“I doona think so,” Tynan answered, his voice low and dangerous.
Bryna pushed sodden hair from her face with a trembling hand and stared with wide eyes.
Tynan stood between her and her tormentor, gripping the hilt of a glittering, double-edged sword.
“You came after me,” she said softly, her heart full of joy.
His gaze flickered to her. In that briefest of moments, where light balanced over shade, she glimpsed a smoldering fury deep within his amethyst eyes. The intensity of it stole her breath away, for she did not know if it was meant for her or Eamon.
Tynan turned away from his faerymate and faced his cousin.
“You,” Eamon gritted out, striding forward and unsheathing his sword.
“I am here, Eamon,” Tynan said evenly, keeping his anger in check. He stood poised for battle, watching the flush of hatred stain his cousin’s cheeks.
“You have no right!”
“Again, cousin, you seek that which does not belong to you.”
“I have earned the right of challenge. I am the stronger one.”
“You challenged and lost,” Tynan replied coolly. “Have you forgotten the morning of the bonfire? Has your mind grown weak and feeble as your body? I give you one last chance. You trespass here, for she belongs to me and only to me. Drop down your sword now, for I am the Dark Chieftain of Prophesy. Not you.”
Eamon bellowed and attacked, but Tynan anticipated it and sidestepped. With a sharp downward thrust, he slashed a deep groove in his cousin’s strong right arm. Blood spewed from the gash. His cousin only grunted, raising his sword despite the severity of the wound. Tynan knew it would take more than a single blow to slow him down. The battle was just beginning.
The two deadly blades met in a loud crash, filling the clearing with the piercing sound of scraping and ringing iron. They fought savagely, their blows hard, rapid, and deadly.
Bryna rose clumsily to her feet. Her back pressed against the boulder beside the well. She shivered in fear and cold, unable to look away. When Tynan staggered back from a slash in his thigh, she jammed her fist in her mouth. The land responded to her silent screams with gusts of cold wind and darkening thunderclouds. In a loud burst of crackling lightning, rain fell upon the ground once again, drenching the battling warriors in the territorial goddess’s enchantment.
Tynan felt it.
Felt the surge of strength flow into his weary limbs.
The rain, he realized, the rain was enchanted. My faerymate. With fluid ease, he shifted on his injured leg, able to carry his weight once again, and lifted his sword.
His cousin grinned triumphantly, rain distorting his features into something vile and evil. “You are not so strong now, Tynan.”
“Neither are you,” Tynan countered, waiting. Blood soaked his cousin’s right side from the arm wound. They were both badly hurt. It would come to a test of wills.
“Did you enjoy your visit with the Sorcerer?” his cousin sneered. “I see he dinna teach you to bow to your betters.”
“The Evil One,” Tynan said in sudden understanding. “You betrayed me?”
“Aye, I did. Too trusting you are, cousin. ‘Tis a simple task to slip a potion in your drink. I had followed you to the stream that night and watched you collapse. I should have let you drown in the black waters, but that feeble Sorcerer wanted you for some sacred ritual.”
“You know nothing of what you speak, Eamon,” Tynan replied tightly.
“I know this,” Eamon spat in fury. “I must finish what the Sorcerer could not and claim my rightful place as the Dark Chieftain. You may have bested me once, but never again.”
“Come then, cousin. Come and taste your death.” Tynan saw the imminent strike and wielded his sword upward, meeting his cousin’s downward thrust.
“You canna win, Eamon.” Tynan gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands, power radiating through him into the deadly blade, making him strong. “Drop the sword and live.”
Uncertainty flashed in his cousin’s eyes for just a moment. “Nay!” he roared, overwhelmed by his hatred and jealousy.
Swords clanged above the sound of the driving rain. Lightning flashed in the sky directly overhead, followed by an explosion of thunder.
Tynan forced Eamon back. “Yield, Eamon. Doona force me to kill you.”
“Never!”
He parried his cousin’s stroke and then drove his sword deep into the other man’s belly.
It was done.
Eamon stared down at himself in bewilderment, at the sword embedded in him.
Blood splattered the rain-soaked earth.
An unearthly stillness came to the clearing.
Tightening his grip on the hilt of his weapon, Tynan jerked the blade out as Eamon’s sword tumbled from his hand and landed in the mud at their feet.
Death was approaching.
Clutching his bleeding stomach, his cousin lifted his head, eyes glazing and searching. Tynan knew he looked for Bryna.
“I could have loved you, g-godddess.” A gurgling sound rose up from his cousin’s throat.
Leaning forward, Tynan removed the dagger from Eamon’s belt and tossed it aside. His cousin dropped to his knees in a rain pool of blood and mud, his eyes glazed with the ending of his life.
“May you find peace, Eamon,” Tynan said softly, feeling Bryna come up beside him. “May the envy darkening your soul finally release you.”
His cousin slipped silently to the ground, locked in death’s cold embrace. Eamon’s envy, Tynan thought, would betray him no longer.
The rain had stopped, leaving glittering raindrops like tiny diamonds everywhere.
Bryna felt her heart pounding. She had helped Tynan. A whisper and understanding and then power surged into her and she knew instinctively how to aid her chieftain mate. Rain had fallen, seething with energy from her and all of it directed into Tynan, replacing the strength he had used before coming to the clearing.
She stood trembling now, a sodden butterfly, empty, relieved and frightened because he had come.
His geas was what drove him.
But he had come.
Fought for her.
And won.
“ ‘Tis finally done,” her chieftain mate said, pointing his sword to the ground and leaning heavily upon it.
“Tynan,” she said achingly, wanting to say so much more.
Reaching out, he touched her bruised jaw, an un-disguised emotion clouding his features. “I regret not getting here sooner, faery.”
“You are here now.” She curled her hands around his thick wrist and pressed her face into his warm, calloused palm.
“I am here now,” he readily agreed. His thumb caressed her cheek. “Dinna you think I would?”
Her brows drew together. “I dinna know.”
He tilted her chin up and she looked up at him, her heart in her throat.
“Foolish faery,” he murmured roughly. “You are mine.”
He staggered then and she pulled back, gripping his wrist.
“Your fey strength leaves me, faery. It seems Eamon’s blade has cut far deeper than I thought.” Black lashes splayed down upon pale cheeks. The sword fell from his hand.
He tilted forward.
“Tynan!” Bryna tried to cushion his fall but he was so much larger than she was. They landed hard in the mud. She managed to break most of it with her own body and protect his head from hitting the ground.
Unconscious and sprawled heavily on top of her, she could not breathe from the weight of him. His bristled cheek pressed into the white hollow between her thinly covered breasts. Hot breath scorched her skin.
“Tynan?” She cupped the back of his head with her left hand.
Silence answered her.
She tried to turn him over on his back, but lacked the strength. The hilt of the dagger at his waist dug into her thigh. Changing tactics, she slipped out from under him, rocking back and forth, using the slippery mud to ease her way.
Bryna pus
hed wet hair out of her eyes and moved near his hip. Kneeling, she leaned forward, trying to inspect his wounded leg, but the wound was in the front of the thigh.
Pushing at his waist, she tried turning him over on his back, a hopeless task until he groaned and then rolled over on his own, flinging arms wide.
Bryna paled. Even covered in mud, his leg wound caught her attention immediately. The deep gash ran the length of the front of his right thigh.
Carefully, she began to rip open the pant leg.
“Help me,” she called out to her brethren, not looking up. A clear whistling sound came to her ears.
“Hurry,” she commanded, a territorial goddess asserting her authority. “Blodenwedd, I need water from the well.”
The woodlands filled with golden fey light.
CHAPTER 20
THE SUN PEEKED THROUGH THE canopy of the pristine woodlands, welcoming a new morning and Tynan awoke to a feeling of warmth and dryness. He became aware of his surroundings, slowly waking from dreams of peace and contentment. He stared up at a ceiling of wooden rods interwoven with dried branches and curving twigs. The sky shone brightly through a gap in the top thatching. Outside, a blackbird’s song greeted the new dawn.
He caught the smell of musty animal skins and rose to his elbow. He lay in a bed of white sheepskins. Beyond the bed, in the center of the round house, flames crackled in the fire circle.
Tynan’s eyes closed in memory. Clearing. Swords. Rain.
He opened his eyes. My sword? I need my sword. “Bryna?” Pushing himself up, he located his sword and scabbard lying on an old goatskin at the base of the bed. He tried reaching for it but pain cut through his leg, stealing his breath and strength.
“Tynan, stop.” His faery strode in, carrying a pile of twigs, and dropped them in the corner. “What are you doing?”
“Give me my sword.” He gritted his demand through clenched teeth.
“Nay, lay down.”
“Bryna, give it to me.”
She shook her head. “There is no need for it here. We are safe, Tynan.”
His gaze flickered to a red hem of faery webs by his hip. The fey fabric swirled around dainty bare feet. He looked up slowly.
A creature of silver and flames, of in-between and mystery, watched him.
“What are you wearing?” he blurted out. “Faery webs?”
“A fey gift.” She leaned forward, touching his forehead with the back of her hand. Sheer and strapless, except for five silver threads scooping one shoulder, the red faery gown hugged her curves indecently.
“No fever.” She straightened, pushing her hair back over her shoulder. “How do you feel?”
Tynan scowled. “How long have we been here?”
“You have slept for two days.”
He could not recall anything beyond the battle. “Where is this place?”
“In the woodlands.”
He studied the dilapidated roundhouse. Wild vines grew over the entranceway, crawling up the structure’s walls. “This is a faery place?”
“It is.”
He looked back at her, a feeling of uncertainty washing over him. “You are different, Bryna.”
“ ‘Tis the fey gown.”
Nay, not that, he thought. There was a completeness to her now; the insecure waif was gone.
“Hungry?” she asked.
Tynan glanced down at himself. He felt stiff. Shifting, he tested the ache in his lower body. Sharp pain erupted down his right thigh, causing him to feel queasy.
“Tynan, doona move around so much.”
With a muttered curse, he jerked the skins off and stared down his nakedness at a heavily bandaged thigh. The pungent scent of garlic, stonecrop, and healing flesh hit him like a fist.
“What is that smell?”
“Poultice, stitching, healing herbs and faery whispers,” his faerymate explained softly.
“I stink.”
A faint blush tainted her cheeks. “Aye, a wee bit for now. I’ll bathe you later.”
“Where are my clothes?”
“I cut your breeches off to get at the wound.” She shrugged. “Your boots are over there in the corner.”
He did not want his boots. He wanted his clothes. Tynan scrutinized the bodice of the red dress, his eyes narrowing. One more shrug and she would spill out of it.
Her small hands caressed the fabric self-consciously. “ ‘Tis a gift from the faeries. Doona you like it?”
“Nay, ‘tis indecent,” he said irritably.
“Indecent?” She glanced down at herself. “Everything is covered except my shoulders and back. The faeries have clothes for you too.”
“Not bloody likely.”
It was obvious she wanted to smile, for her lips quivered a moment and then stilled. “Blodenwedd says your body was meant for the faery webs.”
Tynan scowled. She knew perfectly well what he thought of the spoiled Blodenwedd.
“Are you hungry, Tynan? I prepared a stew.”
“Thirsty,” he said, more in annoyance. He hated being confined this way and he stank worse than the pigs. He yanked the pelts back over himself to block out the pungent smell and looked up. The dress opened down the back, an inviting path to the top of her curved bottom.
“Bryna?”
She glanced over her shoulder, her hands gripping the handle of the water bucket.
“Where is the back of the gown?”
“There is none because the webs interfere with my wings.”
“Wings?” he choked.
She set the bucket down beside him and knelt. Scooping up the water with a chipped clay bowl, his faery held it out in offering. “The water is verra cold from the well, so drink slowly.”
“You have wings, Bryna? I doona see them.”
“So they tell me,” she replied with a slight nervousness to her voice. “They are folded and unseen for now.”
“Unseen,” he echoed, feeling an odd regret. It made him wonder at her faery form. He took the bowl from her outstretched hands and drank deeply, despite her warning to go slow. It seemed his stomach agreed with her wise advice, for he had to fight back a grimace of discomfort.
“Would you like the stew now?”
“Aye.” He nodded, feeling scolded by her gaze. Leaning around him, she rolled some of the older animal skins and propped them behind his back so he could sit more comfortably. “I will be a moment.”
She rose and went back to the cooking pot near the fire circle.
“Do you feel the wings?” he asked.
She tilted her head, a peculiar frown to her profile. “I am not sure what I feel, Tynan.”
Retrieving a large clay bowl she scooped the contents of the stew with a ladle. “I have kept this warm since yester eve, hoping you would awaken.” She returned, kneeling beside him once more. The faery gown spread out around her shapely legs.
“What is in it?” Tynan took the warm bowl from her hands.
“Lamb and vegetables.” She handed him a wooden spoon with scalloped edges and a vine handle.
“ ‘Tis just a spoon, Tynan. No need to scowl at it,” she said sweetly.
For a moment, he thought she would take it out of his hand and start feeding him like a babe. “I am not scowling at it,” he replied glumly. “I have never seen anything like it before.”
“ ‘Tis for eating.”
He gave her a slanted smile and then looked down at the stew. His mouth began to water. He dug in with the spoon, tasting succulent meat and vegetables, and found himself ravenous. He ate quickly, lost to his body’s needs.
“Slowly, Tynan. You have not eaten in two days and your stomach may object.”
“Do you have more?”
“Aye, but first drink this.” She handed him a cup of honeyed milk. “It will coat your stomach. ‘Tis the faery healing that causes the immense hunger in you.”
“Faery healing as in faery whispers?” Tynan asked, drinking the sweetened liquid. It only made him hungrier.
; “Aye, faery whispers to make you strong.” She brought another steaming bowl of stew to him and knelt near his hip.
He consumed that one, too, and handed her the empty bowl.
“More?” she prompted, her gaze steady and patient. She looked amused with him.
“Nay, faery.” The heat of the food warmed his body, pulling him down. His eyelids drooped in heaviness.
“Sleep now, Tynan. ‘Tis the healing that calls to you. Doona fight it.”
“Is there something in the stew, Bryna?”
“Nay, just fey wishes for a fast recovery.” She removed the rolled up pelts from behind his back and helped him slide down. “Rest now, close your eyes.”
“A fine faery healing, I canna keep my eyes open.” She caressed his cheek, her fingertips brushing his eyelids. “Bed rest is what you need.”
“I need . . . to return to Kindred,” he said stubbornly, his body unwilling and weighty.
“In time. The faeries have saved your leg, now give yourself time to heal.”
“They will always remind me of it too,” he complained sullenly and then gave a mighty sigh. Sleep claimed him.
“Willful.” Bryna smiled gently, sitting back. “Heal, my heart.”
“HE WILL HEAL.”
She stiffened at the sound of the Faery King’s smooth voice from behind her.
“HAVE YOU SHOWN HIM YOUR TRUE SELF, HONOR?”
“NAY,” Bryna said softly, not turning around.
“SOON THEN, HONOR.”
Clutching the empty bowl in her lap, she gave a curt nod.
The morning sun rose on another day.
Tynan dreamed of wings made of filmy white lace and silver threads attached to a beautiful woman’s shoulders.
Slowly the dream world released him and he became aware of a gnawing heat in his leg and a cool wetness gliding down over his body. Opening his eyes, he stared at a pair of incredibly healthy breasts pushing against a lace-work of delicate, silver webs. They brushed against his cheek as she reached across him, a settling of pelts and movement of air. He closed his eyes, caught between primitive desire and a dull, weakening ache.
“Tynan?”
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