Rebel: The Blades of the Rose (13 page)

Quinn chuckled. “I think we've found our man.”

“How soon can you leave?” Catullus pressed.

“Today, if you want. Within the hour, if time's important.”

“It is.” Catullus handed both Slately and the barkeep more coins, then headed for the door, Jourdain and Quinn at his heels. He had to reach Astrid before the Heirs did. Everything else fell away from his thoughts, including the enigmatic Miss Murphy.

 

Astrid stood on the bank, studying the river. Unlike the incessantly shifting sea, a river's currents did not change from moment to moment. It had its terrain, just like a landscape, and so if one wanted to plot a course of navigation, to plan strategies and tactics, it could be done. There was a kind of stability in a river.

Behind her, she heard Lesperance unburdening himself of the canoe. They had portaged for several hours this morning, until finding a traversable leg of the river. Paddling was much easier than portage, so it was back into the water for them. The Heirs were behind them—she knew without doubt, but just
how
far back those bastards were, she didn't know. And that infuriated her. She hated being powerless against them, but she was and would always be at a disadvantage where Heirs were concerned.

The river might mask her and Lesperance's trail. That was a small solace.

She did not watch Lesperance setting down the canoe, though she knew if she did, what she would see: supple muscularity in the art of motion, pale sunlight glinting in his night-dark hair. His serious, handsomely severe face too alive to be a sculpture yet too striking to be ordinary flesh.

She would not think of his flesh. She would not consider him in that way.

Oh, she was a fine one, telling herself something that was impossible. Ever since she first met him at the trading post, she'd been aware of Lesperance as a man. And each moment she spent with him made her all the more aware. The tie between them strengthened the more she knew of him. He was strong, but not rough. He'd warmed her hands and truly listened to her, revealing a tenderness that was all the more incredible because of his potency. Yesterday's shattering kiss had proven to her that the desire she felt for him was mutual, and that didn't make her life one bit easier. Everything became a thousand times more complex.

“Let's take the canoe to the water,” she said over her shoulder, “and then we can load our gear into it.”

He made a wordless sound of agreement. Their silence had changed over the past days. It held much more than before, thick with unspoken words and waiting. In the silence, he crouched, a beast hunting.

Soon, they were both carefully packing their kits into the slender boat, readying it and themselves for what was sure to be a treacherous crossing.

But not as treacherous as the feelings she battled. She remembered vividly a morning, a year after Michael's death, when she had awakened from heated dreams to discover herself slick and needy. She refused to give in. Her body's demand for release infuriated and shamed her. It, clearly, had moved out of mourning, but her mind and heart had not. She resented her body's hunger for pleasure, its will to cling to life.

Eventually, she had to acquiesce or else face madness. But she took little gratification from her self-induced release. It was simply a necessity, like eating or bathing, that had to be taken care of. She missed the nights and sometimes days of lovemaking she and Michael had shared, but all she wanted now was to sate herself and proceed with the business of existence.

Being so close to Lesperance, his touch, his scent, his devastating kisses, his force of will and unexpected compassion, reawakened her, making her confront the truth that Michael was long dead, and she…she was not. She lived. She
felt,
and it scared the hell out of her.

Once the canoe was loaded, Lesperance pulled off his coat, then his shirt. Her eyes were filled with sleek copper muscle, the ridges and planes of his torso, his taut, banded arms.

“What are you doing?” Her voice sounded shrill in her ears.

“Don't need them.” He stuffed the garments into his pack.

Her breath misted in front of her mouth in the frigid morning air. “It's cold!”

“Not for me. Not since I started changing into the wolf.” He gazed at her with desire and challenge. “Now I'm always hot.”

Her mouth dry, Astrid tore her gaze away. She and Lesperance took up their places in the narrow boat. At least he was sitting behind her, so she wouldn't have to stare at the bunch and play of muscles in his back, shoulders, and arms. But still, knowing he was shirtless did not help her already strained strength.

They pushed away from the bank and settled quickly into the rhythm of paddling. It was a good partnership, she realized. He read the river well and took her guidance without a moment's hesitation. Their strengths and pace were evenly balanced.

As the river curved through forest and meadow, she felt herself staked upon pleasure and pain. The silence was broken as Lesperance asked her questions periodically about the surrounding wilderness. She liked the direction his mind took, his need to absorb more and more, his open-mindedness. Yet beneath his questions and her answers stretched an undercurrent of tense awareness, waiting. This was a pause in his pursuit, but it was far from over.

Whenever she glanced back at him, she saw how moved he was by the land. She discovered, through his eyes, her own renewed delight in these mountains. The freedom and purpose of a river. And, after so long without, the bittersweet demands of attraction and connection.

Yet she didn't want to feel any of these things, did not want any of it. And she never forgot that the Heirs were hard behind them. Her fear of them had never dulled. Nor had her hatred. Both were sharp and exacting.

And she could not lose that ever-present sense that something was deeply wrong in the fabric of the world's magic, as though a tear had appeared, far away, but was slowly, inevitably rending everything apart.

The river gave her enough to think about, for now. She put aside thoughts of Michael and Heirs and magic and fear and desire—especially when the river picked up speed.

“You've a good memory, is that right?” she asked Lesperance.

“For most things,” he answered. “I can recite a page of text after reading it once.” The canoe rode a swell of water and slapped back down.

She fought against the strengthening current. “No text here, except what's written on the river. I hope you remember how to tackle rapids.”

The river steepened, rocketing the canoe forward as if released from a slingshot. Trees and rocks passed in a smear of green and gray. They couldn't speak, except to shout directions to each other over the growing roar of the water.

Eddies boiled around them. Lesperance battled to keep the canoe from slamming into boulders that menaced up from the river's bed. They careened like a twig, caroming from bank to bank, rising up, then plummeting down with greater and greater speed.

Astrid's alarm swelled with the river. Yesterday's rapids seemed a gentle trickling stream compared to this. Her grip on her paddle grew damp as the rapids stretched on, no signs of abating.

Life was measured out in paddle strokes. Everything around her became white water and bleak stone. The violence of these rapids astonished her—she'd never experienced their equal—as the canoe hurtled on, borne upon the back of a vengeful serpent.

The water ahead formed a razor line, foaming at its edge. Above the snarling rapids, she heard an even larger boom, the sounds of water hitting water. Falls.
Enormous
falls. From the sound of it, over twenty feet high. Straight in front. She couldn't even see where the river took up again below.

“We're going over,” she yelled just before they reached the lip. “Paddle faster—we need more speed!”

It seemed a ridiculous thing to ask for, speed, but it was what they needed to survive. They had to stay upright, had to move forward quickly, or else they wouldn't make it. Lesperance, thank God, did not question her. They threw themselves into matched, powerful strokes.

“As soon as we clear the edge,” she shouted, “shove with your hips. We have to clear the canoe's stern before the bow drops.” He made a growl of agreement.

They launched over the lip of the falls.

A free fall. It went on forever, as though the world shifted on its axis. She felt cold air whip around her, pushing upward, and struggled to keep her eyes open.

“Lean back!” she yelled. “If we're too tilted, we'll flip over when we land!”

His knees were against her spine as she leaned back as far as she could, and they both groaned, fighting gravity. She could only pray that there was enough space for them at the bottom of the falls. They could be smashed against boulders and be torn to shreds.

The canoe hit the base of the falls. Her jaw slammed together. It felt as though they'd hurled themselves against twenty brick walls. But they landed flat, without flipping, and that was a consolation.

There wasn't time to revel in their landing, or even to breathe. Enormous rocks thrust up from the bed, having tumbled down into the river from some great height millennia ago, leaving her and Lesperance the narrowest path to navigate at topmost speed.

They threaded through, their paddles scouring against the close-lying rocks. The canoe's hull shrieked. Hell, if they took on any water from a cracked or splintered hull, they'd either sink or be pulled even faster in the current.

She allowed herself a moment of relief when they cleared the boulders. Her respite had barely begun when he warned, “Another eddy.”

Not so much an eddy as it was a cataract. It caught them, the swirling whirlpool, spinning them in hard, tight circles. She and Lesperance thrust their paddles into the churning water, struggling to right themselves.

Lesperance snarled as he fought to keep them under control. Yet there was nothing he could do when the stern swung around and crashed against a large rocky outcropping. Astrid jolted with the collision, but he took the brunt of it. The impact roughly tilted the stern and she hadn't even time or means to lunge for him before he was thrown from the canoe.

He disappeared into the seething water.

Astrid's arms ached with exhaustion, but she did not notice or care as she dug her paddle into the water with all the force she could marshal. She had to get to Lesperance, had to reach him.
Oh, God, where was he?
She couldn't see him anywhere in the swirling, foaming water. He'd drown, or be pummeled against a boulder, break an arm, a leg, it was all fatal, and—

A dark head bobbed up a dozen yards ahead of her. Was he…? No, his arms moved as he wrestled with the river. She let herself be joyful for only a moment before plowing forward. He shot onward, faster than the canoe.

Lesperance tried to swim against the current, fighting it as he sought the shore. The river had too much force, buffeting him.

“Don't try and swim,” she shouted over the clamor. “Angle yourself feet first!” He'd only exhaust himself by swimming, and there was a much higher chance that, going headlong, he'd be thrown against a rock and crack his skull, if not snap his spine.

He must have heard her, because he did as she directed, leaning back so that his feet led the way. And he maneuvered himself with his arms, steering his course. Thank heavens he was strong, or else the river would have claimed his life in moments.

Her attention was torn away from him when the canoe, battered by the angry river, knocked against a cluster of smaller rocks and tilted. Icy water poured into the boat, soaking her boots and coming halfway up the sides of their packs. Now weighted with water, the canoe sped forward, more rapidly than before. With only her paddling in a canoe meant for two people.

Astrid watched as Lesperance hurtled toward a boulder near the riverbank, then disappeared behind it. She looked farther down the river and could not see him. He never surfaced or appeared.

“Lesperance!” Her throat burned with the force of her shout. “Lesperance!”

No answer.

No. No.

The water in the canoe was getting worse. The boat sunk even lower. She didn't have a choice. It was time to abandon ship. She didn't want to—her chances of reaching Lesperance were better in the canoe—but if she didn't give up the boat, she'd be taken by the river, too.

She piloted the canoe toward the same boulder around which Lesperance had disappeared. As soon as the bow of the boat slammed into the rock, Astrid leapt out. The canoe shot around the boulder, stern first. She clung to the boulder for only a second before scrambling up its side. Everything she needed to survive in the wilderness was in their gear, still in the canoe, though she had her rifle on her back and her gun on her hip. But if she could save the boat, she could use it to search for Lesperance. She would not let herself believe he was dead. Her mind simply shut out the possibility.

Astrid clambered up the boulder to reach its top. She saw farther down the river. Not a sign of Lesperance. Crouching there, she cupped her hands around her mouth.

“Nathan!”

“Here.”

She let out a gasp of relief. Looking down, she saw him gripping the other side of the boulder, thoroughly soaked but mercifully alive. His eyes met hers for a moment. Something loosened around her chest, the smallest easing of constriction.

He broke the contact when the canoe came racing around the boulder. With one hand grasping the rock, he swung himself out to seize hold of the boat just before it darted past him.

“Don't bother with the boat,” she yelled. She worried that he wouldn't be able to hang on to the safety of the boulder with just one hand while the canoe tried to drag him with it farther down the river.

“Get our packs.” He gritted his teeth against the force of the water.

She didn't waste time arguing. Clinging to the rock, she eased her way down, closer to him. He groaned with exertion as he pulled the canoe nearer, swinging it around so she could reach their gear.

The packs were heavy, yet she found surges of power in herself to haul each one up and throw them to the nearby riverbank. As soon as the last of their gear was out, he released the canoe.

They both watched as the boat plunged down the river, then careened into a massive pile of rocks covering the entire width of the river. Above the din came the sounds of wood splintering as the canoe, within seconds, broke apart. Nothing was left but small chunks of birch. Even the paddles were torn to slivers.

She and Lesperance stared at each other as the implications hit them. They would not have survived, either of them.

Astrid leaned down to help pull him to safety.

“Get to shore, damn it,” he growled at her. “I might pull you in.”

“Give me your hand!”

“No.”

Swearing in English, Swedish, and every other language she knew, Astrid dashed to the riverbank. The moment her feet touched dry land, she searched for, and found, a stout, long tree branch. She grabbed it, set down her rifle, then ran toward the bank. Digging her heels into the ground, she held the branch out. It just reached him.

“Take it, you stubborn son of a bitch,” she snarled.

At least he wasn't too stubborn to listen. He snared the branch, letting go of the rock. Immediately, she was forced to lie almost flat on her back to combat the force of the river tugging on him. She pulled and pulled, grunting with effort, as he hauled himself toward the shore.

And then he was safe, reaching the safety of the riverbank. He crawled up on hands and knees, panting, dripping, torso and arms covered with scratches and cuts, smeared with mud, and the most welcome sight Astrid had seen in a long time. She still lay on her back, and he collapsed onto his stomach next to her. For some time, neither of them spoke as they both fought for breath and understanding that they had survived, but only barely.

Finally, he said, “Nathan.”

She turned her head to stare at him. “What?”

“You called me Nathan, not Lesperance.”

Astrid covered her eyes with one shaking hand. “After we just faced rapids so fierce they would make a deity cry,
that's
what concerns you?”

“My needs are simple.”

She hadn't a moment to respond when she felt his lips on hers, chilled, but alive. Her response was instantaneous as she kissed him back, wrapping her exhausted arms around his solid shoulders. She didn't have the strength to fight herself anymore, and threw herself into her desire as one might leap into a volcano for sacrifice.

 

It was worth almost drowning if it meant kissing Astrid. And having her kiss him in return with a blazing need that had the power to reduce them to ashes. He was bone weary, stretched thin with the fight to stay alive, to keep her safe. Yet everything receded to nothingness as soon as their lips met.

His tongue delved into the warm wetness of her mouth and she stroked it with her own. He rolled, coming to rest on top of her, her legs twining around him as he braced himself over her. She rose to meet his hips with her own. He growled into her mouth at the contact, that welcoming place, even separated by too much fabric. When he pressed his length against her, she surged up, moaning. He'd never been harder in his life. His cock was a branding iron that wanted her flesh. As she wanted his burn.

Faintly, he realized he shouldn't be doing this, that he was getting her clothes wet with his damp skin and she would be cold. He couldn't make himself stop, not when she laced her fingers into his hair and pulled him fierce and close to her.

It wasn't gentle or sweet or tender. It was rough and urgent, primal. The beast in him snarled its demands. When he dragged his mouth from hers to bite at her neck, she arched. The effort it took to keep from actually piercing her skin with his teeth made him shake. Instead, he shoved off her coat and almost tore her shirt right down the middle, but that small rational part of his brain reminded him that she needed clothing and might not have anything to replace it. So he clawed at the buttons with hands that felt more like paws. Her own trembling hands came up to help, their fingers tangling.

Then her shirt was gone, and all she wore beneath was a camisole. Beneath the thin fabric, her breasts were perfect, high and full, her nipples tight, stretching the cotton. When he took them in his hands, they both moaned, and he stroked her, drinking in the feel of her skin with a visceral savagery.

Through lust-hazed eyes he gazed down and what he saw made him growl. The dampness of his skin soaked through her chemise, turning it transparent. Her nipples were the color of rosy dawn against the cream of her skin, hardened into beads. His beast broke free of its leash. She gasped when he tore the chemise, and gasped again when he took the tip of her breast into his mouth. She pulled him even closer as she ground her hips into his.

With each of his licks and each of her moans, arousal grew, his beast becoming wild, until he became mindless, wanting only her, needing to be inside her. He fumbled with the buttons of her trousers.

Then she shoved him away. The beast bayed in frustration and loss, the sound echoing inside him. God, no. He was too close. He wanted her too badly.

It took him a moment to understand what she was doing before fierce exultation hit him. She tugged off her boots and threw them carelessly aside, unbuckled and set aside her gun belt, then began to wriggle out of her trousers.

The sight was too much, her hips undulating, the skin of her belly and lower being exposed. As soon as he saw the faintest trace of golden down between her legs, he leapt upon her. Nathan yanked off her trousers in one motion, then cupped her sex with his hand. His fingers were drenched immediately. The scent of her, damp and musky with passion, urged his beast to frenzy.

His fingertips brushed against the bud of her clit. She stiffened with a cry. Holy hell, had she climaxed already? Even as shudders racked her body, she growled into his mouth, “More.”

“More,” he rumbled in response. He caressed the liquid core of her, his fingers dipping into her, while the demand and weight of his cock grew monstrous. She tumbled through another and then another orgasm, her eyes squeezed shut, the expression on her face bordering on torment if not for the pleasured sounds she made.

“Inside me,” she panted. “Now.”

Nathan lifted himself up enough to undo the fastening of his breeches. His cock sprang free, the relief from pressure enough to make him groan. When her fingers stroked along his shaft, over the aching head and across the weight of his balls, he drew upon wellsprings of control he barely knew he had not to explode in a second. And when she guided him toward her slick opening, as impatient as he, Nathan went to the brink of madness. He thrust into her with one hard, sure stroke.

She was hot and sleek and gripped him like the beginnings of time. They moved together, possessed, and there was no way to know who was more wild because they were both fierce, racing toward pleasure, throwing themselves into it mindlessly. She clawed at him, and when he bit her again, harder, at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, she came with a cry.

He let himself go then. A few more deep, thick thrusts and his own climax tore through him. It was fire, liquid fire, and he realized only later that the feral, animal rumblings of satisfaction and release came from him, from somewhere deep inside.

 

There was a word for what happened to living matter when it returned to the earth, breaking down to its elemental, liquid state and soaking into the ground to feed another generation of trees and plants. Deliquescence. Nathan, draped over Astrid as they both lay panting and shaking, felt he would deliquesce, dissolve into the soil and leaves, nothing remaining. Spent. He was spent in every sense of the word and could hardly move, weighted down with exhaustion and contentment. Even his beast could barely stir. It curled up inside of him, rumbling as it slept. Now there was nothing for him to do but melt.

She shoved at him.

“I'm crushing you.” He immediately rolled aside.

When she sat up and began picking at the leaves in her hair, he also sat up—though his body protested at any angle other than horizontal—and brushed at the twigs and leaves clinging to her back. She waved him off.

“I can do it,” she said.

“You can't reach your back.”

Instead of letting him assist her, she stood and shook out her shirt. She did not seem to care that all she wore at the moment was a shredded chemise. He took a moment to admire her, especially her legs: They were, as he had suspected, long and slim, and sculpted from years of mountain living. He'd felt their strength wrapped around him, pulling him deeper. Gorgeous legs that he wanted to lick.

Which seemed to be the furthest thing from her mind. With quick, methodical movements, she pulled off the remains of her chemise and stuffed it into one of their packs. She dressed herself just as mechanically, as one might dress before setting off to conduct important business elsewhere. There was nothing in her manner suggesting she had just survived dangerous rapids and then made fevered love on the forest floor.

Nathan, sluggish, could only watch her as she bustled about and set herself to rights. Shirt, drawers and trousers, boots, belt. And not once did she look at him.

“I got your clothes wet,” he said. More complex sentences and thoughts eluded him.

She glanced at her damp shirtfront, and the wetness on the front of her trousers, concentrated especially at her hips and between her legs. Where he had lain, and moved.

“It's fine,” she said through stiff lips, looking away. “It will dry.”

His mind slowly began collecting itself. Something was very wrong. Maybe he had been too rough. He'd never taken a woman with such force. But then he felt the lingering heat of her nails on his back, sharp lines scraped into his skin. If he had been rough, she had been equally so.

“You should cover yourself,” she said.

Nathan got to his feet, tucking himself back into his trousers. The action was all the more difficult because his trousers were still wet from his trip in the river.

She went to the packs and rifled through them.