Warrior's Lady (21 page)

“I know.” Bending toward her, he kissed her, savoring the softness of her lips, the sweetness of her mouth, the blue fire in the depths of her eyes. He had no doubt that she would fight to the death for him.

Sensing his thoughts, Leyla smiled up at him. “We are agreed then?” she queried softly.

“Aye, beloved, we are agreed. I will not leave thee.” He traced the outline of her lips with his fingertip. “We will see Tor safely to Majeulla. Mayhap we will spend the winter in your mountains.”

“Thee has never seen the Mountains of the Blue Mist in winter,” Leyla mused, pleased at the prospect. “There is nothing more beautiful than our mountains when they are covered with snow.”

“Is it really blue?”

“Yes.”

“As blue as your eyes?”

Leyla shook her head. “It is a pale-blue, paler than the bluebird’s egg, but it shimmers in the sunlight. Thee must see it! And perhaps, if thy heart is pure, thee will see a unicorn as well.”

It was early the following morning when Jarrett and Leyla returned to the clearing. Tor glared at Jarrett, his hand itching to draw his sword and plunge it into the Gweneth warrior’s heart.

“What now?” Tor asked curtly.

“We ride for Majeulla,” Jarrett answered.

Tor grunted in surprise, then frowned. “Why does thee wish to go there?”

“I promised to take you home,” Jarrett replied gruffly. “And I keep my promises.”

“Thee also promised to release Leyla from her marriage vows.”

“If it was her wish,” Jarrett reminded him. “It is not.” Jarrett shook his head. “You are a rare knave, to play us one against the other.” His hand caressed the hilt of his sword. “And a lucky one. Did I not understand how easy it is to love her, you would be dead now.”

Tor’s hand closed over his sword hilt. “I but await thy pleasure, my Lord Jarrett.”

“You’re a brave man, Maje, or a fool, I know not which, but I have no wish to kill you. There is a town a few leagues from here where we can get something to eat and supplies for our journey.”

Tor held Jarrett’s gaze for several moments. Ten, with a sigh, he went to saddle the horses, his mind filling with images of Majeulla. Perhaps, safe within the Mountains of the Blue Mist, he would recover the serenity that had once been his.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The journey from Heth to the Cyrus River passed peacefully enough. At least Tor and Jarrett managed to refrain from killing each other, and for that, Leyla was grateful. Very little was said as they made their way across the fields and forests. Autumn was in the air; the days were cool, the nights frigid.

Wrapped in the circle of Jarrett’s arms, she hardly felt the cold as she reacquainted herself with the hard planes and contours of his body. She wondered if she would ever tire of touching him, of being touched by him.

Each time they made love, she marveled anew at the masculine beauty of the man who was her husband. Would the width of his shoulders ever cease to
amaze
her? Would she grow indifferent to the muscles that rippled in his arms and legs? Would there be a time when she would no longer notice the rich texture of his skin, the way the sunlight glinted in his hair, the deep green of his eyes?

She’d heard it said that such things became less important, less noticeable, with the passage of years, but she could scarcely fathom such a thing. Jarrett was the center of her life, the joy of her existence. Had he been short and ugly, she would still have loved his valiant heart, his courageous soul.

Now, riding beside him, she could not keep her gaze from sliding in his direction. He rode as he did everything else, effortlessly, with a natural grace that was wonderful to watch. He moved in perfect rhythm with the horse, as though he knew what the animal would do before it was done.

When he turned to smile at her, she felt the heat of his gaze, warm and soft and filled with promise.

They camped that night on the banks of the river. Across the way, she could see the rolling foothills, and beyond the foothills, their peaks already topped with snow, were the Mountains of the Blue Mist.

Her heart felt suddenly light as she thought of seeing her parents and her homeland again.

Tor remained sullen and silent, as he had been since they left Heth. Each evening, he practiced with his sword, his movements becoming faster, more agile. It troubled her that he seemed so intent upon mastering the weapon, that he deigned to carry an instrument of death. Most worrisome of all was her deep-seated fear that he meant to use the blade against Jarrett and that Jarrett would kill him.

They ate a simple meal of black bread and goat cheese washed down with strong Fenduzian ale.

Later, sitting beside Jarrett, Leyla gazed into the fire. The flames, blue and green and bright yellow, were mesmerizing. Her mother could see images of the past or foretell the future in the dancing light of a fire.

A small sigh escaped Leyla’s lips. She would be no more than an outsider when she reached home. Her powers were gone, though she could easily read Jarrett’s thoughts as he sat there beside her.

He was thinking of his own mother, of Greyebridge, of vengeance.

Leyla placed her hand on his arm, smiling at him when he glanced her way. “We will be home soon.”

“Your home,” he said quietly. “I fear my home is forever lost to me.”

“I will be thy home,” Leyla replied softly. “No one can take me from thee, nor will I ever leave thee.”

“Leyla…” He was reaching for her when he heard a twig snap to his right.

Instantly, Jarrett was on his feet, his sword in his hand, his gaze sweeping the darkness.

“What is it?” Leyla asked, her voice hushed.

Jarrett shook his head, then felt his blood run cold as a bloodcurdling cry rent the stillness of the night. Before the last shriek had died away, they were surrounded by nine mounted men armed with swords and lances and long bows.

Jarrett grabbed Leyla and drew her close to his side, his sword held at the ready. Tor sidled up beside him, his sword in his hand.

“Canst not fight us all,” one of the flesh peddlers said. With an affable smile, he stroked his beard, which was the same bright red as his shaggy hair. “Best drop your weapons before I cleave you in half.”

“Better to fight to the death than go down like a cowardly cur,” Jarrett retorted.

“We will not permit you to die,” the peddler retorted sharply. “There is no money in dead flesh.”

“Have you the courage to face me one at a time?”

“We have the courage, my friend,” the man assured him, “but we were not born stupid. Drop your weapon and stand away from the woman.”

“No. She is my wife and you will not have her.”

“We will.”

“Some of you will die first.” Jarrett squared his shoulders. “I’ve faced worse odds and won.”

“My men are in no hurry to die,” the man said, his tone still agreeable. “Put down your sword, and no harm will come to the woman.”

Jarrett shook his head. “You must do better than that.”

“This is my final deal. We will sell your white-haired companion. We will keep the woman to cook for us. And you will become our swordsman. There is lucre to be made in the towns hereabout if you are as good with a sword as you seem to think you are. And if you are not…” The man shrugged. “We will sell you into slavery in the mines of Mereck if you fail to prevail in the arena, and then we will amuse ourselves with the woman before we sell her to one of the Fen brothels.”

“Let the woman go free.”

The man shook his head. “She is fair to look upon, with her slanted eyes and silver-colored hair. By the fires of Hadra, I’ve never seen hair that color in all my living life. Tell me yea or nay, my friend. I grow weary of waiting.”

“I will fight your men, one at a time, to the death or not, as you wish. If I win, you will let us go. If I am bested, I will do as you say.”

The flesh peddler stared at Jarrett in astonishment. “You are that confident of your ability?”

“Try me and see.”

Leyla looked at Jarrett in horror. “No!”

“Leyla, do not interfere.” He shook her hand from his arm, his gaze intent upon the flesh peddler’s face. “Have we a deal?”

“You intrigue me, my friend. We have a deal. Tell your companion to drop his weapon.”

“Tor, do as he says.”

Tor’s hand tightened on his sword. “Thee must be mad,” he hissed. “Thee cannot possibly hope to best them all.”

“Do as I say.”

With a sigh of resignation, Tor dropped his sword.

Immediately two men took hold of him, dragging him away and binding his arms behind his back.

The other flesh peddlers dismounted, forming a loose circle around Jarrett.

“To the death?” Jarrett asked.

The red-haired flesh peddler shook his head. “I think not. Good men are not easy to come by these days.”

“First disabling blow, then?”

“Aye. Lahairoi, draw your sword.”

Leyla watched in horror as a tall, heavily bearded man drew his sword and stepped into the circle. Clad in skins and furs, he looked like a bear in human form.

For a moment, the two combatants studied each other, and then, with a clash of steel, they engaged.

It was horrible. Ugly. Frightening.

Leyla tried not to watch, but she could not take her eyes from Jarrett. He fought exultantly, his movements fluid, his dark-green eyes flashing with defiance, his expression intense as he focused on his opponent. His blade slashed through the night, quick as a serpent’s tongue.

The sound of metal striking metal pierced the darkness, making her cringe with fear, fear for Jarrett’s life, for Tor, for her own well-being should anything happen to Jarrett.

She knew a moment of intense relief when Jarrett crippled the other man, but it was short-lived as another stepped in to take Lahairoi’s place.

Jarrett disabled the second man in a matter of minutes, but there was another outlaw to take his place, and then another.

Jarrett was breathing heavily now. Stripping off his shirt, he wiped the sweat from his face and chest, then, tossing his shirt aside, he picked up his sword to face the fifth man.

He knew at once that this opponent was a man to be reckoned with. He held his sword easily, confidently. They lunged and parried for fully five minutes, and then the outlaw’s sword slipped past Jarrett’s guard, opening a long bloody gash the length of Jarrett’s left arm.

There was a jubilant cry of victory from the watching outlaws as one of their own finally drew blood.

Their joy was short-lived as Jarrett drove his blade into his opponent’s right shoulder, before he disarmed the man.

The next two men each took a terrible toll on Jarrett’s strength before he managed to disarm them.

Leyla was weeping now, her heart aching for his pain. He was a warrior unlike any she had ever seen, a man of indomitable courage and pride.

Covered with blood and sweat, his breath coming in hard, short gasps, Jarrett faced the man who was the leader of the flesh peddlers.

But the red-bearded man did not play fair. Dismounting, he drew Jarrett’s attention while four of his men, all bearing wounds inflicted by Jarrett, came up behind him and wrested him to the ground, quickly relieving him of his sword and lashing his hands behind his back.

With an oath, Jarrett scrambled to his feet, his eyes blazing with anger. “Your word! You gave me your word!”

“Fool. Do you think I’ve become rich by making deals that offer me no profit?”

A muscle worked in Jarrett’s jaw. He had been a fool, but what else could he have done? Tor would have been little help in an all-out battle, and in a fight to the death, Jarrett knew he couldn’t have beat them all. Their number alone would have defeated him, and in the process, Leyla might have been hurt or killed. He couldn’t risk that.

“It shall be as I said,” the flesh peddler decreed. “We will sell the white-haired one and you shall fight in the arena. If you win, you will be well cared for. If you lose too often, we will sell you to the mines.”

Jarrett shuddered imperceptibly. The salt mines of Mereck. Incorrigible prisoners were sent there to die. No one had ever escaped. No one had ever survived the stifling heat and the hard work for more than a few months.

He took a deep breath. “And my woman?”

“So long as you bring me a profit, she shall be unharmed.”

“Sir?” Leyla stepped forward, her cheeks damp with tears.

“I am Keturah.”

“Keturah, our companion is a Maje. I beg of thee, let him heal my husband’s wounds.”

Keturah frowned thoughtfully. “A Maje? A healer, you mean?” He grunted at Leyla’s nod. “Perhaps we will not sell him. If our new warrior is badly wounded, it would be to our advantage to have someone who could heal him. If we do not need to wait for his wounds to heal, he will be able to fight more often.”

“Sir, my husband…”

“You may bind his wounds, but I do not wish him healed just now. I think he will be more easily controlled if his strength is limited.”

“But…”

“I have spoken, woman! Do not trouble me again. Lahairoi, bring the Maje to me. We shall see what manner of healer he may be.”

Jarrett sat in tight-lipped silence while Leyla treated his cuts. Though he had lost a good deal of blood, none of his wounds were serious.

He watched through narrowed eyes as Tor was called forward to heal the wounds of one of Keturah’s men. It was clear from the expression on Keturah’s face that he was mightily impressed with the Maje’s powers and equally clear that the flesh peddler would not sell Tor for any price. A man who had access to the kind of power Tor possessed was not likely to part with it for something as paltry as lucre.

“We will reach Kedar on the morrow,” Keturah informed Jarrett. “Your first fight will be there, at eventide. The Maje will heal your wounds before you enter the arena. Rest well, my friend.”