Myla By Moonlight (8 page)

“Taric?”

“Papa,” he grunted. The ache eased immediately. Thankfully, Myla respected his father’s presence enough to allow him to be able to speak without torture.

The deep breath he drew, the first since Myla had returned to him, smelled of horse and sweat.

He relayed the events of the day and Balic’s face evolved from shock to anger to abhorrence. The king paced the room, his long strides eating the distance from one side to the other in chomping bites.

At the mention of Myla, he halted. Two sets of eyes that matched met and held. “You see her still?”

“I always have. I just stopped telling you because…I know you don’t care for magic.” He loved his father and pledged his devotion with ease, both as his son and his vassal.

“Hmm.” Balic continued with his pacing, waving his hand for Taric to finish the tale.

Exhausted, Taric hung his head and ended his story before lowering into a sturdy chair. Careful to keep his muddy boots from the rug, he watched his father pace in quiet contemplation before speaking. “Marchen said he knew my mother.”

Balic slowed, his spine straightening and his chin rising before he faced his son. “Yes, they grew up as neighbors.”

“I got the sense it was more than that.”

A dark gold brow arched at his words but Balic didn’t deny it. “On his part only. Tarsha was
my
heartmate. You’re proof enough of that.”

“And you didn’t think that was important-enough information for me to have?”

“There was nothing to tell you. It was a private matter between Tarsha and myself.”

“You should have told me.”

“Taric, son or not, my love life is none of your business.”

Fury churned with rabid snarls through Taric’s gut and infused his aching muscles with vigor. Boot mud forgotten, he bounded to his feet, face hot with anger. “Papa, those are my men dying out there, mine. I’m the one wading through blood. You stepped aside for me to lead them in this war. The hell with your love life, you owed me the truth behind the cause!”

“Don’t raise your voice to me!”

Smarting for being called on his behavior like an adolescent, Taric averted his face. He forced calm respect into his tone. “I’ve been searching for a reason, a motive for Marchen’s hatred so I can end this death wave, and all this time you knew it. He loved her, didn’t he? This isn’t a battle for land or money. It’s revenge for a woman you both loved but who chose you.”

Resentment carved deep lines along the edges of the king’s short goatee, circling a mouth firmed in anger. He faced Taric with a straight spine and a jaw thrust forward. “Yes. It’s a war of retribution, not territory or gold or anything else. There’s no end to it until either he or I am dead. You’re right, I should’ve told you the truth before now. You’re not a boy. That fault is mine. But I did nothing to wrong that man except love a woman who loved me back. He couldn’t accept that and has been consumed with a bitter loathing to see anything I possess destroyed. He’s mad and his madness only grows more every season.”

“I don’t understand.” Taric shook his head, wiping sweat from his brow. “So Mother chose you and it hurt his pride? His ego is how this bloodbath began?”

“You’ve never been in love, Taric. I don’t know if you can understand it.”

“No, but I’m not exactly a virgin, either. I just don’t see how loving one woman could start a war.”

A soft snort accompanied Balic’s shaking head. “You’re talking about a different type of love. Sex is easy. Love is hard. It’s harder than any battle you’ll ever fight, any steel you’ll ever swing and any shield you’ll ever grip. It has more power than a thunderstorm. Can love of one woman start a war? Oh yes. That and so much more.”

“Bluntly, love sounds like a pain in the ass I can do without.”

Balic walked away, hands clasped behind his back, and gazed out the open window at the night sky. Sorrow colored his words with never-forgotten memory. “Then you’d miss the sweetest part of life. Love is a sword. It has two edges. The sweet…well, I hope one day you do discover that. The sour I pray you never taste. Both sides cut deep. Perhaps, being Segurs, our love is deeper. The bondmarks… Not all heartmates match, Taric. Some suffer knowing their beloved is bound to someone else. But that isn’t the worst torment a Segur faces. When death claims your bondmate, madness rushes in. Your foothold, your grasp of reality is…strained beyond words.”

As if pushing back the remembered demons of insanity, Balic ran his hands through short dark-honey hair and sighed. Taric saw not a king, not a father, but a man before him, a man who carried burdens no one could comprehend. The bitter words he’d flung now felt petty.

“When your mother died, I didn’t think I’d… Well, let’s just say I wasn’t myself for several hours. Maybe I never would’ve found my mind again except I had no choice. You cried. You needed to be fed and…I had to remain sane for you, for the crown, for Eldwyn. Marchen didn’t have that grounding. His love shattered his already-weakened mind. Tarsha never belonged to him despite what he wanted and he hates me for it.” He drew a deep breath and stared deep into his son’s eyes. “He hates me for you.”

“Me?”

“You’re my son, mine and Tarsha’s. Marchen has no children and never will. He’s a Segur on his mother’s side, although he denies it.”

“Wait.” Sitting back in the chair, Taric massaged his temple. “He said he left his son to oversee the fleet. I’ve met the little rat-face weasel.”

“Not his blood child. His late wife’s…although that’s another secret he’ll never reveal.”

“And Elora?”

“Also his wife’s. She had a lover for most of their marriage. That’s a not-so-well-hidden secret.”

The inner door opened with a soft rush and Queen Lunian entered the antechamber, tying the sash of her crimson silk robe. Long brown hair spilled over her shoulder and there was a crease along one cheek from her pillow. Concern slowed her steps. Her bright eyes darted rapidly between the two men. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Lu.” Balic’s face softened at the sight of his new bride but his voice was hard. “Luta has aligned himself with Marchen and attempted to use Taric as bait for a royal mousetrap.”

“What?” Shock paled her rosy cheeks and she rushed to Taric’s side to run frantic hands over his arms and chest, searching for wounds. “That traitor. Are you hurt? What did he do?”

An indulgent look passed from Taric to his father. Lunian was far too young to be his mother but it hadn’t stopped her from trying to fuss over him. With a gentle smile, he pulled her hands away. “Never fear, Stepmother, I managed to get away before one hair had been touched. I’m sorry to bother you so late at night, I just—”

“Taric, bother us! That’s what we are here for.” A gentle lift of her lips accompanied a swat to his knee and a mock scowl. “Balic, tell your son to let me worry over him. It is a queen’s right…and a stepmother’s.”

“And a father’s.” The tenderness in his father’s gaze pinched Taric’s chest but it was quickly shielded behind determination. “Lu, go back to bed. We’re nearly finished here. I’ll be along in a moment.”

She took one long moment to assess for herself that Taric was unharmed before smiling softly. “Do not keep him long, Balic. And you, sir, go to bed straightaway…after you bathe. You reek of horse sweat and look exhausted.” She patted his knee then crossed to Balic. Taric averted his face when she brushed a brief kiss across her husband’s mouth. The heavy door closed without sound.

“You chose a good bride,” Taric said simply to fill empty space.

“I did.” A deep sigh lowered the ruler’s shoulders and he stepped to Taric’s side. Like when he was a boy, Taric felt his father’s hand land on his crown and gently rub his hair. “She’s right. Go to bed. I think I gave you too much to think about in one night. Think on it tomorrow.”

“Papa…the Segur bonding marks and their powers? Are they real? Or are they a myth?” The soft question seeped out before he thought better of it and Taric clenched his eyes in preparation for the reply he already knew in his heart.

“Yes, they’re real. I carry your mother’s…and so does Marchen. They’re both a blessing and a curse. There’s no love like the love of bonded heartmates. And there’s no torture like losing one.” The hand left his head and Balic sucked in a deep breath. “Have you—”

“No. I don’t have a mark. I just wondered.”

“You will one day…when one woman touches your heart like no other.”

Taric’s thoughts jumped immediately to Myla.
What if the one who touches my heart isn’t real?

Chapter Four

Volcanic fury channeled through her being and Myla lashed out with formless fists. Fear merged with anger, fed by a fuel she did not recognize.
How dare he command me to stay within!
If a danger arose, he had bound her hands and she could do nothing for him. She kept her guard high, searching, reaching, detecting, but no impending threat loomed while he raced to Eldwyn. Each time he began to relax, she struck out again, sending a current of agony through his core. Though he had experienced pain in his life, he had never felt her wrath. And she made it hurt viciously. Taric would not be so cavalier of her limitations next time he grew angry.

His thoughts resounded in her consciousness, echoing over and over with the need to get answers, to understand, to stop the destruction. A dull pain formed within her, sensing his confusion, his turmoil. Arms with no substance ached to hold him and she shied from the yearning. She should not feel those emotions for him. In a wave of irritation, she blasted outward with a volley of short painful spikes and heard him gasp.

Satisfied Taric was suffering just enough to learn a lesson, Myla shifted her focus to the tumultuous emotions swirling through her. A field of yellow shimmered into memory and she relived each sensation. The explosion of flavors, the caress of the wind, the tickle of the sun on her bare arms all faded away. Taric had kissed her and she’d kissed him…and she had responded as a woman. Fear of the unknown wrapped around her and pressed deep into her essence. The imprint of his mouth still lingered.

Myla fought a formless sadness, tasting the first wishes to be more than magic, to be human. Were she human perhaps she might understand the emotions flowing through her when his mouth pressed to hers. But it was not mean to be, could never be. She was his guardian, nothing more. No matter how her body responded to his touch.

To protect him tonight, she’d played the whore to his advances. It shamed her that the role had been so easy to imitate. Taric’s hand in her hair and his eyes on her body thrust her heart rhythm to speeds unimagined. Not even a wrestling match or battle could produce the breathless burn his lips had when tracing her throat. Keeping him safe should have been her only desire but he’d cupped her breast and her mind had scattered.

She had given no real thought why she appeared as a woman to him. Maybe a male guardian would have better served him. Perhaps her gender was because his mother had created her. Had Tarsha wished her to be able to comfort her child without fear of replacing his father in his young eyes? It didn’t matter, female she was and could be nothing other. But she had never felt as female, as feminine, as when he pressed against her with that part of him which was most male. The salt of his skin tingled her tongue, coating it with thick wine-like desire. She could not drink in enough of his taste.

Myla forced her thoughts from her lusty yen and focused on her anger. Taric had placed himself in harm’s way needlessly. She knew him. He acted to protect her like one of his subjects.
She
was the protector, not him. The twisted logic wrenched another jolt of venom from her essence and she fought to prevent lashing out in the presence of his father. How could Taric be so uncaring of his well-being? He had bound her with magical ties and should danger arise, he would die while she watched from within. Helpless.

Taric moved. Leaving the comfort of his parent, he sought his bedchamber and a bath. Silently snarling in frustrated displeasure, Myla unleashed her rage and his knees crashed to the stone floor.

“Damn it, Myla, stop!”
Guttural and tense, his voice seeped to her but it was not a command to come forth so her anger did not abate. Once more she vented her unhappiness and heard his low groan.
“Please, Myla. Look, stop jabbing me and I’ll call you out after I bathe. Just…leave me in peace for a few minutes. Please.”

Mollified, Myla released her livid clutch on his soul. The silky warmth of bathwater and the strong spice of his soap invaded her senses. Each weary muscle in his frame unbound and unknotted. He was so tired. Empathy swelled and Myla felt a niggle of guilt for inflicting pain on her master. It was small and easily shoved aside. He deserved to be turned over her knee and paddled for his reckless behavior. Didn’t he understand the risk he took? If anything happened to him, a scratch or bump or scrape, she’d never forgive herself. Taric was her life.

“All right, Myla, I know you’re upset so let’s get this over with. Come to me, my guardian.”

Wet lion-gold hair took shape as she formed behind him. The marbled lines of his bare shoulders trickled down to a narrow waist. She’d skimmed fingers up that back, raked nails down those shoulders, ran her hands around that waist. Below, a form-fitting pair of black leggings cupped the firm muscles of his ass. An ass she had saved on too many occasions for him to risk it now out of male ego. Her eyes pinched in fury.

Her palm connected with his skull. “Do not ever do that again!” she spat. “Have you any idea of the danger you placed yourself in?”

Rubbing the back of his head, Taric whirled to face her. “I’m fine. Nothing happened. Did you have to hit me?”

“That was not a hit. That was a tap. Do not command me to stay within again, Taric. You bind my power. I could not have aided you tonight unless you called. The risk is too great. Swear to me never again will you call or hold me against my will!”

“Fine, I swear it. Just stop screaming. I had enough of a headache before you whapped me.” Wearily, he sank into his chair and palmed his forehead. “Marchen carries the bonding mark of my mother.”

“I know.”

Burnt amber eyes flew to hers and his tawny brows furrowed. “You knew, too? First my father, now you?” A damp toweling cloth slapped the floor with his roar. “I’m sick to death of being coddled like an infant.”

Coddled? If she wanted to coddle him, he never would have had a fleabite let alone a bruise or minor wound. No, she never coddled, she only kept him from death. She pointed her finger and advanced on him.

“I do not coddle you. Who carries your sword into war? You. Who feels each scrape and rub of armor? Whose arms ache after the sword’s swing? Whose ass gets numb from the saddle? Yours! Coddle! Bah! You would not know coddling if it bit you.”

“What else do you know that you haven’t told me?” he snapped.

“I know as I need to know. Had I knowledge that could aid you, do you think I would keep it from you?”

“I don’t know, Myla. I don’t know what I know anymore.” Thrusting out of his chair, he paced the room, back straight, fists clenching and unclenching.

“I am unable to lie to you. If I have something you seek, I am unable to hide it. It is impossible for me to deceive you. I was created for you, Taric.”

Before the unlit fire pit, he stood still, his breath loud in the silence. “So you’ve said, created for my protection.”

Spinning, his feet seemed to fly to her. His hard fingers pressed into her upper arms, sharp and biting, pulling her close. Ripples of unfurled want encased her.

“You can’t lie, right? Not to me? Then tell me this, my guardian. Did you like my kisses? Did you want more? Do you feel the burn inside when I touch you? Because I feel it. You kissed me back in the meadow and tonight…tonight… Myla, I didn’t want tonight to be a ruse. I wanted you to respond to me
for me
. Me! Not your charge, your duty, your promise to my mother. Tell me you weren’t drawn to me. Tell me those whimpers and sighs I heard coming from your lips were faked. Tell me!”

“I cannot.” Shuddering the confession in a half-whisper, she was unsure he’d even heard. Until he crushed her to his bare chest and took her mouth with a fierceness that stole what little breath she had. Fear evaporated in his arms. She was a magical warrior but she could not fight the seductive attack of his mouth. A bonfire of desire deep inside her throbbed and ached with nameless yearning. Although she was not dependent on food or water, she craved his taste, hungered for his possession, thirsted for his touch.

A sound brushed the night and she noted offhandedly it came from her throat. Her tongue sought his and found it waiting. Her leather-shod heels left the floor and he pulled her to him, cradling her closer to his heartbeat. A song rejoiced in her temporal body and grew lush from his caress. In Claverham, she had fought to withstand the bombardment of sensations but now, here, alone with no prying eyes, she let go. She simply felt what being with Taric could be like. It was perfection.

Taric’s tongue slid along her chin and the soft linen of his bedsheet met her back. Above her, his heated skin called and she didn’t think, rising to nip and lick. Damp and cool, his hair glided through her fingers. So hot, she was so hot, she burned from within for him.

The silk of her chiton whispered against his chest, the fullness of her breasts straining against the thin fabric. Only in the frigid water had her nipples tightened and tingled like this, but she was far from chilled.
So hot
. Panting in soft puffs, when his thumb circled a crested peak, air sailed into her lungs. A joy near exquisitely painful spellbound her as his hands covered her breasts. She burned but he blazed. She arched into his touch, desperate to be consumed by his fire. Hard muscles slicked under her palms as she traced them down his spine, wanting him closer. Beneath her jaw, he found a pulse point and licked with each frantic pound of her heart. Taric was her heart.

Myla tasted her name on lips that commandeered hers, his tongue thrusting inside to claim her breath. Air kissed her shoulders when he tugged the chiton from her, parting it and peeling it down her arms until she was bare to her braided leather belt before him.

A sizzle ignited the room when skin met skin. How different he was. Hard where she was soft, growing harder while she grew softer. Damper. Emptier. His mouth slicked down her throat, his tongue delving in the hollow above her collarbone. Need infused her.
Hungry, so hungry. So hot
. His hands cupped her naked breasts and flameless fire engulfed her. She could not possibly burn any more and not ignite. She was black powder and he was a tinder spark. One touch, one more deliciously wanton touch and her mind would shatter.

His lips closed around one hardened peak in a wash of wet intensity.

“Hey Tar, do you—?”

“Get out!”

Bryton’s mouth fell open at Taric’s shouted command. He whipped in reverse and closed the door before the echo died away, but the spell had broken.

Shoving Taric back, Myla scrambled upright. The burn inside her replaced by stinging shame, she jerked her chiton into place with tremulous fingers. She closed her eyes and in uncharacteristic cowardice began to mist without farewell.

“No! Stay, my guardian. Remain with me.”

Magic halted her escape and she crashed into physical form with excruciating force. She welcomed the pain, an ache to mask the loss of his ardor. Her arms wrapped about her body to hide the evidence of his mouth, her nipple marking the silk with a wet smudge. She wanted but she should not. Protection not pleasure, she tried to remind herself, but all her mind could grasp was that her body yearned for his. Wracked with conflicting emotions, she squatted, curled into a ball and buried her face in her crossed arms. If only she had the power to open the stone and curl beneath the floor.

“Myla.” Rough with his desire, Taric’s voice stretched to her, along with an open palm seeking to comfort, but she pushed it aside with a headshake.

Her unbound hair shimmied across her back and a drop of salt reached her mouth. She licked her trembling lips with a lonely tongue.
Tears.
She hadn’t known she could cry. Her first sob shuddered from her agonized chest.

His hands cupped her head. His stroke was gentle, sliding through her tresses down to her shoulders and onto her quivering arms. “Myla, please, don’t cry. Come here, my love.”

She lacked the ability to fight him. He pulled her up and then close. It was not passion which flowed through him but compassion. Comfort was as foreign as lust but much easier to swallow so she slid her arms around his shoulders, stealing what strength she could through human touch.

His arms hard against her ribs, he hugged her tightly, face buried in her hair.

“Let me return. You swore to me.” A fragile crack in her watery tone whispered against his neck.

He shook his head. “I know. I’m sorry. This is the last time. Talk to me. Why the tears? I didn’t know you could cry.”

“I didn’t either.”

His blond head snapped back. Brows angled sharply, he searched her face. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t know I could cry. I never have before.”

“Didn’t… Myla, you said
didn’t,
not
did not
. I’ve never heard you shorten words…and you’re crying…like a human woman.”

“I—I—I do not know why.” Confused and still quivering, she stepped from his embrace and he let her. “Perhaps I have spent too much time in your company of late. Rarely before have I seen you with this frequency. It must be the exposure which dilutes my cadence.”

A furrow creased his forehead and he regarded her with intense sable eyes. “Myla, what’s the longest time you’ve spent with me?”

Casting her mind back, she reviewed each time she had come to him. It was an excellent diversionary move and allowed her to grab the reins on her wildly erratic emotions. While she thought, Taric began to pace almost absently, as if unaware he moved. He possessed the stealth of her jaguar, sleek and powerful in a tightly bound body.