Myla By Moonlight

by Inez Kelley

  Attractive in an evil, near-demonic way, Marchen grinned while taking a pastry from the serving girl’s tray. The white sugar coated his fingertips and he wiped each one on a pristine cloth before facing Taric. “Yes, but I have faith in my son, like your father, I’m sure, does in his. I do get the impression, however, that Balic didn’t know of my invitation or he might’ve come today himself rather than send his child.”

  He tossed the word “child” out as if Taric were three summers rather than ten times that but Taric refused to flinch. “I am Eldwyn’s military leader and have been for a number of summers. King Balic does not bother himself with trivial matters like this meeting. My presence here is far more than enough to settle such bothersome details. Foreknowledge of your invitation would have been…polite, but would not have brought my father here. However, neither of us knew Luta had invited you to join in this discussion.”

  “Well, as I see it—” Delmas shoved the last bite of cream-puffed dough in his jowl and smacked his coated lips, “—I have the most to lose or benefit from hearing what each side has to say. I mean, I’m not warring with either of you and yet my lands keep getting burned and I lose money no matter who wins. The more I lose, the more difficult it is to pay the stewardship rights to the Eldwyn Treasury. So why not put all our cards on the table, gentleman, and see who has what to offer me?”

  “Delmas, you’re a greedy pig.” Marchen laughed with devilish abandon. “Less than ten minutes in your door and already you have your hand out. Not ready to formally break from the security of Eldwyn Kingdom, you still look for ways to escape paying your promised tithe. No, I think I’d like to enjoy your hospitality for a while before I bring my…offer to the table. What do you say, Prince Taric?”

  Taric ran his finger with deliberate slowness around the rim of his untasted wine goblet. Twenty-three laps around the circumference had Luta sweating and Marchen’s jaw white with gritted teeth. “Agreed. It would be very impolite to jump straight into discussions of…offers.”

  Within the hour, Taric was escorted to the west tower, Bryton close on his heels. No doubt Marchen was in the east tower since Luta seemed determined to keep on both men’s good sides. Unfortunately for him, Taric had never considered him there in the first place. Bryton refused a room, standing inside Taric’s open door with arms still crossed. The elderly servant seemed lost when Bryton would not be taken to a separate room. His bodyguard stood silent and brooding until prodded to move once more. Then he bared his teeth and hissed at the old man, who scurried away like a mouse before a hungry cat.

  Bryton closed the door behind him and faced his friend. “We’re screwed.”

  “What makes you say that?” Taric laughed, stretching out on the bed.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Your enemy is across the castle way, your men are outside the walls and Luta smells like a hog’s ass. Add that with your bad mood and my saddle sores and life is just grand.” Bryton kicked his boot off, sat with a groan and rubbed his long toes. “And I need new boots.”

  “Whine, whine whine,” Taric chided. “You need to open your mind up. I have to find a weakness in Marchen and maybe now I can. Luta may be greedy, and smelly, but he isn’t a fool. He hasn’t formed an alliance with Marchen yet. And killing me outright would place him square in Papa’s sights and he won’t risk that. It would cut into his profit too much.”

  “Forgive me for not giving a shit about cutting into his profit. It’s my own flesh—which I’m very fond of, by the way—I worry about. Did you have to goad Marchen about his daughter? Damn, Tar, are you trying to piss him off?”

  “No, just make him second-guess everything. It worked. Besides, Elora is beautiful but she jumps at mouse farts. He scares her too much for her ever to consider behaving any way but prim, proper and virginal.”

  “One of these days, your flirting is going to get you in trouble and take my ass with you. Why can’t you stick with barmaids like the rest of us?”

  Head shaking, Taric closed his eyes and examined the day’s developments. There had to be a reason Marchen wanted to extend the talks. What could he be after now? Discerning the motives might be impossible. Marchen acted impulsively and with malice but with no real agenda. He didn’t battle for any specific port or pasture, vault or valuable. Predicting his course on a map was like guessing where a cow would drop its dung.

  A thump hit Taric’s stomach and he curled upward in shock. Bryton’s boot, thrown from the chair, smelled of wet leather and feet. Taric wrinkled his nose and pitched the shoe back.

  Bryton caught it and fixed him with a piercing look. “You want to tell me now what has you so grouchy?”

  “No.” Terse, Taric closed his eyes and folded his hands behind his head. The silence in the room gathered weight until it pressed down on him like an ox. Bryton was brooding. “Let it go. I’m fine.”

  “You’re a lit torch in a room full of oil. If you get any more tense, you’re going to mess up and someone’s going to die. I’d prefer it not be me. Talk, Prince Cantankerous.”

  His captain’s words stewed like potatoes in Taric’s belly until they sapped every bit of angry broth from his gut. Sighing in resignation, he gave in. “I kissed Myla.”

  “What? After that whole ‘she’s not a tavern whore to be ogled’ shit, you kissed her?” His captain’s mouth hung open like a cellar door. Snapping it back in place, he melted into the chair and grinned. “Was it good?”

  “You could say that. Except the part where she pushed me away and told me she wasn’t made for my pleasure.”

  “Ye-ouch.” Grimacing, Bryton shook his head. “Probably just as well. I mean, she’s a stunning woman, Tar, but she lives in a scar on your side. That isn’t exactly normal. It’s kind of creepy, really. Isn’t she like a part of you? So it was kind of like kissing your liver or something.”

  Disgust filled him and he rose to sit on the bed. “Bry, shut up. It wasn’t like that. It isn’t like that at all. I can’t get her out of my head.” Seeing Bryton’s mouth open, Taric cut him off. “And no, it’s not the same thing as when she’s asleep inside. It’s different.”

  The room he’d been given was over-decorated with tapestries, velvet fabrics and iconic emblems. It closed in around him, choking the breath from his lungs until he leapt from the bed and threw open the shutters. The humid air rushed in, bringing the scent of boiled meats and horses. He leaned on the stone and stared up at the downy clouds dotting the darkening sky.

  “Something happened when I saw her bleeding. I started thinking about how I would live without her and I can’t imagine it. You should’ve seen her eat dinner that night. Every bite was a new experience for her, a new taste or texture. It was like watching magic come alive before my eyes. Here is this…being whose sole purpose is to keep me safe but she’d never tasted a strawberry. In one night, she had more ideas and opinions on how to succeed in battle than my top military commanders offer in a month. But she didn’t even know you were flirting. How can one person be that innocent and yet that deadly, that cunning?

  “Myla spends every minute of every day with me but I don’t know how to read her. And blackberries…I never saw anyone melt at a taste before. She’s amazing. I thought…I do think she has some feelings for me other than responsibility. She kissed me back before she pushed me away. You and I both know she could have destroyed me with a tap but she…she looked frightened. She just left me standing there with flowers and bees and questions I can’t answer.”

  “Taric, open your shirt.”

  At Bryton’s command, Taric turned from the window with a puzzled slant scoring his forehead. “What?”

  The captain’s pale face looked drawn and panicked but his voice was that of a commander. “Open your shirt.”

  Obeying without reason, Taric bared his chest to his friend’s bright blue eyes.

  Bryton sagged in relief and blew out a noisy breath. “I was afraid you’d been marked.”

  Taric snorted and dropped his shoulders. “You don’t
really believe all that shit, do you? About the Segur bonding marks? Come on, Bry. It’s all legend, stories made up for weddings and romantic poems. It doesn’t exist.”

  “You ever seen Balic without a shirt, Tar? He has one.”

  “My father has a scar on his chest from a knife wound or something. It’s man-made, not mystical.”

  “Why can’t you believe in it? If anybody should, it’s you. You have a guardian maiden who lives in a burn and turns into a cat. Your mother, who created her out of who knows what, was our time’s greatest sorceress. Your entire family tree is filled with people who never had kids because their heartmates were never found or died. After swallowing all that, why is a little love mark so hard to fathom?”

  The question plagued Taric all evening. Instead of focusing on matters of state his mind swirled with blackberry kisses and eyes of gold-green sparkling in the sunlight. Why was the mythical love brand that supposedly appeared on the men of his bloodline so hard to conceive?

  Standing at the bottom of the grand stairwell, dressed in his best courtly fashion, Taric had a brief moment of clarity. If he chose to believe in the mark, the mystical physical manifestation of his life bond with one woman, his future was sealed. He would never love another as long as he lived. That mark, the single thick line that would appear above his heart, meant his destiny was preset. Segur men only loved once a lifetime, could only give a child to one woman. He wasn’t ready to commit to any woman at this minute, not while a threat hung over his people like a storm cloud.

  “You’re far too young to have your mind wander, Prince Taric.”

  The voice behind him slithered down his spine in chills and prickles. Emerto Marchen was a snake in human form intent on wreaking havoc and bloodshed on the people of Eldwyn. Why, you miserable bastard, what’s your reason? What’s your weakness? Back straightened, Taric plastered the diplomatically bland expression on his face before turning. “Younger than you, perhaps, but not wet behind the ears, Emerto.”

  Step by step with slow grace, the butcher of his people drew closer and the air grew heavier with scarcely veiled malevolence. Marchen’s gaze raked over him, leaving a film of discomfort and disgust no water could wash away.

  “You are your father’s son, no doubt. I wonder, is there much of your dead mother in your soul, Taric? What of her magic? Did you inherit even the smallest bit of her talents? Or has Balic molded you in his every likeness? You have his look, not even your eyes are that of your mother. A pity, I always found Tarsha’s eyes the loveliest shade of evergreen.”

  “You knew my mother?” Taric couldn’t help the surprised lilt in his tone and the evil glint in the older man’s eyes increased.

  “Very well. Tarsha and I…grew up together. We were…quite close. Close indeed. She was…enchanting and beautiful. We spent a great deal of time together, she and I. Didn’t Balic ever tell you that? Hmm, perhaps you’re not as informed as you believe, young Segur. Ask him. See if Balic tells you the tale of how he took Tarsha from…her home to be his bride. And then, maybe one day, I’ll tell you the truth. Or not.”

  His heart pounding against his ribs, Taric fisted his hands while Marchen passed him to enter the dining hall. It took every ounce of training he had to calm himself enough to stroll into the neutral hall of Delmas Luta.

  Bryton was already in his place, behind Taric’s chair, a firm do-not-touch expression dulling his normal laughter. Not even the buxom serving girls drew his attention. That single fact made Taric aware how uneasy his friend was in the company of his enemy. Bryton never overlooked a set of beautiful breasts.

  The courses were long and bland or far too sweet. Talk was kept to the arts, history or farming. No mention of the blood spilled or the lives lost dampened the meal. Nimon Luta’s weasel-like eyes darted from man to man with sharp moves. By the time the third course was served, Taric had envisioned plucking them from his skull at least twice. The reason for this meeting, the supposed treaty of peace with the middle land of Luta, sat like a fat grandmother inside the hall. It overshadowed everything. No one mentioned it but everyone was on their best behavior. Enough was enough.

  “Delmas, would you tell me why you didn’t let my father or I know Emerto was also invited to these talks? It seems a rather suspicious move on your part.”

  “Bitterness at your tender youth is unbecoming, Taric,” Marchen rebuked him with a superior air.

  “So are temper tantrums at your advanced age, Emerto,” Taric fired back with a calm demeanor. “Yet you insist on behaving like a child who’s been denied a sweet, throwing your armies around to destroy innocent people when thwarted on a grander scale. The age-old agreed-upon Rules of War mean nothing to you.”

  Narrowed eyes of cold iron lit on Taric and he felt the icy hatred pour out. “Rules set by men dead a century ago are worthless today.”

  “Values and honor don’t go out of style. They’re the fiber of a man and in turn, the security for his people. You undermine the entire kingdom with your disregard.”

  Marchen shoved to his feet and his chair hit the floor. “No Segur will ever speak to me of honor!” His voice boomed off the ceiling.

  Taric remained seated and toyed with his goblet, outwardly smirking but internally picking that statement apart.

  Delmas Luta rose clumsily and waved a drumstick around. His nervous laughter sent bits of spittle and pheasant across the linens. Sweat trickled down his round face and pooled beneath several chins quivering in fear. “Gentlemen, please, this is the dinner hour. Here at Claverham, we have no quarrel with Segur or Marchen. I insist on peace in my domain and at my table…please?”

  Marchen snapped his embroidered tunic over a trim stomach and smoothed a full lock of hair into place. A cold, practiced collectedness blanched his features. “Of course, my apologies, Delmas.” A servant righted his chair and he sat, sending calculated visual daggers at Taric.

  “Mine also,” Taric murmured, holding the glare.

  Delmas attempted to direct the conversation to horse breeding but conversation stayed flat until Marchen struck out with premeditated charm. “Your men don’t enter Claverham, Taric. I’m left to wonder what signal that sends to your host.”

  “No hidden symbol, Emerto. My men will not place a burden on his storehouse or his purse. They’re at the ready and can fend quite well for themselves from the forest. Besides, I have no need of their protection or reason to fear Claverham and its inhabitants…do I, Delmas?”

  The portly man chuckled self-consciously and Taric felt Bryton stiffen behind him. “Of course not. And may I say how thoughtful that action was, Prince Taric. Your consideration is well known and most welcome. Even a half-platoon of peaceful soldiers is a drain on any poor household like my own.”

  Delmas was as poor as he was thin but his greed was rampant and provided a convenient excuse. Behind him, Bryton started coughing. The cough grew and intensified until Taric turned in concern. Bryton hacked into his cupped fist with watering eyes and tried to draw breath.

  Delmas sputtered in irritation. “Is your man ill?”

  “Just…outside…air.” Bryton gasped through another fit and looked to Taric, who nodded. The captain nearly ran to the wide doorway, his cough barking roughly.

  “Do not drink the wine.” Whispered in a melody, the words caressed his ear and Taric glanced up. Dressed in servant wear, Myla filled his goblet with blood red wine and sent him a winking smile. The simple cotton blouse scooped low, as did most of the servant bodices, and without thought his eyes sank to the shadow of cleavage visible. Caught back in a strip of plain fabric, her mahogany tresses hung to her waist and swayed against his arm.

  “You find my servant appealing?” Delmas leered with a lecherous grin.

  “I do indeed.” Taric winked back at her.

  “She is yours for your stay, a gift from the house of Luta to show our goodwill to our monarchy.”

  Taric bristled at the thought of any lord gifting a servant to a guest for pleasure but since t
his was to his advantage, he dipped his head in acceptance. He wrapped his hand in her hair and nearly closed his eyes at the silky softness before pulling her to his lap. Acting the spoiled prince was not so difficult when it involved nuzzling the neck of such a delectable fake servant maid. Cupping his head, she leaned to his ear.

  “This wine is drugged—not to kill but to incapacitate. Bryton readies your mount. Leave here now. A chamber below is prepared for your capture and torture. Luta seeks to discover how much your worth is in gold to King Balic.”

  He made a low sound of acknowledgment and let his lips trail down her creamy throat. Her slim fingers tightened in his hair and his tongue flicked out to taste the honey of her skin. Heat drove into his chest and tripled his heartbeat when she raised her chin to give him more access. Wordlessly, he gripped her hip and pulled her tighter, cradling her deeper to his chest. He had to force his mind to remember that they were being watched. The temptation to lay her on the banquet table and feast on her filled his mouth with thick longing.

  For her part, Myla ground against him, acting the wanton slut for all to see. He sprang to hardness in a blink and the groan that slipped from his lips wasn’t for show. Spoiled princes have all the fun. But at this minute, he was that prince and so he cupped her heavy breast in his palm. Did he dare believe her hissing, indrawn breath was real? Surely, no one but him had heard it. It punched into his gut like a battering ram. Struggling for control, Taric growled and stood, dragging her with him like a laundry sack. He didn’t bother to hide his heaving chest.

  “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me. I find I have other appetites to feed this night. Delmas, you’re a most gracious host. Emerto, I bid you goodnight.” With a slight nod, he briskly strode from the dining hall, pulling Myla with him. Deep masculine chortles followed their path.

  Once away from prying eyes, he should have released her but he couldn’t. He turned to the stairwell and she tugged him back into the shadows. A trio of soldiers took note and smirked before lazily moving away. Taric pressed her against the wall, burying his hands in her hair. The fabric strip slid loose and fluttered to the floor. In seconds, it was trampled beneath the feet of a servant hauling a tray laden with steaming dishes into the hall. Around his shoulders, her arms clung and hands gripped with a scratching hunger he wished were real. The feel of her mouth under his was more incapacitating than any poisoned wine.