciously and Taric felt Bryton stiffen behind him. “Of course not. And may I say how thoughtful that action was, Prince Taric. Your consideration is well known and most welcome. Even a half-platoon of peaceful soldiers is a drain on any poor household like my own.”

Delmas was as poor as he was thin but his greed was rampant and provided a convenient excuse. Behind him, Bryton started coughing. The cough grew and intensified until Taric turned in concern. Bryton hacked into his cupped fist with watering eyes and tried to draw breath.

Delmas sputtered in irritation. “Is your man ill?”

“Just…outside…air.” Bryton gasped through another fit and looked to Taric, who nodded. The captain nearly ran to the wide doorway, his cough barking roughly.

“Do not drink the wine.” Whispered in a melody, the words caressed his ear and Taric glanced up. Dressed in servant wear, Myla filled his goblet with blood red wine and sent him a winking smile. The simple cotton blouse scooped low, as did most of the servant bodices, and without thought his eyes sank to the shadow of cleavage visible. Caught back in a strip of plain fabric, her mahogany tresses hung to her waist and swayed against his arm.

“You find my servant appealing?” Delmas leered with a lecherous grin.

“I do indeed.” Taric winked back at her.

“She is yours for your stay, a gift from the house of Luta to show our goodwill to our monarchy.”

Taric bristled at the thought of any lord gifting a servant to a guest for pleasure but since this was to his advantage, he dipped his head in acceptance. He wrapped his hand in her hair and nearly closed his eyes at the silky softness before pulling her to his lap. Acting the spoiled prince was not so difficult when it involved nuzzling the neck of such a delectable fake servant maid. Cupping his head, she leaned to his ear.

“This wine is drugged—not to kill but to incapacitate. Bryton readies your mount. Leave here now. A chamber below is prepared for your capture and torture. Luta seeks to discover how much your worth is in gold to King Balic.”

He made a low sound of acknowledgment and let his lips trail down her creamy throat. Her slim fingers tightened in his hair and his tongue flicked out to taste the honey of her skin. Heat drove into his chest and tripled his heartbeat when she raised her chin to give him more access. Wordlessly, he gripped her hip and pulled her tighter, cradling her deeper to his chest. He had to force his mind to remember that they were being watched. The temptation to lay her on the banquet table and feast on her filled his mouth with thick longing.

For her part, Myla ground against him, acting the wanton slut for all to see. He sprang to hardness in a blink and the groan that slipped from his lips wasn’t for show.
Spoiled princes have all the fun
. But at this minute, he was that prince and so he cupped her heavy breast in his palm. Did he dare believe her hissing, indrawn breath was real? Surely, no one but him had heard it. It punched into his gut like a battering ram. Struggling for control, Taric growled and stood, dragging her with him like a laundry sack. He didn’t bother to hide his heaving chest.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me. I find I have other appetites to feed this night. Delmas, you’re a most gracious host. Emerto, I bid you goodnight.” With a slight nod, he briskly strode from the dining hall, pulling Myla with him. Deep masculine chortles followed their path.

Once away from prying eyes, he should have released her but he couldn’t. He turned to the stairwell and she tugged him back into the shadows. A trio of soldiers took note and smirked before lazily moving away. Taric pressed her against the wall, burying his hands in her hair. The fabric strip slid loose and fluttered to the floor. In seconds, it was trampled beneath the feet of a servant hauling a tray laden with steaming dishes into the hall. Around his shoulders, her arms clung and hands gripped with a scratching hunger he wished were real. The feel of her mouth under his was more incapacitating than any poisoned wine.

Nimon appeared in the corner of his vision, lounging voyeuristically on the wall, watching the lusty display.
Watch all you want, turd boy, but you touch and I’ll pluck your eyes out for sport.

Mouth gliding along his ear, Myla whispered, “Flee now. This night Marchen is not your threat but Luta. Marchen knows nothing of the plot afoot. Luta is the rat in this tale. He seeks the ransom your tortured hide will bring to the highest bidder willing to offer the most protection. There is no peace to be found here. You will not be allowed to leave your bedchamber should you seek it. Already a set of four guards stand in the shadows above. Go now, Taric.”

“Not without my sword.” He palmed her hips and yanked her into him. Nimon’s rat-like eyes followed Taric’s hand, which delved under her skirt and caressed the soft thigh inching along his leg.

“The sword is nothing. Leave it.” Sharp teeth nipping his neck hid her angry hiss.

How could she still taste of blackberries?
His tongue diving into her mouth, Taric drank until his head swam giddily with fruited lust. Only at the snicker behind him did he remember this wasn’t real. He licked down her jaw. “I will
not
leave the Segur sword in a house of traitors.”

Against his body, her chest stilled. She raked sharp nails down his back. Unconsciously he arched into her, forcing his throbbing heat into her soft belly. Her low moan barely reached his ears but her words filled his brain. “Very well. Then I shall retrieve it. Wait in the courtyard beneath the window.”

“How?”
One more sip, just one. I need one more
. Their lips and tongues dancing, he tasted her laugh.

“Smile, Taric.” She pushed him back, this time with full blazing lust written across her face.

But she turned to Nimon and crooked her finger, inviting the skinny whelp to join them. His small eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He stared at her and then at Taric. Taric did her bidding and smiled at the young man though it turned his stomach. His eyes shining with clear enthusiasm, Nimon hurried toward them. Myla caressed his cheek and dropped her hand to his neck. Her fingers whitened and Nimon’s eyes rolled. He crumpled to her feet in a heap.

She whirled on Taric. “Go! Stay in the shadows! I will get your sword, my charge.”

“But the guards—” She stilled him with a finger to his swollen lips. Then she shrank. Between his feet, an inky barn cat twirled and purred. Two half-moons of white shone behind the cat’s ears…just like Myla’s combs.

Taric gaped. “Soot?” The beloved pet of his childhood suddenly had new dimensions.

The Myla-cat shook her tail at him and winked.
The damn cat winked
!
In a flash of midnight, the cat ran up the staircase. A passing soldier didn’t even glance at the cat’s path. Taric sank into the shaded night. Humid air descended like a wet, wool blanket and he kept his back pressed to the stone walls.

Beneath the shutters he’d opened earlier, he stepped into the moonlight and whispered, “Myla?”

Her bright face appeared above him. The scabbarded sword of his ancestors held in one hand, she leaned out the window and let go. It fell straight into his hands.

“Go. I will follow,” she urged, scanning the darkness from her high perch.

She can bleed
. Panic welled inside him at the thought of her blood spilling again. Buckling the belt quickly, he vowed he wouldn’t leave her. “No, now. Come on.”

The frown she blazed on him tapered her luminescent eyes. “Do not argue, Taric. Go. Bryton waits at the stables.”

Taric pressed his lips tight and glared. Her words rang through his memory.
I obey when you call
. “Myla, return to me, my guardian. Return and
stay
within until I call for you.”

Her mouth open, she stared at him with horror before purple vapor surrounded her and she misted through the night against her will. Apparently she was incensed because, for the first time, her re-entry seared him with lasting pain.

His teeth clenched against the burn, Taric hurried to the stables. Bryton was already mounted and threw Falcon’s reins to his outstretched hands. Taric swung his leg over the saddle but couldn’t stop his cry when a sharp stab pierced him from within.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” Taric gasped and a wave of torturous nausea blanketed him.

“What happened? Myla just said to get the horses and blew pepper in my face.”

“My ass was on the dessert tray and Myla is pissed. Let’s ride for home.”

The thunder of horse hooves shook the drawbridge in the same second the alarm sounded within the bailey walls. The Crown Prince of Eldwyn and his peace-talk half-platoon became prey hunted in the night by not one but three full battalions. Only their magically aided head start allowed them to escape.

a
b

The pain never really left so Taric knew Myla was still furious. His hair clung damply to his head and his thighs quivered with exertion. Riding full gallop the entire way home to avoid slaughter, his half-platoon had arrived when the moon crested high in its arc. Falcon was lathered and puffing beneath him while Myla dug into his soul with razor claws.

When Taric least expected it, a stinging twinge of fire erupted in his gut, nearly forcing him to his knees.
Damn, she has a temper.
His hand pressed tight to the healed wound, he leaned over a writing table and wheezed in agony. The anteroom to his father’s chamber was normally his stepmother’s domain and he rarely ventured in unless it could not be helped. Primada had been rather strict with the rule, scolding a younger Taric on many occasions. Her successor, Lunian, held no such formality. He liked the second stepmother better for many reasons.

Taric hated pulling his father from bed but he needed answers and could not wait. King Balic had kept a vital fact from him, an explanation of this damn war’s beginnings. Why? A nagging sense of being cosseted had grown during the ride home, stiffening muscles already battered from the fast pace.