Rebel: The Blades of the Rose (19 page)

Staunton made a grunt of agreement. Jonas Edgeworth had taken over the high-ranking position within the Heirs after the death of his father, Joseph, in Greece. He'd never been a particularly promising prospect—impulsive and moody—and when he had returned from the failed Heirs expedition in Mongolia, terribly scarred, unwilling to leave his home, no one believed he would ever involve himself in the work of the Heirs again. But all that had changed when Bennett Day had killed Jonas's father. The worst betrayal came from Jonas's sister, London. She had not only taken Day as her husband, she'd become a Blade. Some even whispered that she'd been involved with her father's death.

Now Edgeworth had emerged from his seclusion, burning with a newfound hatred for the Blades. He vowed to punish and destroy them. He swore to complete his father's ambition: to make Britain master of the globe. And the Primal Source was key. Once the Heirs unlocked all of the Primal Source's secrets, they would be unstoppable. And the Blades would be annihilated.

Which suited Staunton's needs. But before that could happen, he had to reach one Blade in particular.

“Hey, boss,” one of the guides said, coming to stand at Staunton's shoulder.

“Not ‘boss,'” Staunton clipped. “It's ‘sir,' to you.” He hated the informality of North Americans, their appalling notions that all men were equal, with no respect for rank or birth.

The mountain man seemed disinterested, unless money was involved. “Hey, sir,” he said, the word laced with mockery, “thought you should know, me and the other boys noticed awhile back but we wasn't sure 'til now.”

“Noticed what?” Bracebridge asked.

“We're being followed.”

“Blades?” asked Staunton, turning to the mage. He'd anticipated that other Blades might appear. Those damned gadflies had a way of showing up even in the most remote, godforsaken corners of the globe. The Heirs were prepared, though. Once Bracebridge perfected his spell, they would be even more prepared.

“Just one person,” the guide said. “An Indian woman. Ain't nobody else but her.”

Staunton felt a flare of irritation. He didn't have time for importunate Natives. “What the hell does she want? Money? Whiskey?”

The guide shrugged. “Don't know. She ain't coming forward to say. Want me to go after her? I could bring her back to camp, make her talk.” He rocked back and forth on his heels, eager. The prospect of capture and torture seemed to thrill the mountain man.

“No, don't bother.” Staunton waved his hand, dismissive. “She's just some red-skinned beggar whore. We have more important tasks that demand our attention.”

“If you say so.” Visibly let down, the guide trudged back to where he and his fellow mountain men were busy gnawing on plugs of tobacco and telling stories of killing bear. They all groaned in disappointment when word came back that the Indian woman was to be left alone.

“Maybe you should let him go and get the squaw,” Bracebridge suggested. “I think he'd like the entertainment.”

“He can amuse himself when we have what we've come for.” Little interested in discussing hexes and spells with the mage, Staunton strode off. He couldn't leave the encampment, however, not without a guide, and those laggards weren't moving. So there was nothing to do but pace back and forth, knowing that he was punishingly close to fulfilling his every ambition.

 

Nathan followed Astrid's gaze as she glanced up to the darkening sky. The day was already drawing to a close. “We'll have to make camp soon,” she murmured.

Camp meant bed, and bed did not mean sleep. Not to him. Not with her. Two days. It had been two days since they'd made love, and he'd felt every minute since then like needles of fire. He liked anticipation as much as any man, but there was anticipation and then there was torment.

It didn't help that she seemed to be thinking similar thoughts. Throughout the day, he'd feel her eyes on him. Need and desire in her gaze that she tried to disguise but couldn't. They hadn't touched once since their kiss. In fact, they had barely spoken since the ice field, and it was a strange silence, not quite comfortable, not entirely uneasy. Weighted.

He glanced around. The ground was rocky and sloped, a poor choice for camp. “Not here.”

“The valley below should furnish a good place. Should be warmer, too. For me, anyway,” she added with a small smile, “since you're equipped with your own furnace.”

He was burning, all right. But like hell would he pull her to the ground and take her impatiently in the dirt. He'd done that once before. He wanted more. He would show her what they could be capable of.

The bottom of the valley furnished a welcome surprise. A lodge, of wooden poles and green moss, standing in a forest clearing. It was roughly the size of her single-room cabin, though taller. No smoke came from the opening in its roof. As Nathan and Astrid circled the lodge's perimeter, he scented the air.

“No one's been here for weeks,” he said. “Abandoned?”

Astrid peered into the open doorway, one hand resting on the butt of her revolver. “The Stoney have these lodges scattered around, and I guess the Earth Spirits do as well. They are for travelers. No one lives in them permanently.” She slipped inside, Nathan right behind her. Light filtered in through the hole at one end of the roof. Remains of a fire lay just beneath the hole, and a few bowls were stacked against the wall, near a large iron kettle. The ground was covered with soft hides.

She walked to the remnants of the fire and, slipping the straps of her pack off with a grateful groan, knelt down. “Anyone is welcome to use these lodges,” Astrid explained.

“Not anyone!” cried a shrill voice in Nakota.

The fire blazed to life.

Nathan leapt to Astrid, trying to shield her, and she stumbled back, pistol drawn, right into Nathan's arms.

“Show yourself,” Nathan growled.

“I am here!” The fire leapt and sparked, growing in size.

Both Nathan and Astrid peered closer at the fire. The flames shaped themselves into a rough approximation of a face—two scowling eyes and a sharp-toothed mouth.

“An elemental,” Astrid breathed, straightening. She stood still, pressing her back to Nathan's front.

“The guardian of my people,” cried the fire spirit. “You must leave this lodge at once, outsiders!”

Nathan didn't care for anyone, not even an elemental, telling him what he could and could not do. “And if we don't?” he challenged.

The fire roared bigger, and Nathan, shielding Astrid with his body, pulled her away so that she was wedged between him and the wall. He hissed as the flames singed his skin. Then the flames receded. “Stay and be roasted,” cackled the fire spirit.

Astrid tried to edge around Nathan. “Perhaps we should go.”

But he wouldn't be deterred. Sharing this lodge with Astrid, sleeping on hides, and enjoying the luxury of a real roof and some damned privacy was exactly what Nathan wanted. “‘Your people?'” Nathan repeated to the elemental. He blocked Astrid's path. “The Earth Spirits.”

“Do not despoil their name by speaking it!” The fire spirit flared with indignation.

“I can't despoil their name when I am one,” Nathan answered.

“You?” The elemental looked skeptical, if flames
could
look skeptical. “I sense the coldness of the white men's world around you.”

“Look deeper and watch.” Nathan cast off his pack and removed his clothing. Astrid avidly watched him disrobe, and he vowed to make good on the hunger in her gaze. He let the change come over him, and it happened within the drawing of a breath. So much faster now. He could do it with ease as Astrid looked on, no more fear of vulnerability. Now a wolf, he circled the fire and nipped at its smoke before transforming back into a man.

The fire spirit actually appeared apologetic, burning a little redder. “Welcome, welcome, Brother Wolf! This roof is yours. My flame is yours. And,” the elemental added, with a wink of one glowing eye, “your mate is welcome to my heat as well.”

Nathan, securing his breechcloth, gazed at Astrid, who watched him with trepidation and desire. “Thank you, Guardian,” he rumbled, “but tonight, she shares my heat.”

She still marveled that he'd gone after her. He might have done the same with anyone, not content to let another fight for him or his people. And he was determined. He would not have taken kindly to being left behind.

He'd gone after her, and not only for these reasons. It was
her
he pursued. And, damn them both, she wanted him to. During the day, her thoughts had been full of their quest, but now, finally taking further moments for herself, he was all she could think about, all she could feel. In her mind, her heart, her body.

Astrid watched Nathan as he entered the lodge, bearing the iron kettle full of water, drawn from a nearby creek. The heaviness of the large pot, combined with the weight of water, caused the muscles in his arms to stand in curved, potent relief as they strained against his shirt. She followed the fluid, strong grace of him as he moved. He maneuvered the kettle toward a metal stand placed over the fire and set it down.

“Not too hot,” he warned the fire spirit. “We want warm water for bathing. Don't cook us.”

“Yes, Brother Wolf!” the elemental chirped, happy to be of service.

Astrid nodded her thanks when he crouched nearby, forearms braced on his lean thighs. “That was something I always missed,” she said, “when I was on a mission for the Blades. Baths.” Using her knife, she cut away at the tough outer skin from thistle roots. She'd also gathered some glacier lilies, dandelions, and violets to supplement their dinner of cutthroat trout, and the flowers lay spread upon a blanket. An Arcadian meal.

He watched her work, smiling slightly, and as a soft drizzle began outside, the lodge filled with languorous domesticity. She felt both at peace and restless, a curious but not unpleasant combination.

“The grime never bothered me,” she said, “when we were in the middle of it. A bit of dirt was nothing when facing man-eating Fijian bird demons, or Heirs' bombardment. But as soon as things slowed down a bit, there was nothing I wanted more than a good, hot bath.”

“No tubs here,” he said. “You've got two choices: a thorough but cold plunge in the creek, or a warm but partial rinse here.”

She glanced out the doorway, where dusk turned the forest into purple shadows and icy rain pattered against the tree trunks and onto the woodland floor.

“A rinse,” she said, fighting a shiver. “I've got a bit of soap in my pack. Not my favorite, Pears, but it will do.” She stood and, with a small bit of coaxing, the elemental provided a second, smaller fire, over which she spitted and roasted the fish.

“I want to hear about it,” he said, following. “Your missions for the Blades.”

Settling down closer to the fire, Astrid pulled off her coat and set it aside. “You want to hear about that? Truly?”

He folded his legs beneath him, muscles in his thighs and calves catching the firelight. “I do. It's not just our own mission we're undertaking, but the Blades, too.” There was nothing dissembling or counterfeit in his tone, his face. He was honestly interested.

She shrugged. “Nearly five years' worth of missions. I wouldn't know where to start.”

“Anywhere. Your favorite.”

A sudden smile touched her mouth. “Oh, that would have to be tracking the Zägh through the Eastern Anatolian mountains.”

“The what?”

“Zägh. It's an enormous bird, but it has a human face, and it can speak. It knows the secrets of the universe—Michael and I had to be sure the Heirs couldn't capture the Zägh and force it to reveal its knowledge.”

“Dangerous?”

“Very.” And her heart spiked with excitement to remember.

“Tell me what it looked like.”

“Wings as wide as this lodge,” she said, opening her arms. “Talons the size of wagon wheels. It took a little piece of me here”—she touched her fingertips to her back—“but spoke beautifully, like a troubadour.”

And so, for the next who knew how long, Astrid recounted for Nathan her many adventures as a Blade of the Rose. She thought perhaps he might grow bored or restive, but he asked numerous questions and seemed as rapt in the telling of the tales as she was relating them. They ate their meal of fish and flowers as she drew pictures in the air with her words and hands. So many places she had been, from the icy wastes of Russia to the arid plains of Abyssinia. All of them as wondrous as any storybook could promise, and more, because they were real, and she was real, as real as her need to explore and learn everything she could. And he understood.

Nathan laughed when she recounted her attempt to disguise herself as a beardless youth in Amideb, only to attract the attention of the city's most sought-after prostitute. He frowned, serious and intent, when she described the siege between her, Michael, and the Heirs on the rocky coast of Portugal, only to have the Source they guarded captured by a smoke demon summoned by the Heirs. Small victories and cutting defeats. And the homecomings, to the Blades' Southampton headquarters, where Blades would gather in their ramshackle parlor and trade stories and compare scars, boast and guffaw, sometimes mourn, drinking whiskey and tea and eating plates of Cook's celebrated cinnamon biscuits. Until someone was called away on another mission, and it began all over again.

“You're smiling,” Nathan said, leaning back on his elbows, his legs stretched out to the side. Handsome legs, solidly muscled, the worthy subject of a master sculptor.

“Am I?” she asked, surprised.

“Been smiling almost the whole time we've been talking.”

“No wonder my cheeks ache.” She pressed her palms to the sides of her face as if to keep her smiles at bay.

He considered her, eyes warm and gleaming. “It's wonderful to see. Beautiful.”

She ducked her head, suddenly shy in a way she had never been, not even as a girl in her Staffordshire village. Something about this man, direct and unafraid in his intentions and desires. His insight into her was both frightening and glorious. She hadn't wanted someone so close, fitting inside her as a hand slides into a glove, warming the cool leather. Not only one body within another, but another's self snug against her own. She did want, she did not want. And this…peculiar man…fit. Not with perfection, because that was impossible, but there was a certainty in him that she recognized. She had opened herself to him, yet not fully. There were parts of herself she still hoarded. He wanted everything of her and would give her everything of himself. She had but to unlock her innermost chambers. The key was in her hand. And she hesitated.

“I admit that I…miss it,” she confessed as she looked down at her hands in her lap. “Being a Blade.”

“But that doesn't go away, does it?” he said. “It's a part of you. Anyone can see that. Can hear it when you speak.”

“I tried,” she said, wry. “Tried to forget, to pretend I could just cast it off, like a dried, dead husk.” She could not believe the words coming out of her mouth, things she had dared not admit to herself for years, yet here, in this warm forest lodge, with
this
man, she felt the bolted cabinet within her open on rusty hinges, releasing clouds of dust and memories and truths.

“Not dry and dead,” he said. His voice was low and rough. “Alive. As you are. No other woman so full of life as you.”

She raised her gaze up to his and the intense heat shining there. Smoky tendrils of long banked desire wove through her, turning her flesh sensitive, making her want. Want so badly her heart began to flutter in the aviary of her chest, in time to the throb that centered between her legs, sultry.

I don't know what I'm fighting.

“I think…,” she said, her breath scarce, “that I should like…that bath now.”

He said nothing, but his nostrils flared as she rose up and drifted toward the large pot of water.

“I kept it warm for you,” piped the fire spirit. “Not too hot, not too cold.”

“Many thanks, kind spirit,” Astrid murmured, while Nathan continued to stare at her with a hunger that nearly stole her ability to think and move. “You have been so helpful.”

The elemental flared, pleased with itself and the service it had rendered. Its flames curved into a grin.

“Would it be possible,” she continued, addressing the fire spirit, “to keep the fire burning but have your gaze averted?”

The flames pointed down in a frown of confusion. “Gaze averted?” the elemental repeated. “You mean, look away?”

“Yes,” said Astrid, locking her eyes with Nathan's. She knew precisely what she was asking, what she wanted. “Some privacy for Brother Wolf and me.”

There was a minute pause as both the elemental and Nathan took in what she said. Nathan's eyes narrowed.

“Oh,”
yelped the fire spirit, turning red. “Yes, yes! I can do that. Let it be known that I am hospitable in everything!” With that, the face within the flames vanished, but not without sending Nathan another wink.

Which left Astrid and Nathan alone. They had a large pot of warm water, a roof, a soft hide floor, blankets, and the whole night. The Heirs were out there, she had no doubt, and tomorrow brought a thousand dangers, a thousand doubts, but tonight…

Tonight, the key gleamed in her hand.

 

“In my pack,” she said, “are some cloths.”

He retrieved them and stood in front of her within seconds. Already, his chest rose and fell with the speed of one who had been in full pursuit. Firelight carved him, the clean blade of his nose, the hollows of his cheeks, the sensual fullness of his mouth.

“Let me,” he said. He tugged her shirt from her trousers and began undoing the buttons. As her skin was revealed, each long finger gently brushed against it, creating fever bursts.

She glanced down. He had already removed his moccasins. Beyond that, he wore only the hide shirt and breechcloth—which, she noticed, already pulled tight against the growing hardness of his erection. She knew he wanted her, but to see corporeal evidence made her head light and her pulse erratic.

“I'm not used to being tended. I always…took care of myself.” Her skin prickled with sudden bashfulness, knowing that she spoke of more than removing clothing.

And he understood. He growled, “I will give you everything. Take off your boots.”

She raised a brow at his commanding tone. A bath had been
her
idea, after all. Still, with the hunger and raw need in his voice and eyes, echoing what she felt turning her bones liquid, she was willing to concede. Just this once.

So she pulled off her boots and socks and threw them aside. Both barefoot, he became taller, and she had to tilt her head back farther to look up into his eyes. She did not feel overwhelmed, yet there was a subtle shift between them, the delineated borders between male and female that served to draw them closer together, polarized.

He resumed unbuttoning her shirt, a frown gathered between his dark brow as he focused on his task. The loosening fabric brushed against her nipples, already beaded into sensitivity. She bit her lower lip at the sensation. Then the shirt was open, revealing a slim column of skin that ran, uninterrupted, from her throat to below her navel. He dragged one fingertip down this expanse, a line of fire.

Nathan peeled the shirt off of her, delicate but forceful in his movement, and let it drift to the floor.

“Ah, God,” he sighed, ragged.

She was bare now, from the waist up, and let him look his fill. And he did look. Not just at her breasts, but everywhere: arms, shoulders, the bows of her clavicle, her ribs forming arcs beneath her skin. She realized she was much thinner than fashion dictated, if fashions were much the same now as they had been four years ago. Life in the wilderness stripped away extraneous flesh. Pampered, soft women, of yielding, plush limbs could never endure. Only strength mattered here. So she was not ashamed as Nathan looked at her lean body, but proud that she had the mettle to survive.

What he saw, he liked. His rasped breathing and the straining length of his cock within the breechcloth told her so. And she was glad. She wanted his desire.

“Touch me,” she said.

But he gave his head a small shake, almost as if waking. She scowled. What was he doing? Would he just strip her and stare, letting her burn? She felt exposed, undefended, and fought the urge to cover herself. Let him see her. She must. For him. For herself.

He saw her struggle, and admiration showed in his face at her willingness to keep herself open to him. He took up one of the cloths and dipped it into the kettle of water. Then, with deliberate, unhurried strokes, he drew the wet cloth over her bared skin. Everywhere he touched grew warm, and not merely from the water. Starting with her arms, then, rotating her, over her back, and then he returned to her front and ran the cloth along her throat. She watched him. His eyes were black, black and sharp as obsidian knives, and he drank in the sight of her with a voracity that made her tremble.

He dipped the cloth back into the water and then, at last, drew it over her breasts. Warm, damp fabric cupped her, rubbed deliciously against her nipples. She did not try to stop her soft moan. Yet he did not linger there. Instead, he moved the cloth over her ribs and in circles over the top of her belly. Astrid wanted to curse in frustration at the methodical pace, which only served to build her need higher.

Then he cupped her breasts with his hot, capable hands, his fingers coming up to play over her nipples. She stiffened, arched, and when he bent and took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue lapping at it, she hissed and threaded her fingers into his hair, pressing him closer. Each lick reverberated through her and concentrated between her legs, where she sweetly ached. She could come from this alone.

The exquisite torture ended. He straightened as she made a choked noise of protest. His eyes were heavy-lidded as though to bank the conflagration within them, his lips wet from his ministrations.

“Now me,” he rumbled, handing her the cloth.