Myla By Moonlight

by Inez Kelley

  “There is naught to understand. Your mother called for a guardian. On some plane, I heard and chose to become whole. I became a consciousness and a servant to your needs. It is very simple actually. I am because of you. You are my reason for this life.”

  Cheeks that had been rounded while teasing smoothed with sober humility. Bowing his head, his eyes shuttered and he swallowed. “You humble me.”

  He brought her hands to his mouth reverently and pressed a small kiss to the knuckles of each. Unlike Bryton’s farewell, the feel of his lips on her flesh channeled a maelstrom of sensations into her body and she jerked her hands away. Desire, the foreign word that had rapidly become a throbbing reality, scared her. A new flavor licked at her, coating her tongue in forbidden splendor but with a bitter aftertaste.

  Unused to the taste of fear, Myla shied from it. She took a single step back and allowed her eyes to wash over his face, sucking in the features like a sponge. From the arc of his tawny brow to the dip above his upper lip, his face was pressed into her mind like a flower between the pages of a tome, preserved for eternity in this single moment.

  “I bid you farewell, my charge.” Closing her traitorous eyes, she misted. The loss of her solid body did nothing to erase the feel of his mouth. Instead, it spread through every strand of her being, warming her.

  His hand reached to filter through her vapored essence as she funneled back to his side. Mingling with his skin, joy infused her. For the first time, selfishness twanged. Myla wished to feel more, her own pleasure.

  ab

  Sunshine. Sunshine and sweat. Laughter. The clang of metal and grunt of impact. All these sensations registered for Myla while she floated in the otherworld of Taric’s soul. He was training. She could feel the burn in his muscles and the rush of his swing as he forced…someone, not Bryton…the elder of the guards, Mactog, backward. The salt-and-pepper-haired man teased, insulted Taric’s manhood, called him a soft-skinned girl, questioned his paternity.

  None of this disturbed her. Taric and Mactog had been trading insults since one first placed a sword in the other’s hand. Mactog might be graying but he was strong as an ox and nearly as hardened. He was a good man with a simple heart, loyal and sturdy. Myla liked him and had spoken to him a few times regarding Taric’s training. As King Balic’s captain, Mactog knew the dangers Taric would face well. Much like Bryton, his son, his verbal jabs were as sharp as his dedication. He promised his life to the crown and service to the Segur monarchy. His fatherly manner and irreverent treatment thrilled her charge and Taric felt deep affection for his trainer.

  Her reach increasing, Myla stretched her assessment further, seeking, observing, noting. She sensed no strangers in the palace courtyard, only comfortable familiar faces watching the display. Children played marbles beneath the overhanging roof of the tanner’s shed. Thistlemount’s high castle walls reflected the sun’s rays, glimmering like a white jewel while the shade offered cooling respite to the activity below. The opened windows hid no menacing shadows and not one ill thought was being cast her master’s way. He was safe.

  Memories of their shared evening streamed into her awareness. What was happening to her? Taric was her charge, her duty, and she should not look at him as anything other than that. But the resonating hum that coursed through her at his nearness could not be ignored.

  Myla examined each new sensation, twisting and turning them, trying to make each fit into a puzzle she could decipher. Fruitless. She had no answers. She didn’t have enough information to formulate an opinion. She’d long ago learned that satisfying her human curiosity often conflicted with her duty. But this new temptation taunted her.

  A change rippled her essence and she once more assessed his safety. No, he’d simply left the courtyard, heading to the stables. Keeping part of her guard in tune with his location, Myla went back to her inspection, leafing through all her knowledge. The closest parallel she could derive was…love. But that was not correct either. She had always loved Taric. She acknowledged, knew and accepted that love. She had been created to love him. It was his mother’s wish. But this love, this…this burning, the desire, the exhilaration—that was unknown.

  How could love be both gently protective and desperately hungry?

  Like the red strawberries exploding with sweetness on her tongue, the recognition of Taric as other than her duty flooded over her. Each fresh wave of emotion was a song never heard, a scent never before inhaled, a heat never imagined. A flash of his golden head tucked to the barmaid’s neck scored her mind and she wondered what it was like to lie beneath him, feeling every breath he took. The multitude of energetic sensations his lips had sent spiraling through her could not possibly be intensified if his whole body were…

  “Myla, come to me, my guardian.”

  In a focused strand, she surged to his voice. Heat baked each nerve as her body solidified and drank in the glowing sunbeams.

  Sweat stained his back and chest, darkly molding the unbleached linen to his frame. Unlike a formal tunic, the thin shirt spared his flesh the nicks of training but fluttered easily in the summer breeze. It curved and shaped itself, clinging to every muscle and bone. Tight breeches sculpted to his thighs like the hide on a horse, shifting with his every movement. Her mouth watered with a hunger her belly did not feel.

  Tethered lightly to a tree limb behind him, his gelding munched clover while ignoring her intrusion. A brook bubbled nearby and a swarm of honeybees buzzed with laziness not far away. No threat hovered and she greeted him with a smile.

  “Good day, my charge. You call and I obey.”

  “I thought about you. Look, the first of the blackberries have ripened. If the strawberries pleased you, I think these will. Come here, try one straight from the vine.” So eager and desperate for her to experience the fruit, his grin dimmed the sun. Indulgently, she gathered her chiton hem and stepped to the dusky green shrub and plucked a dark cluster. Before she could place it between her lips, he gripped her wrist.

  “No, wait. Close your eyes.” She obeyed his command. “Now, think of the most beautiful thing in the world.”

  The only image she could conjure was him, last evening after Bryton’s departure. Slowly, she bobbed her head.

  “Now, open your mouth.” Her lips parted and a warm, gelled globe landed on her tongue. Closing her lips, she bit down. Instead of the strawberry-like sweetness, deep rich succulence filled her mouth with a deluge of heady opulence. The tang was sharper but possessed enough sugar to spark a craving for more. The sensual taste married with his image and desire blazed. There could not be a more lavishly exquisite taste in the world. Even the grit of the seeds heightened her enjoyment, providing a firmness for her teeth, and her tongue tingled in wet pleasure. A tiny noise eked out as she chewed.

  “See? I knew you’d like them.” Hushed and reverent, his voice captivated her.

  Myla opened her eyes to find Taric gazing at her with an odd light in his eyes. A plump berry disappeared inside his lips and she could nearly taste the burst against his tongue.

  Suddenly he stepped back. “I wanted to see your face at the first bite.”

  “It was wonderful, thank you.”

  “It was just a berry.” He smiled. With a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, he plucked fruit from the bush, quickly filling the small pouch at his belted waist.

  Myla watched in confusion. The linen bag was more suited to firmer foodstuff than berries. The delicate skins would not hold for long, would break and stain the fabric. He straightened and caught her bewilderment but merely widened his grin.

  “Come on.” Taking her hand, he tugged lightly until she allowed her feet to move and walk with him.

  Like last night when he had extended his hand, hers went to his easily. Now he didn’t release her palm but curved his strong fingers around hers. The touch was prolonged and, it seemed, casual, but she felt the connection like a lightning strike.

  Taric guided her to stroll through the tall grasses, the sound of the broo
k growing louder in the breeze. Their clasped hands found an easy natural rhythm, gently swinging in a motion opposite to their legs. She discovered she liked this touch. It was…nice.

  Birds twittered in the trees and Myla turned her face to the breeze. How sweet the air smelled, full of flowers and earth and Taric. Most of her existence in this world had been brief and frantic, wrestling as a jaguar or as a warrior. Then the air was tinged with blood and sweat and fear. Wind had come from rushing swords or fists holding deadly blades. She had never had time to simply feel the air caress her flesh in invisible touches. It lifted her hair and cooled her cheeks.

  With a mighty shriek, a flock of winnow-birds darted into the sky, tiny brown bodies moving as one great figure. Like soldiers with feathers, their precision and formation delighted her.

  “Tell me, are you feeling better? I mean, you’re well healed now?”

  “Oh, yes, I have no lingering injury.”

  “Good.” Taric nodded and searched the open field.

  Knowing no hidden dangers lurked, Myla scouted to see what could have captivated him. Bees drifted from bloom to bloom but ignored them. The lack of a threat gave her the opportunity to view the meadow with leisure. Tall grasses swayed like an ocean, waves of yellow rippling in a silent dance. The sweet floral perfume filled her nose and she greedily inhaled the heat and fragrance. A strange quiet flooded her being. Peace. This meadow held peace.

  Taric stared ahead and she searched once more for an unseen foe. There was nothing. Uncertain, she slid her eyes to the man at her side.

  “Do you have a destination ahead?”

  “The brook is over there. I just like taking time to see unspoiled nature when I can. Too often lately the only fields I see are blood-drenched or burnt.”

  This she knew, having seen the same through his eyes for many years. Seeing this meadow, this unspoiled spread before her, was soothing and his calm seeped through her. Head tilted in acceptance of his words, she watched a grasshopper spring from a leaf to disappear in the foliage. “This land is very quiet, untamed. The flowers here grow without a gardener.”

  “Yes. I like it that way. This is actually my land, given at my birth from my grandfather’s will. He thought his first grandchild might like a separate castle built for his own home.”

  “And will you build here?”

  The slight breeze nearly hid his chuckle. “No. First, I like the meadow how it is, untouched, and second, it makes no sense. Thistlemount houses the king and I’d just have to move back once my father…well, when it comes my time to reign. Here, watch your step.”

  Myla smiled at his warning and allowed him to lead her down a short incline. It was his nature to be protective and the caution came without thought. Sunlight shimmered brightly along the swift stream, the roar drowning out the birds’ song. The temperature remained warm but dropped by several degrees next to the water’s edge. She smiled as a fat frog leapt from the bank with a soft splash.

  Taric seated her on a fallen log and then joined her, removing his boots. He waded to just above his ankles and tied the small pouch to a thick cattail.

  “What do you do there?”

  He laughed. “The water will cool the berries and change their flavor. Just wait a few minutes, you’ll see. Damn, this water is cold.” He shuddered and stepped toward her. The mossy rocks beneath his feet shifted and one arm shot out for balance.

  Myla was beside him in a blink, gripping one hard arm. “Careful.”

  The open surprise on his face enchanted her. “Saving me from a wet ass now, my guardian?” Before she could answer, he frowned. “Your sandals will ruin.”

  She glanced down at her frigid feet wavering in the shallow water. The hem of her chiton fluttered in the slight ripples and blocked her view, drifting toward him. “It is just water.”

  “Cold water.”

  His voice husked so strangely she frowned at him. His maple-gold eyes, dazzling in the sunlight, were trained on her breasts, on her peaked nipples tenting the silk of her chiton. The cords of his throat bobbed.

  Is this flirting then? Is Taric flirting with me? Beneath his gaze, her heart began to pound. Taric pulled his eyes upward and stepped back. Myla searched for something, anything to say. How does one respond to flirting? “The water stays cold here because it melts from the mountain snows.”

  “Yeah.” Two more steps away and he turned. Droplets sailed as he scooped and washed the sweat from his brow, then shook his hands. He drew several deep breaths.

  Myla grew concerned. Perhaps the water was too cold for him after the burn of training. “Come back to the log, Taric. Sit in the warm sun for a while.”

  Once more, he took her hand and they maneuvered across the slick rocks. He eased down beside her, releasing her fingers but only to flatten them to his thigh and cover them with his own. Heat hotter than the sun’s blaze burned her palm but she did not remove it.

  Side by side, they spoke of minor things, the color of specific blooms nearby, the harvesting schedule and a heron that glided over the stream. Taric explained about wings and flight but Myla barely heard the words. The grace of the bird took her breath. So effortless and serene, it conquered the air with ease and settled on the water with barely a ripple.

  Myla found leisure with Taric to be a joyful and an enlightening time. His laugh was something she had not heard much of, its timbre changed from his youth to a deep, rich tone which stirred her belly.

  She laughed at him when he fetched the berry pouch, hissing and complaining about the frigid water. The sound surprised her. Had she ever laughed before? It felt good in her throat, tumbling over her tongue like a rolling drum.

  Taric knelt before her and opened the drawstring. “Again, close your eyes.”

  “Taric, I am able to feed myself.”

  “I know, but I want to. Let me?” Held by his bronze gaze, she looked deep into his eyes and nodded. How could she deny him this simple request? She closed her eyes and parted her lips. One frosty berry landed on her tongue. The flavor had changed, like he’d promised. Before sweet succulence had filled her mouth but this chilled morsel had a bite. Zest and tang overshadowed the sensual flavor, spiked the sugar and increased the richness to near wine-like taste. An appreciative sound grew in her throat.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever envied a berry before.” His murmur opened her eyes and the rapture on his face silenced her.

  Perhaps the coldness made the fruit hard to swallow or maybe it was way he stared into her eyes. She read hunger in his gaze and acted instinctively, delving her fingers into his pouch and pulling a blackberry free. Her fingers shook, touching his lips. Tilting his head, he took the offered bite but drew her finger inside his mouth with it, his tongue skating along her skin.

  Rough bark scratched into her behind as she pressed down against a sudden ache deep in her hips. Her fingertip left the warmth of his mouth too slowly. Another firm fruit rose and she felt powerless to refuse it. Mimicking him, she flicked her tongue over his skin as the berry entered her mouth. Taric drew a harsh breath. Against her lip, his finger strayed, tracing the fullness along the bottom.

  “I like the chilled berries.” She didn’t know she spoke until her voice whispered out. The sound broke whatever haze surrounded them and he dropped his hand. Loss rushed around her like a winter’s breath.

  Taric avoided her face and tugged his boots over his wet feet. “I’m glad. I wanted to leave on a pleasant note. I ride for Claverham tomorrow.”

  His words chilled her, an icy river on her sun-heated flesh. “Yes, I know. The treaty is vital to ensure the safety of the southland border but I do not trust the Lutas. How many men do you take?”

  With a weary sigh, he cupped her elbow and drew her back into the meadow. “A half crew I believe will be enough. It doesn’t seem fitting to ride into peace talks with a full war battalion.”

  Myla reviewed the men mentally and nodded her approval. “Yes, it should. I shall be on guard as well.”

 
“When aren’t you?” he laughed. “Half a crew in full regal dress and a series of long, boring meals, chess games and archery exhibitions when fifteen minutes of frank conversation could accomplish the same. Sometimes it just seems like a waste of energy, doesn’t it?”

  “Perhaps, but the civil tone will be aided by the formality. You like the pageantry of the crown, do you not?”

  “Most times.” Taric plucked a stray stalk of grass and whirled it idly while they walked. “The rituals are…grounding, familiar. I know what’s expected, what’s been done by a hundred generations before me and my role in the play. Sometimes that’s exactly what I feel like, a performer repeating lines and scenes cast long ago and known by everyone. It’s not me, Taric the man, speaking then, but Prince Taric Batu, Heir Apparent to the Segur throne. He’s the one who wears a diadem and speaks with formal tones and civic duty. I’m just along to swing the sword and clean up the blood.”

  “Would you cease to be prince if you had a choice?”

  “It’s not a choice I was ever given. No, I like the role enough, have been taught from birth what’s required of me and don’t know any other way. I just wonder what being a prince in a time of quiet is like or will I always be a ruler in wartime?” He flung the blade of grass, now twisted and limp, far into the wind. “But enough war talk. Tell me about you.”

  “Me?” Myla halted abruptly and he walked a pace ahead before turning to her. “You know all there is to know of me.”

  Tall butter-yellow wildflowers danced in the breeze and he ran a skimming hand over the tops, stirring them further. A bright orange-and-black butterfly flitted about his head and he batted it away with a flick.

  The play of colors around him—the shading of a single hue into a million dimensions—captivated her. Somewhere in her breast a fire grew, cast from those same brilliant tones from copper to cream. It warmed her from within like the sunbeams warmed her flesh. Taric was beautiful, golden among the yellow.