by Tj Shaw
Carina laughed as he tore off another piece with exaggerated eagerness. Although she didn’t show as much enthusiasm, she had to admit that the cook had done an excellent job.
When full, she set her plate on the ground at her feet. Growing up in a family that preferred to ignore her had not honed her skills for initiating conversation, but she found this fearless soldier who was brave enough to share her log interesting. He looked older than most of the other men with a generous amount of silver coursing through his short, black hair. His elbows rested on his thighs as he stared into the fire.
“How long have you been a soldier?”
Damon chuckled. “My wife would say too long.”
“She worries when you’re gone?”
Damon’s eyes grew distant. “Aye. But the girls tend to get unruly when I’m away and she misses my help.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Three. My eldest just married and my twin girls are much younger than you.”
“Really?” She tried to hide her surprise at the age discrepancy between his children, but Damon’s grin confirmed he’d picked up on her tone.
“Aye, we’re a little old to have young children. For some reason after our first, we were not blessed until later in life, and then with twins.” He rolled his eyes. “I think the Gods were bored that day and granted our wish so they could have a good laugh.”
She smiled. “Have you always been a soldier in Marek’s legion?”
“No, I first received my sword under King Sebastian, Marek’s father.”
Carina’s eyes widened at the thought of how old Damon must be. “Really?”
Damon leaned close. “Aye,” he said in mock sternness. “Although I’m an old man, my wife doesn’t complain and we have two young children as a result.” He winked.
She stared at him until the embarrassing blush rose on her cheeks, forcing her to glance away. She opened her mouth, but snapped it shut. Not knowing what to say, she fumbled out a weak reply. “Umm, I wouldn’t know.”
Damon’s back stiffened. “Of course, my lady. Please, forgive my transgression.”
Hearing his discomfort twisted her stomach into a big knot. She’d isolated the only person courageous enough to talk to her. “No, I’m sorry,” she rushed. “I guess I’m just naïve about some things,” she finished with an awkward shrug.
Damon’s eyes narrowed briefly before he relaxed and rubbed a hand over the scruff on his face. “No apologies needed. And don’t fret, Lady Carina, things are as they should be.”
She didn’t understand what he meant, so she remained silent as he picked up her plate.
“King Duncan comes.” He nodded in Marek’s direction. “I’ll bid you a good night.”
“Thank you, Damon.” She smiled, grateful for his companionship.
“My pleasure, Lady Carina.” He bowed.
“Carina. Please, just call me Carina.”
“Sleep well, Carina,” he said before disappearing into the evening shadows.
From across the fire, Marek strode toward the center of camp. The smoke blurred his form, a wavering ghost-like figure of muscle and leather. His eyes roved over the men until they found her. Even from the distance, he commanded her attention like no other. She couldn’t turn away from his piercing gaze. He was the fire wrapping her in an uncontrollable flame. Her heart pounded and her skin felt too tight for her body. Her stomach fluttered, anticipating his approach. Although she had enjoyed Damon’s company, the person she’d truly missed marched her way.
Entranced, she followed his movements, his long stride deliberate and determined—the walk of a king with the strength and confidence to support it. He stopped to talk to a group of men before clapping one on the shoulder and turning toward her. With a sudden intake of air, he towered over her, blocking the fire from view. She gazed up at him. He looked tired, but his inquisitive eyes held her captive.
“Have you eaten?”
His voice warmed her from the inside out. She nodded because her words were stuck in the back of her throat.
“Very good.” He sat down beside her as the cook handed him a plate. “Ahh, smells delicious.”
Her tongue refused to work, lying motionless like a slug in her mouth, thick and heavy. She stared into the dancing flames, afraid to look into the face of the man sitting beside her. Because if she did, she feared his eyes would ensnare her, trapping her in a hold she didn’t have the willpower to resist.
She still couldn’t believe Marek had picked her—a nobody, chosen by a king. Why? Why her? Just the thought of the duties involved made her jittery. She’d never kissed a man, not even a goodnight kiss for her father. Except for Marissa, Father didn’t show affection. Maybe her nerves were fueled by the uncertainty of her sleeping arrangements and a dawning realization something might be expected of her tonight.
Carina’s hesitancy troubled him. Not knowing what percolated inside her beautiful head stirred a cauldron of rising doubt. She seemed lost in thought as she stared into the fire, biting her bottom lip from the intensity of her contemplations. He wanted to soothe her mind by brushing his thumb across her troubled lip, and bury his fingers in her jumbled, brown hair, but resisted the impulse.
As evening faded and blackness wrapped them in a thick cloak, the men started telling war stories. Marek discreetly watched Carina as she listened, marveling at her fascination. Although the storytellers exaggerated, to the point he almost didn’t recognize the battle, since the tales honored those who died and remembered friends who were missed, he didn’t see the harm if they weren’t completely accurate.
He’d left Carina alone longer than intended, but had to plot the safest route home. If everything went as planned, they’d enter the Bridal Lands early on the tenth day. The Tiwan Tribe claimed the Bridal Lands as their territory and defended it with a savage viciousness. Although he’d never incurred trouble, he also made it a point not to linger within their border.
The schedule was ambitious, but a growing urge to get Carina to Stirrlan had developed into a nagging distraction. He’d learned long ago to listen to his instincts, even if he couldn’t justify the reason yet. Sampson had wanted to take a slower, less direct route so the foot soldiers wouldn’t have to endure his grueling pace. Although Sampson hadn’t come out and said it, his meaning had been clear—a mixed blood wasn’t worth the effort.
As Carina laughed and clapped her hands at the end of another mostly fabricated story, she glanced at him and smiled. The tentative curve of her lips enticed him, her radiance rousing a primitive dominance within him. He shook his head to clear his mind and calm the need surging through his body.
If Carina was pure then sleeping next to him, especially in a tent with other men, would be improper until he claimed her. But Marissa had insinuated otherwise, which Sampson for some reason believed without hesitation. Since he chose to reserve judgment, his decision to have her stay in the tent was a simple selfish desire to keep her at his side.
Whether inside one of the tents or outside under the stars, several men had already found their sleeping mats. Marek had watched Damon slip away earlier. Now, with only a few remaining by the fire, Carina’s yawn spurred him into action.
Carina wished the stories didn’t have to end, but when Marek rose the men stopped speaking to await direction. Their respect filled her with pride for the man gazing down at her, the firelight dancing in his eyes like shining stars.
“It’s time for bed,” he whispered and extended his hand.
Her heart jumped at his words and then plummeted into her stomach. Fighting her spineless reaction, she concentrated on the simple task of breathing and slipped her hand into his reassuring touch. He smiled, his eyes glittering.
She stared at his rugged face with a day’s worth of stubble, unable to move. But an unexpected tug hauled her up so fast she lost her balance and tumbled into him. Her hand landed on his chest as she struggled to regain her balance. He wore a soft, brown chemise shirt, but th
e suppleness of the shirt didn’t cause her gasping intake of air. It was the span of the chest underneath the shirt that caught her off guard. Unintentionally—or maybe a little more intentionally than she cared to admit—her hand remained, and Marek made no motion to remove it. A delicious desire to drag her fingers across the planes of his chest rose inside her. Her hand twitched in anticipation as if it had a mind of its own.
She moved closer, her body brushing against his. Her heart thumped in her ears as images of what lay beneath the irritatingly thin material that separated her inquisitive fingers from their quest invaded her mind. Her body flared. With effort, she ripped her eyes from his massive chest seeking sanctuary in his face. But to her chagrin, his fiery eyes speared her with a hungered desire that seared a path to her core. Liquid heat flooded her body, a primal want demanding fulfillment. She closed her eyes to block his nearness, and with two drunken, shuffling steps, placed a more respectable distance between them.
Marek was a swirling mass of dark passion. He hadn’t meant to pull her up with such force, but didn’t regret his action when she stumbled into him. His body tensed when she didn’t move away, his arousal instant when her hand splayed across his chest. He remained still so his mistress could touch him, although he wished they were in a more private place so matters could develop further.
He heard her gasp and noticed the wide-eyed expression on her face as her featherlight fingers lingered in a possessive touch. He could almost see her mind struggling with what she should do versus what she wanted to do. In the end, propriety won and he regretfully let her slip out of reach. And while he admired the curiosity she ventured when she touched him, the resulting blush as she stepped away captivated him.
Despite the darkness and surrounding wilderness, Carina walked beside him with a calm self-assuredness. She had a small almost delicate frame, but moved with a coordinated grace that signified an underlying strength. She might appear timid, but he sensed that if backed into a corner, she’d fight with an unforgiving tenacity worthy of admiration.
He led her to a small tent surrounded by large trees fostering privacy. “There’s a basin of warm water inside if you want to wash before changing into your dressing gown,” he mumbled with an awkward catch in this throat. The thought of water glistening over her skin made his pants uncomfortably tight and her remarkable smile in appreciation for the washbasin did nothing to alleviate his growing discomfort.
He fidgeted outside the tent, trying not to notice her silhouette on the canvas wall as she glided a damp cloth over her arms and legs. Mesmerized by her bathing, his eyes drifted in her direction more than once while he oddly wished he was the towel she held.
Fire burned through his blood when she tiptoed out of the tent. She wore a white nightgown that flowed to her ankles with long sleeves traveling down to her wrists and a high collar covering her neck. Except for small, lace ruffles decorating the ends of her sleeves, the gown was unadorned. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
She had yet to look at anything but her fur-lined, soft-soled leather boots, and focused her energy on digging a small depression in the hard soil with the tip of her foot. But she was an angel, an enchantress wrapping invisible fingers around him, so he indulged in the luxury of staring unabashedly. Her hair shimmered in the dim firelight and framed her face in soft waves while her skin glowed with a vitality that burned an unforgettable image in his mind. Her pursed lips beckoned him as she concentrated on her fervent excavation. He covered his mouth, concealing the smile he couldn’t stifle. Although young, her allure was all woman.
He didn’t hide the raspy desire in his voice, but folded his arms across his chest to prevent his fingers from reaching out to trace the curve of her face. “Should I carry you to the tent before you burrow your way into the Great Mother?”
****
At the sound of his low-pitched voice, Carina glanced up to see him struggling, and not successfully, to hide a teasing smile. He had just run a hand through his hair, ruffling it in a charming disarray. His eyes sparkled in the moonlight, and his lingering gaze made it apparent that his chivalrous offer to carry her was anything but gallant. He finally abandoned any pretense at courtesy by dropping his hand to reveal a breathtaking smile that lit his face in a mischievous playfulness.
He’d baited her, a subtle dare in an attempt to goad her into accepting his offer. She stared at his chest and broad shoulders. Her eyes raked down his muscular arms and heat flushed through her body. Normally, her stubborn willfulness would’ve made it impossible to deny such a challenge, but the idea of being carried by this man put her nerves on edge and her resolve melted into a mass of goo.
She tried to infuse confidence into her voice but even she could hear the breathy whisper. “I’ll walk.”
Marek leaned forward, his mouth next to her ear. Her heart stumbled. His masculine presence filled her senses.
“Coward,” he murmured in a soft burr.
She giggled, not able to deny his accusation. But her laughter faded when he remained close. With a surprising tenderness, his fingers brushed through her hair. He turned into her, his breathing ragged. At least he could breathe. Her lungs had forgotten how to function. Little shivers spiraled down her body. She slanted into him. But with a sudden exhale, he moved away and she scrambled to regain her balance.
“Very well,” he muttered before placing a hand on her elbow and guiding her toward the main tent.
When he stopped and held the flap open, she paused. Typically, only the king and his Criton riders slept in the large tent. She thought she’d have her own. But since she didn’t wish to offend, she slipped through the opening and stood just inside the door.
Marek entered and stepped to the front. Grabbing her hand, he led her into the dark stillness filled with the whispered snores and soft breathing of the men. A small lantern near the entrance offered sparse lighting, forcing her to cling onto his arm to avoid tripping over anything…or anyone. She kept her eyes glued on his back, trying not to notice the men around her. Aside from Sampson, everyone seemed to be asleep. Even in the dim light, the gleam in Sampson’s eyes and the fact he didn’t avert his gaze, disturbed her. Although her modest dressing gown covered her entire body, her skin crawled under his slicing stare.
Marek escorted her to a large mat in a corner away from the other men. He removed his belt, sword, and the two dirks strapped across his chest before sitting. Not sure what to do, she watched him place his weapons within arm’s reach and remove his boots. When he looked up, a small smile danced across his lips. His eyes glinted in the lantern light, but not in a way that made her uncomfortable. Although she could sense his desire, it was tempered behind a gentleness that made her heart stutter.
“Come, Carina,” he commanded softly, his voice pouring into her. He reached out for her. “Come lie next to your king.”
Her sputtering heart skipped beats as she took his hand and let him pull her down onto the mat. She settled into the soft cushion while he threw a wool blanket over them and stretched out beside her, closing his eyes. Lying on his back, one arm cradled his head while the other rested on his stomach.
She could barely breathe. Her nerves zinged with restless energy. Although they were not touching, she vibrated with anxiety at his nearness. Aware of his body, her senses hummed on a hyper-alert frequency attuned to Marek. The rest of the men in the tent disappeared from her mind.
A dull ache, emanating low in her belly, grew into a steady throb, pulsating with an intensity that radiated throughout her. What was wrong with her? She kicked off the blanket to cool her overheated body, and shut her eyes to focus on her breathing just like Master Dupree had taught her. She narrowed her senses until only the inhale and exhale of air entering and exiting her lungs consumed her mind. Slowly, she relaxed and the ache dissipated. Although the cold, autumn air chilled her, she ignored the discomfort hoping the breathing exercise would lull her to sleep.
But no matter how hard she tried, her body remain
ed stubbornly aware of Marek’s presence. Sleep, her companion for every night throughout her life, eluded her. As if angered by his closeness, it refused to offer her peace.
With a sigh, she rolled onto her side and stared at the tent wall, clenching her teeth in frustration. Realizing dawn would not greet her anytime soon, she struggled to remain still and grew more impatient as the minutes ticked by. She considered sneaking out of the tent to get some fresh air to settle her nerves, and contemplated the logistics of traversing through the sleeping bodies without waking anyone until Marek moved.
Her body froze in a silent panic when his arm pulled her into the hard muscular wall of his chest. He grumbled and fumbled with something behind her before the heavy wool blanket thumped over her again. Draping his arm across her waist, the back of her head rested just under his chin.
“Be still, Carina,” he murmured. “All is well.”
He smelled of leather, wood smoke, and pine—a combination that threatened to rekindle the fire she’d worked so hard to extinguish. But the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back soothed her.
Marek holding her this way seemed very inappropriate, but sleep—her long lost companion—welcomed her back into its embrace before she could ponder the consequences of their impropriety further.
13 – MESSENGER
As promised, Father sent a messenger to the bordering king, Villar Remy, with information of Marissa’s newfound availability. To Marissa’s delight, King Remy had dispatched a rider stating he would arrive to court her within the week. His prompt reply was the type of response she deserved.
She’d been up in her rooms wondering whether the servants should unpack her bags because if she found King Remy to her liking, they’d just have to pack everything again. Deciding she liked her belongings around her, she’d finally ordered them to unpack. But when they got underfoot, scurrying around like mice emptying her many trunks, she’d opted to flee her comforts for a quiet stroll through the grounds.