Warrior's Lady (10 page)

She gazed into his eyes as she closed the distance between them, saw his expression change from doubt to hope as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Sparks. Lightning. The flaming tail of a comet.

Jarrett’s mind whirled as her lips touched his. He loosed a ragged breath when she took her mouth from his, and then he was kissing her, his hands moving restlessly up and down her arms. She pressed her length against his, her soft moan of pleasure igniting his desire still more. She was light and warmth, the giver of life, and he knew he would rather die than spend the rest of his days without her.

“Leyla, come with me.”

“I cannot. Thee must know I cannot.”

“I know.” He rested his chin on the top of her head, breathing in her scent, reveling in the silkiness of her hair, the satin-smooth skin beneath his hand.

Soon, they would come for him and he would have to leave her. Nothing the Gamesmen had ever done to him, no agony of the flesh, had ever caused him as much pain as the thought of never seeing Leyla again.

He drew away from her, then took her hand and placed it over his heart. “I hurt,” he said. “Deep inside.”

Leyla nodded, her eyes clouded with tears. “I know.” Taking his hand, she placed it over her breast. “Feel my heart, my Lord Jarrett, and know that I share thy pain, that I grieve because there can be no healing for thee, or for me.”

Her trembling fingertips stroked his cheek, caressed his lips. “I will never love Tor. I will never give him a child. I will never truly be his.”

“No.” Jarrett shook his head, her words shredding his soul. “Do not deny thyself the pleasure of a man’s love because of me.” Unconsciously, he used her quaint speech. “Do not deny thyself the love and comfort of a child. I want only thy happiness, Leyla. Do not let thy love for me bring thee anything else.”

“Kiss me,” she begged. “Kiss me and never stop.”

His arm curled around her waist and he dragged her length against his, his kiss brutal, possessive, aching with need. Her hands curled over his shoulders and she clung to him, fervently returning his kiss. She could feel the wild beating of his heart, the heat of his desire inflaming her own.

The sound of her father’s footsteps penetrated the haze of passion. Summoning every ounce of willpower she possessed, Leyla twisted out of Jarrett’s arms and went to stand by the window, looking out into the garden below.

A moment later, the door swung open and her father and Tor stood in the doorway.

Tor stared hard at Jarrett, his dark-brown eyes filled with suspicion and mistrust.

“Leyla, it is time for Lord Jarrett to depart.”

“Yes, Father.” She turned away from the window and crossed the room, extending her hand to Jarrett. “Travel in safety and peace, my Lord Jarrett. May the goddess Judeau bless thee with health and strength all the days of thy life.”

Jarrett took her hand in both of his and squeezed it hard. “And may the All Father grant thee a long and happy life.” He could feel her hand trembling in his, see the tears that clung to her lashes. “Farewell, Leyla. I will never forget thee.”

“Nor I thee.”

“It is time, Lord Jarrett.” Tor’s voice cut across the stillness of the room.

“I’m ready,” Jarrett replied curtly. Releasing Leyla’s hand, he walked out of the chamber.

The sound of her tears followed him down the hall.

Tor’s companion was waiting outside. Wordlessly, Jarrett mounted the horse they’d brought for him, absently stroking the animal’s neck as he gazed at the shimmering crystal palace.

A moment later, Tor joined them.

With one last glance at the Maje stronghold, Jarrett followed Tor and the other man out of the courtyard.

Chapter Fourteen

Jarrett rode between Tor and his companion, the ache in his heart growing heavier with each league that went by.

He would never see her again.

They reached the head of the serpentine path that led to Dragora’s lair at midday.

“Do not come back here,” Tor warned. He handed Jarrett his sword and knife. “Thee will not be welcome.”

“Take care of Leyla,” Jarrett said. He sheathed the sword, slipped the longboar knife into the sheath inside his boot.

Without another word, he urged his horse down the narrow twisting path that led to the dragon’s cave.

He rode for over an hour, hardly aware of his surroundings. The ache in his heart seemed to intensify as he put more and more distance between himself and Leyla. It was like riding away from a part of himself. The best part.

His horse, a big-boned gray gelding, snorted and rolled its eyes as they neared Dragora’s lair.

For a moment, Jarrett thought he’d find himself afoot again, but after flicking its ears back and forth, the gray approached the cave without hesitation.

“Dragora!” Jarrett called, and waited for the flame.

“Dragora!” He called the dragon’s name a second time, and saw the thin finger of flame brighten the far end of the cave.

“Dragora!” A low roar caused the earth to tremble.

“Leyla.”

A white puff of smoke rose into the air.

Jarrett took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and urged the horse into the maw of the enormous cavern.

Dragora sat on her haunches at the entrance to the cave, a freshly killed carcass at her feet. The dragon’s tail, as long as its body and forked on the end, swished back and forth, stirring dust and ash.

Jarrett stared up at the dragon. Wide-set, intelligent yellow eyes stared back at him. Knowing he might be courting death, Jarrett urged the gray nearer to the great horned beast.

“Dragora.” Slowly, carefully, he lifted his hand and touched the scaly hide. It was warm and rock-hard beneath his palm. “Guard my beloved well,” Jarrett murmured, and urged the horse down the path, past the blackened trees and the charred skeletons.

He was halfway down the mountain when he reined the gray to a halt. He would spend the night here, he thought. One last night on her mountain, breathing the air of her homeland, sleeping on ground that she had walked on.

Unsaddling the gelding, he tethered the horse to a nearby tree, then sat cross-legged on a patch of short blue grass, gazing sightlessly into the distance.

He would never see her again.

The three moons rose high in the sky, their dazzling silver light reminding him of Leyla’s hair. Lying on his back, his hands folded beneath his head, he gazed at the stars, his mind conjuring up images of fathomless blue eyes and an angel-woman’s soft smile. He thought of all the times she had come to him in his cell, remembering how he had yearned to see her face just once, remembering how her touch had soothed his bruised flesh and eased the torment in his soul.

How many times had she drawn his pain, his despair, into herself? Never complaining, never letting him know how much anguish it caused her to absorb his pain. So many long, lonely nights when he had lain in his lonely cell, strapped to a hard metal table or chained to the floor, yearning for her touch, the sound of her voice, the warmth of her presence. She had made him whole, in body and spirit, over and over again.

And now she was gone, forever lost to him.

Heartsick and soul-sick, he closed his eyes, knowing he would dream of her, ache for her, for the rest of his life.

Heart pounding with fear, he held his breath as they lowered him into the pool. The water was cold, chilling his bare flesh. He felt it creeping up his legs, shriveling his manhood, rising up his chest, past his neck, seeping into the hood. He held his breath, his body thrashing wildly. Why didn’t they pull him up? His lungs were on fire, his heart was pounding with soul-shattering fear. Never before had they left him under water so long. Blackness swirled before his eyes, darker than the inside of the hood, deeper than the pool.

They were going to let him drown.

He opened his mouth to scream, and his throat filled with dark, cold water.

“Leyla!” His mind screamed her name, and then he was drifting down, down, lost in eternal darkness…

“Jarrett! Jarrett! Wake up, I am here.”

He struggled through layers of blackness to the surface, following the sound of her voice. He felt the warmth of her hands upon his shoulders, felt the dampness of her tears, like raindrops, on his cheeks.

“Leyla?” He opened his eyes to find her kneeling beside him. “Am I still dreaming?”

“No. Oh, Jarrett!” She threw her arms around him and held him close, wishing she could do something to banish the awful nightmares that haunted his dreams.

Jarrett wrapped his arms around her waist, gripping her tightly as he buried his face in the hollow of her breasts, breathing in the warm, sweet scent of her. His heart was still pounding, his body shivering convulsively as the last images of the dream faded. It had been so real, so very real. The cold water, the darkness…

“Leyla, what are you doing here?”

“I ran away.”

Her words scattered the last vestiges of the nightmare. Pulling back a little, he gazed into her eyes. “You ran away?”

She nodded, her blue eyes dark and solemn.

“Leyla…” He laid his hand against her cheek. “Are you sure this is what you want?” He hesitated a moment, his gaze probing hers. “That I’m what you want?”

“Very sure.”

“They’ll come after you.”

“Yes.”

“We’d better go then.” Jarrett frowned as a sigh of relief whispered past her lips. “What is it?” he asked.

“I was afraid thee might turn me away.”

“Why would you think that?”

Her shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. How could she tell him that she had been afraid he wouldn’t want her, afraid that, as much as he desired her, he would not want to spend the rest of his life with her.

He saw the doubts in the clear blue depths of her eyes. “I don’t think I could live without you,” Jarrett said quietly. “Nor would I want to.”

Her smile was radiant, her eyes filled with love and tenderness. “Kiss me, my Lord Jarrett,” she entreated softly. “Just one kiss before we go.”

“One or a thousand, beloved,” he murmured as he drew her close. “You have only to ask.”

Gently, his lips touched hers, and in that kiss was his pledge of infinite love and loyalty, and her wholehearted reply.

They traveled the rest of that night and into the morning, leaving the Mountains of the Blue Mist far behind.

At noon, they were well beyond the Cyrus River. A short time later, Jarrett reined his horse to a halt.

Dismounting, he lifted Leyla from the saddle of her mount. For a long moment, he held her close, his hands lightly caressing her arms, her back, his gaze intent upon her face, as if to assure himself she was really there. Not a dream, not an image of hope conjured from the depths of his despair, but a flesh and blood woman.

“We’ll rest here awhile,” he said. Reluctantly, he let her go. “I’ll gather wood for a fire.”

“Jarrett.” She threw her arms around him and held him tight.

“It will be all right,” he murmured, but in his heart he wondered if she would come to regret her hasty decision to follow him. He had nothing to offer her, nothing but his love and a solitary castle overlooking the Azure Sea.

They were on the road again within the hour. Jarrett pushed the horses hard, driven by an overpowering need to reach Greyebridge Castle. Tor would come after Leyla, he had no doubt of that. His only hope was that the Maje would turn back when he reached the Cyrus River rather than expose himself to possible capture by the Fen or by one of the roving bands of flesh peddlers who would sell him to the highest bidder.

He traveled warily, knowing that the prospect of being captured by the flesh peddlers was a possibility they had to face as well.

The next several days passed quickly. They traveled swiftly, pausing only for food and to rest the horses. Nights, they took advantage of whatever shelter they could find. Jarrett slept with one hand on his sword, never completely relaxing his guard. Always, he was aware of the danger they were in, and of the beautiful woman who slept peacefully at his side. He was awed by her faith in him, her trust in his ability to protect her from harm.

Her nearness was a constant torment, a never-ending temptation. His arms yearned to hold her, his hands wanted only to bury themselves in the soft halo of her hair, his lips hungered for the taste of her. But he could not take her by force, nor could he bring himself to beg for her favors. She was not a woman of low character, not some concubine to be used and cast aside. He cared for her too deeply to defile her, loved her too desperately to betray her trust.

He looked at her now, sleeping beside him, her hair spread over her shoulders like a mantle of liquid silver, her lashes like pale shadows against her cheeks. Innocent in the ways of love between a man and a woman, she slept on, completely unaware of the twin demons of need and desire that pulsed within him, causing him to ache in a way that was both bitter and sweet.

At Greyebridge, he would ask for her hand in wedlock. He would not touch her until their union had been blessed by the Church. He would wait, he vowed, wait until she was his by right of marriage, even if it killed him.

Jarrett knew a moment of blessed relief when they reached the Fenduzian Coast. Away in the distance, across the Azure Sea, lay the green-and-gold Isle of Gweneth.

He stared out at the calm water. Once, he had loved the vast blue expanse of the sea, the quiet lapping of the waves as they kissed the sandy shore, but now, thanks to the months he’d spent in the Pavilion, the idea of being on the water filled him with trepidation. All too clearly, he remembered the horror of being lowered into a deep black pool, defenseless, powerless.

Well, there was no help for it. If he wanted to go home, they must go by boat. And since he dared not book passage on one of the large Fenduzian ships for fear of being recognized, they would have to trust one of the local fishermen to take them across.

Jarrett could not disguise his apprehension as he stepped into an ancient-looking vessel the following morning, even though the old seaman who owned the boat assured them it was quite safe.

Jarrett kept his eyes focused ahead, his heart pounding with excitement as the tiny speck in the distance grew larger.

He was going home.

They reached Gweneth late in the afternoon. Leyla gazed up at the huge old castle that stood like a lonely sentinel on a windswept promontory.

Upon reaching the coast, Jarrett paid the old fisherman, then unloaded their belongings. Slinging their packs over his shoulder, he started up the long gravel path that led to the castle. The countryside, which had once supported any number of horses, gentlesheep and goats, seemed deserted. The cottages they passed stood in disrepair, doors askew, woven thatches fallen in.

Greyebridge Castle had been named for the massive dark gray stones of which it was made. He knew the rough texture of each stone, had scratched his name on more than one when he’d been a boy. A ragged banner woven of red-and-black and emblazoned with the head of a white stag fluttered from the gatehouse.

Leyla glanced at Jarrett as they crossed the drawbridge and entered the bailey, disquieted by the absence of people. Surely a castle as large as this should have housed hundreds, yet it was as quiet as a tomb. The yew trees, the shrubs, the bushes were all in a sad state of neglect.

As they approached the keep itself, she saw a huge yellow mastiff, its bones showing clearly through its mangy hide, sleeping in the shade of a rotting tree. From off in the distance, she heard the unhappy lowing of a cow.

“Where is everyone?” she asked.

Jarrett shook his head as a feeling of uneasiness settled over him. When he’d been arrested eight months ago, the castle had been home to over three hundred people. Now, the gatehouse was deserted. There were no sounds of life from the stable. The gardens, which had been his mother’s delight, had gone to seed. The only sign of life was a dog that would have been better off dead.

Resolutely, he opened an iron-strapped wooden door and stepped into the Great Hall.

The silence within the keep was absolute. For a moment, he stood just inside the door, his gaze sweeping the hall. Once, the room had been filled with intricately carved tables and chairs, couches covered in rich damask and velvet. Enormous candelabras that held hundreds of candles had provided light. Huge tapestries had decorated the high stone walls.

Now the room was virtually empty. The rushes were old and dirty and a monstrous cobweb fluttered from one corner of the ceiling.

Face set in grim lines, Jarrett crossed the room, his footsteps echoing loudly as he approached the spiral staircase that led upstairs to the family’s living quarters. Leyla trailed behind him.

His steps were heavy as he made his way to the fourth floor. “Sherriza?” he called as he reached the landing. “Mother?”