White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  “To you am I bound,” he breathed the words of his tribe’s Claim of Binding in her ear. “To honor. To twilight. To land.”

  He took her mouth fiercely, relighting the passion within her. He felt her momentary confusion and anger, palms pressing in protest against his chest. With a quick reach for his dagger at the waist, he sliced the ropes binding her hands and freed her.

  “I have claimed you, Scota,” he said huskily against her lips, dropping the dagger behind him. “Now take me.”

  His hunger and urgency mingled with her own. Her jaw throbbed, an exquisite and delicious sensation adding to the yearning growing in her body. The momentary surprise and hurt from his claiming, or whatever that tribal custom was, slipped away. He was kissing her throat, his hands making quick work of removing her woolen shirt. She arched into him, fingers tangling in his thick silken mane, urging him downward.

  Lips sipped at her neck and shoulder, his tongue marking her with ownership. He cupped and kneaded her breasts with calloused palms, and she moaned in desperation, pushing his head down. She wanted his mouth on her. For a moment, she blinked at the hilt of her sword, rising from the scabbard at his back, an ending for both of them should she reach for it … but then he suckled her and she fell into the delicious sensations of him.

  Boyden lathered each breast with infinite care, tracing the creamy roundness and salty curves with his tongue before descending upon each brown nipple. The taste and feel of her entered his ailing blood, momentarily blocking the pain. Fingers burrowed into his scalp, turning his insides out. Hunger welled and she reached for the loose laces of his breeches. He shifted to make it easier for her, and cool fingers slipped into his nest.

  Scota wrapped her hands around the throbbing length of him, and a guttural moan vibrated in his throat. He was hard, his body trembling, a male wildness ready for her taming. She spread her legs in invitation and he released her nipple, taking her mouth in a fierce control. She suckled his tongue, holding on to him, his man root pulsing aggressively in her hands. With gentle fingertips, she measured him, stroking his responsive flesh, cupping the place of his seed. He turned turbulent like a windstorm and removed her boots and breeches. Rising between her thighs, he breathed raggedly, a warrior of dark magical ferocity.

  Boyden grabbed her wrist, forcing her to release his man root. He was close to spewing his seed all over her white stomach. Anchoring her hands above her head, he pinned her, hips settling between pale thighs, his root pulsing intimately at the apex of her damp, silky cave.

  She was breathing hard against him, soft breasts crushed against his chest, her body rigid with desire. From her responses, he knew she was no frightened virgin maiden. It mattered not. This was his one last chance for pleasure, one last chance to sire a child, and leave something of himself behind.

  “Give me your air, Scota,” he commanded roughly.

  Capturing her mouth, he thrust forward into her, drinking greedily of her gasp of pleasure. She was slick and wet, able to accommodate his length and he took advantage.

  Scota thrilled at his invasion. Pleasure stormed over her with ripples of shock and heat. He was moving between her thighs in a slow rhythm, meant to entice. She could barely breathe with his mouth taking hers. Her fingernails dug into the powerful arms that supported his weight above her.

  In.

  Out.

  His hips moved.

  Tortuous pleasure bloomed.

  She spread her thighs farther apart, and he drove deeper in response. Longer, harder strokes sparked fires through her womb. She felt like screaming, the pressure building until it hurt, and still, he would not release her mouth.

  A dull roar consumed Boyden. He could not get enough of her; he would never survive this scorching mating of body and air. Nails scored his arms, a pleading for release, and he thrust harder, crushing her under him, taking her with him to that pulsating realm of lost breath and ecstasy.

  She screamed her release in his mouth, her body clenching around his root and … he exploded in a rage of thunder, a male climax rippling through his blood with both life and ending. He gave her all she claimed, burying himself deep into the mystical reaches of her womanhood. He gave her his seed, for she claimed him, as was her right.

  Scota dragged her mouth free, struggling for air, convulsing in pleasure and liquid flames. His large body rose above hers in steam and sweat. Arms quaking, head bowed, he slipped free of her. With eyes closed, he settled next to her left side, the strength of him momentarily sapped. She glanced at the shell shape of his ear peeking between damp strands and thought distantly that now was the time to kill him and end it. Reach for the sword and impale his heart. Reach for it. Instead, she listened to him breathing, the sound going slow and deep, lost in exhaustion.

  Scota swallowed. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a reflection of herself once more and lifted her head to see over the clean slope of his back. Standing by a tree, unmoving and dull in a light breeze, the reflection stood in a white dress with wings woven of crystals. Blinking to clear her vision, she looked again, but the likeness was gone. Dropping her head back down, she attributed the white image to the swirls of mist and moving shadows of the oak-woods.

  Eyes fluttering closed, she found herself cradling him close. She recalled the memory of when she first saw him and thought herself right in her assessment. Once his spirit was tamed, he would prove useful. Peace settled in around her, a constant hum of life renewing.

  “You are mine, now,” she whispered, expecting to feel a sense of triumph and not this slow, dawning dread. Pushing the unsettling feelings aside, Scota succumbed to the requests of her weary body and slept.

  CHAPTER 8

  SHE AWOKE DROWSILY TO THE tasting and teasing of honey-sweetened lips on her own. For an agonized moment, she kissed him back, thrusting her tongue into his hot mouth. It was a luscious moment, an indulgence that she allowed herself before pulling forcibly away and staring back at him with accusation and grievance.

  His lips turned into a mocking smile. “Get dressed, my woman warrior.”

  She looked down. Her nakedness made her fully aware of what had occurred before. All around them leaves rustled with nightfall breezes. They had slept … just barely. Beyond the trees and holly, she could hear the children asking the druidess questions about her. She shoved him away from her. Scrambling to her feet, she made a grab for her scattered clothes and bolted behind a thick tree.

  “Doona think to escape, Scota.”

  In her hurried flight, she had to step carefully among the old acorn shells littering the ground, but her mouth did not cease cursing him.

  He chuckled loudly at her anger, antagonizing her even more.

  “Stay away from the prickly bush, ‘tis hurtful to the softer parts of …”

  “Be quiet,” she said with annoyance. After taking care of her pressing needs, she reached for her brown breeches and quickly dressed. Shoving her feet through the legs, she silently fumed over her weakness for dominant, muscle-bound males.

  “Scota.”

  She lifted her head. He sounded closer.

  Taking a fortifying breath, she turned around and faced him, clad only in boots and unlaced breeches.

  Her enemy lover leaned a shoulder against a near tree, studying her with a hooded intensity. Arms folded across a bare chest, she felt the kindling of him return in her body.

  “We must talk,” he said quietly.

  Her gaze dipped to the bronze torc resting on his collarbone. It seemed almost a part of him.

  “There is nothing to talk about,” she replied, reaching for her woolen shirt.

  “There is.”

  She did not see him push away from the tree as she was giving her shirt a firm shaking out. “We both took our animal pleasures, Boyden.”

  In the next instant, a large hand locked around her wrist, staying her efforts.

  “Is that what you call it?” Warning rippled in his tone.

  “Yes,” she rep
lied, feeling both desperate and angry. “What would you call it?”

  He said not a word. A sudden grimace of pain tightened his features, and he released her wrist.

  “Boyden?”

  “Aye,” he mumbled. He reached out and braced a hand on the trunk behind her and lowered his head.

  “Is it the Darkshade bothering you?” she asked, peering at him.

  He smiled faintly, his body covered with a fine sheen of sweat.

  After a long moment, he looked up.

  “Are you all right?

  His head tilted. “I claimed you in the way of my tribe, a sacred vow,” he declared softly. There was a strange paleness to his features, an early marker of the battle weary. “You belong to me.”

  “I belong to no one.”

  He reclaimed her wrist and squeezed firmly, forcing her to drop her shirt.

  “I claimed you, Scota.”

  “We mated, nothing more,” she argued, forcing herself to deem it so.

  He regarded her with defiance. “You doona believe your own words.”

  “You are arrogant.”

  “Aye, I am,” he easily agreed.

  She stared back at him, a curious wrenching within her heart. “I am a warrior, Boyden.”

  “You are my chosen mate.” A smug smile curved his lips.

  “I am not your mate, not now, not ever,” she protested with a hushed denial. “We are enemies.”

  Heat returned in his eyes, the mark of a fiery passion. “Was I your enemy when you fed me berries from your hand?” His voice lowered to raw sexuality, caressing her right down to her toes. “Was I your enemy when you took my body into yours? You dinna feel like an enemy to me.” He cupped her face possessively. “We both know the truth of what we felt.”

  “I felt nothing.”

  “Did you not?” Amusement crept into his tone. “Shall I show you again?”

  His mouth found her jaw, where he marked and claimed her in the ways of his people. Jolts of lightning darted through her blood. “Your body wants me, Scota. You want me.”

  Her eyes fluttered closed even as she sought to deny him. “You are my enemy.”

  “I am your mate,” he countered softly, sipping at her throat, turning her into a liar. “Want me, Scota?” A hand cupped her breast. “Want to ride me?” he asked.

  She was helpless under his spell. Her breasts ached, and her womb shuddered with moist anticipation. He knew her preference, the bastard. She was drawn to dominant males, drawn to thoughts of a final taming when they lay on their backs and submitted to her.

  “I will submit to you,” he murmured against her ear, breath and heat and want almost as if he understood.

  She hugged her thighs together.

  “I will allow you to teach me, Scota, to thrust under your rein.”

  Her hands clenched against his chest.

  “I will do what you want,” he murmured with a voice laced with open desire. His mouth lowered to hers in a deepening kiss, a denial of male submission.

  She bit him.

  He pulled back, his bottom lip bloody.

  Immediately, she regretted it and snapped, “I do not like teasing.”

  He lifted his hand to his mouth. “I doona tease.”

  Thoughts of him thrusting under her hips made her heart pound, igniting a fire within her blood. “What do you want of me?” she breathed, battling her body.

  “Help me,” he whispered.

  She stilled at the need in his voice and the return of darkness in his gaze. “Help you? How?”

  “I know you are confused. I know you have feelings for the children and the druidess. I know you feel for me.”

  She wanted to rebuff him, wanted to ignore the uncertainty giving her heartache. She was a Milesian princess, emissary to Amergin, but she was not a killer of children and old women.

  “Scota, there be little time left, and I need your help.”

  He pulled back and she saw the Darkshade fever growing in him.

  “You are a warrior, and I trust your word as one warrior to another. Will you give it to me?”

  “You trust me?” she said with amazement.

  “I trust your word as a warrior.”

  But not as a woman, she thought and gave him a nod of acceptance. He kissed her, the sugary taste of honey lingering on his tongue. Her aching breasts pressed into his naked chest and she dropped her shirt, burying her hands in the raw silk of his hair. She wanted him and was unable to help it. She wanted to feel the strength of him between her thighs; the closeness and compulsion were undeniable. She savored his mouth, pressing up against him, and he stepped back with a muttered oath, running a hand through his hair. Leaning down, he scooped up her shirt. “Cover yourself, warrior, before I am forced to submit to you again.”

  She drew in an unsteady breath and took her shirt from his hand. Shrugging into it, she regarded him and waited for him to speak.

  “The druidess has found honey and more berries to eat.”

  That was not what he intended to say, she thought. “You said you needed my help, Boyden.”

  He nodded, looking away. “If I should falter …” He seemed to gather his strength. “If I should falter, I need your promise to see the druidess and children to the safety of the nematon and to keep my tribe’s secrets.”

  “The Darkshade is that bad?”

  He hesitated in answering, and the past seemed to glimmer in his eyes and the world shifted out from under her. The simple life she knew as a warrior was ending, and she felt strangely vulnerable. If they were to save the children and druidess, she needed him to look forward not backward. She blinked in realization. She wanted to save them, wanted to save him. “Boyden, I must ask you one question.”

  He nodded.

  “Did you or Derina have anything to do with the killing of Lord Íth?”

  He shook his head. “Neither of us or our tribe had anything to do with that.”

  “Do you know who did?” she asked.

  “Aye,” he answered slowly.

  “Will you give me their names?”

  He shook his head. “I was not there, Scota. I doona know the truth of the words that trickled down to my tribe in the days following the death.”

  “Can you tell me what you do know?”

  “Nay, Scota. I willna do this. I willna spread untruths that could hurt innocents.”

  “Will you help me discover the truth then? I do not want my people to extract vengeance upon more innocents.”

  He nodded before answering. “I will help you with the time I have left after the children and druidess are safe.”

  She let a breath out slowly, her heart going curious inside. Time left… “Agreed.”

  He stood waiting.

  “Share your secrets with me, Boyden. I vow to keep them.”

  “Your vow as a warrior?” he prompted, softly.

  “Yes,” she answered. “My vow as a warrior. Is this about the Darkshade dagger?”

  He looked away. “I am of the between, Scota, but unlike Cavan and Nora. Their ancestry belongs to both mortal and fey. Part of my ancestry harkens back to the olden time of the primordial guardians. The Darkshade daggers were conjoined in the great battle of the before-time to quell guardians.”

  “What are guardians?”

  “Protectors,” he answered simply, offering nothing more, and she willingly accepted it.

  “The captain’s dagger is one of these Darkshade daggers?” she asked, beginning to understand.

  “Aye, according to Derina, it is one of the olden ones.”

  “You are not guardian born?” she asked slowly, feeling her way.

  He nodded. “A female of my line bore a guardian babe long ago. I carry the threads of that mating in my blood.”

  It unnerved her to think of him as magical because she did not comprehend it, refused to comprehend something so unknown.

  “Blood that is susceptible to the Darkshade’s enchantment?” she inquired slowly.

 
; He nodded.

  “What does being susceptible mean to you?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Madness and death.”

  Time I have left … It became all too clear. She stared at him with disbelief, struggling with her feelings. He was going to die? Terror and loss nearly overwhelmed her, and she pushed it deep inside. Very carefully, she said, “I give you my vow, Boyden, one warrior to another, that I will guide the children and druidess to safety.” There was no greater promise to her way of thinking than a pledge from warrior to warrior, even among enemies. “Tell me where is this nematon?”

  “Derina knows,” he answered wearily. “It is not far from here.”

  “Will you be able to make it?” she inquired, but he was walking away.

  Boyden paced Scota as they entered a patchwork field of purple and green ferns. He stopped to regain his breath, while the children and druidess moved forward along a hidden path. Chills and sweat raked his body, a lightness coming to his mind, stealing both his balance and surety.

  “Boyden?” his warrior mate whispered, no doubt seeing the creeping shadows under his eyes.

  He shook his head, keeping his expression unchanged, while the inside of him burned with flames and unreason. He felt strange and calm, a dreadful dwindling of his life force. “ ‘Tis what is expected, Scota,” he replied shakily and gestured her forward. “We are near.”

  She walked ahead of him, her stride confident and alert. In weakening moments, he wondered if trusting her would be the ending of them all. He adjusted the scabbard ropes across his chest. Staring at the rich night darkness of her long hair, he decided his decision was true. She was a warrior woman of spirit, strength, and freedom, and she excited his nature as no other ever had, despite the illness of the dark enchantment. In the past, he had chosen to remain alone in life because of his link with the deadly wind. He mated whenever one of the older widowed females wanted him, but had never issued a mating bite of claim, except for now.

  “Is this it?” she inquired, pausing to wait for him.