Myla By Moonlight (9 page)

“I spent many hours lounging on your bed as your pet while you studied. You liked to stroke my fur while you read.”

“We’ll talk about Soot later. Besides, that’s when I was a child.” He waved his hand as he paced and a smile tilted her lips. Balic had the same mannerism when troubled. Did Taric realize this? “Since I’ve been an adult, what has been the longest?”

“I suppose…the night we dined. That night I was of this world for several hours. Then in the meadow, it was…perhaps an hour I was with you.”

The furrow deepened, a rough fist rubbing his chin in contemplation and his tread lengthened. He never could stay still while sorting through problems. She supposed he may have walked thousands of miles within this chamber, most since he came of age to take over military duties. The past seven seasons had not yet worn a trough in the stone but she imagined it would before peace was found, unless Taric could achieve it sooner than simply awaiting Marchen’s natural death.

How fearsome he looked
. Without armor or sword, wearing only his breeches, he embodied the soldier. There were no soft places on his body, other than his lips, and not one drop of excess flesh. He trained with his men daily and harshly, knowing any day could call them back to battle. Taric didn’t sit on the sidelines, directing troop maneuvers with a map and words, but charged into the fray with shouts and might.

She had argued this strategy once when he’d been knocked from Falcon’s back. He’d been younger, leaner and bleeding alongside the campfire when she appeared to him.

“Good day, my charge.”

“Myla!” He shot to his feet but became unsteady and the next moment his ass hit the ground.

“That swing was too close. Had I not strengthened your armor, you would not be speaking at this moment. You should stay behind the fight line and direct your soldiers from safety.”

His dry, cracked lips had thinned, baring blood-smeared teeth, and he’d glared at her with a fiery pride. “Go away, Myla. No man will ever die in my place. Guardian or not, I’ll do my duty and defend my land and my people with my own blood. I don’t need to hide behind your magical skirt.”

Conceding to his honor, Myla had simply bowed her head and misted back to him.

Such valor increased her pride in her master. It also increased her responsibility. Many more times she had been forced to bleed her essence along his armor, doubling its strength to prevent his serious injury or worse. That he still bore bruises from the blows was painful enough to her, but she had stopped the most damaging of swings. Marchen was cruel and vindictive, seeking Taric out with his most hardened and practiced warriors. That the enemy chose to stay behind the lines and not risk his own hide, she considered not only cowardice but loathsome. He sought to bring misery to his nemesis by felling his only child but never by his own hand.

“I can’t think anymore.” Fatigue lined Taric’s face when he turned to her. “I’ll figure it out later, but I still have some questions for you.”

“Ask and I will answer.”

“Will you?” He gave her no chance to respond. Taking her hand, he pulled her to his chair and down to his lap. She started to struggle, the replay of early evening too vivid, when his palm cupped her cheek. “Stop. Just sit and listen.”

Myla forced her spine not to relax and sat stiffly on his thigh. She could not meet the laughing eyes under his arched brow. He laughed at her resistance and it mocked her arrogance, making her actions seem childish. Still, she couldn’t force the muscles to loosen.

“Fine, perch on my knee like a bird on a fence. You’ll just tire yourself. I don’t bite, Myla. Well, at least, I won’t. Come on, ease back here.” She allowed him to coax her until her back curved against his chest and arm, her legs draped over his hip. It was much more comfortable and much more intimate. “Now, tell me. Why were you crying? Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Stunned, she looked him full in the face. Concern shaded his eyes, the circles below bellowing his need for rest. Deep in her chest something broke, and tenderness rushed in. Her palm met the scratch of his beard shadow before she knew it had moved. “You can not harm me. You are so weary. Sleep now.”

“Later. Then why did you cry? Did I misunderstand? I thought you…were enjoying being with me.”

“I did…I mean…I was but…” Floundering, she struggled to find words for thoughts she barely comprehended. “I am your guardian. I fight for you, Taric, protect you, keep you from harm. Fear has never entered my mind…until you touch me.”

“You’re afraid of me?”

“No, not of you.” Her swallow was tight and tasted of salt. “I do not understand these feelings that erupt inside me when you kiss me. I do not like them. They confuse me.”

Taric studied her face for long moments before he sighed and dropped his head back to the tufted chair. “I suppose they do. No other man has ever touched you.”

“That is not true.”

His head snapped down and shock paled his face. “Who?”

“Bryton kissed my hand the night we spoke. Long ago, during your abduction, a guard fondled me. He kissed my neck, grabbed my behind and squeezed my breast. Only with you do I feel the fear.”

“When you’re with me, what are you afraid of?”

Myla bowed her head but his fingers lifted her chin until he raised her eyes to his. Dishonor shrank her spirit. A warrior did not admit their fear but she could not lie to him. “You make me burn inside. I feel as though I will explode and cease to be. I feel…hungered and empty but no meal could fill my ache. My skin itches and craves your touch, my heart pounds, my stomach quivers. Even after I return to you, the sensations linger and plague my rest. I do not like this.”

The brown of his gaze deepened, shifting from maple to walnut. “I know. I feel the same burn, the same need.”

“You have felt these things before. I have not.”

“No, Myla.” Slowly, he shook his head but his eyes never left hers. “I’ve never felt these things, not like this, never for any woman. Only for you.”

“But how can that be? You have known women, been with them, cared for them.”

“They weren’t you.”

On the desk behind him, the candle dripped wax, puddling to the curved base. The taper shrank, forfeiting its life to push back the gloom and her gaze riveted with his. The fingers beneath her chin caressed up, over her cheek to bury themselves in her hair. Her hand left his jaw, sliding to his nape. Their mouths met in sweet innocence.

Somehow knowing he journeyed with her along this path of the unfamiliar lessened her fright and she timorously embraced the sensations pouring through her soul. They were warm and thrilling and pleasant when viewed from beside him.

His words caressed her lips in the softest down of a whisper. “Tell me. Is it only your body that burns, Myla? When I touch you like this—” his palm eased from her hair and stroked down her neck, his thumb slipping to the dip above her collarbone, “—can you feel it in you soul?”

“Yes.” Her shuddered sigh racked her body and he drew her close. The spice of his soap wafting from his skin mingled with a pure male elixir. Greedily, she inhaled, breathing in the fragrance of man, spice and want. His arms around her were a soothing blanket, keeping the unknown wolves at bay. She allowed her bones to melt into his and he simply held her.

Life ceased outside the room. There was no war, no invading friends, no duties to attend to and oversee. Calm permeated the air. She did not understand what was happening but it didn’t matter for now. She was with Taric—her body, her heart, her spirit.

Wrapped in his embrace, she snuggled in peaceful joy until the candle sputtered with its final acrid gasp. Darkness fell, broken only by the stars’ fading gleam through the window. It granted just enough light to see his eyes begin to droop.

Stroking his hair, she whispered against his ear. “Sleep, Taric. Call me to you and rest.”

“Tomorrow.” Crusted with slumber, his voice was heavy and slurred.

“Yes, sleep now. Call for me tomorrow and I’ll come. Rest, my prince. Sleep and know you are never alone. Always am I with you.”

Dreams nearly claimed him but the command drifted from his lips. “Return, my guardian. Return beneath my heart.”

Lilac swirled around him, fingering his face with hazy caresses before sinking into the bliss of his soul.

a
b

Sharp teeth bit into his cheek. Rousing to wakefulness, Taric yanked his head away. A golden comb lay on his pillow. He had a vague recollection of burying his hand in mahogany silk, combs springing loose and spilling over his knuckles. The memory dimmed beside the taste of her tear-stained kiss.

Myla
.

He’d fallen asleep holding her, her re-entry into his soul waking him just enough to propel him toward the bed. He’d collapsed facedown on top of the sheets, his mind already filled with dreams of her. A deep sigh escaped as he rolled to his back, hair comb in his hand. It was solid, real and very heavy, designed to grip the thickest locks. Myla had returned to him but her accessory remained behind. A frown dipped his brow and he examined the problem he’d mulled last night.

How could he keep Myla with him, for always?

His fingers strayed to the scar where she rested. Myla was always with him, but he wanted her with him in
his
world, real and alive. There had to be a way. She’d shortened her words after spending extended time with him, extended emotional and physical time. Did that mean she became more human the longer she spent outside him? Would she be able to remain outside for a full day? Longer?

While he shaved and dressed, his mind poked and prodded ideas and theories. He simply didn’t have enough answers to questions and knew of only one way to find them. He left the chamber in search of his father, the hair comb tucked in his belt.

Lunian sat in the antechamber at her rack stitching a new tapestry, her delicate brow wrinkled in concentration on a specific stitch. Only ten summers older than he, her light youthful hum drew a smile. The sweet but feisty brunette matched his energetic father well and Taric welcomed her presence in the castle. He waited until she pulled the dull green thread from the design then cleared his throat.

She turned with a welcome smile. “Taric! You’re looking better. Come in, sit.”

“Thank you but I’m looking for my father.”

“Balic rose early. After you left him last night, he didn’t sleep well. Too many memories, too many uncertainties. You’ll probably find him down in the west field. He often trains with the youngers to keep his bones from creaking.” Lunian leaned closer with a conspiring somberness. “I think he’s afraid he’ll suddenly awaken one day to be an old man.”

Taric grinned. His father had little to fear. He appeared no older than his youthful bride and still could put most men on their rumps during training. “Then I’ll be sure to point out any new gray hairs I find in his beard. He hates that.”

“You’re still the scamp you were as a child. He tells me such far-fetched tales of you. You didn’t really convince Bryton to try to fly using a bedsheet for batwings, did you?”

“Well, he healed quickly and barely has a limp now so it ended all right.”

Her hearty laugh pealed like bells. “And you wonder where Balic gets the few silver hairs he has. One day you’ll face some mischief
your
son has brewed up, and then Balic and I will sit and laugh while you sprout your own gray hairs.” She jammed the needle into the tapestry, gathered her full skirt and strolled to him with an easy grace. “But that is for later. Now you need to eat. I doubt you took time last eve to fill your stomach and I could do with a bite myself. Will you keep me company?”

Their friendly conversation flowed openly while they ate. Lunian bantered with him in comfortable familiarity, often jabbing at him with Bryton-like spunk. She was becoming more friend than distant stepmother and Taric welcomed the growth. If this was what having a mother was like, he liked it.

It wasn’t until he pushed his plate aside that she turned concerned eyes on him. “He won’t say it, but your father worries. Marchen grows bolder and more cruel each summer. Each time you ride out, Balic doesn’t sleep, he paces the floor and haunts the parapet watching for you.”

Taric chewed a stray bit of bacon and kept his eyes on the table. “He saw to my training, Stepmother. I won’t let him down.”

“Taric, your failure isn’t his concern. It’s your injury or death which terrifies him. I know it’s not manly to admit it, but you’re his only child and to lose you… Please, for him, be careful. I love him, and when he aches, I ache.” She reached across the table and gripped his arm. The strength in her hand took him by surprise. “He loves you.”

“I know.” Gruffly, he pushed away from the table.

She shook her head and snorted. “I will never understand men. They can behead an enemy, whip them within an inch of sanity or torment a friend until they come to blows, but a mention of love between one another and they bolt like a scalded cat.”

“Meow.”

His tease erased her grave face and her laughter rang against the stone as he left the hall. He did indeed like this new stepmother.

Balic was training with the youngers on the west field. The barely teenaged troops tried to harness youthful energy into dutiful training. It wasn’t an easy task, Taric knew. He hadn’t been spared the same grueling challenges they were going through now.