Myla By Moonlight

by Inez Kelley

  I want. I burn. I love. She had always loved him but now, now she knew the difference between a woman’s love and the love of duty. One was a pale shadow of the other.

  A single thrust joined them. Her gasp echoed into his kiss and her eyes flew open. Burning. Filling. Possessing. Her body shuddered at the invasion, gripping tightly. Taric’s own gasp locked his eyes with hers. One word reverberated from his spirit and into hers, an unbreakable link between them. It brushed her essence in a whispered baritone. “Mine.”

  No longer empty, she still ached. The ache increased to a rampant hunger. Her craving soared to voracious heights. Desire raked her with fangs of lust. Twisting beneath him, her body howled for relief.

  His hands gripping her hips, he rocked into her, showed her how to sway back to him. The curl of need around her bones tightened, bit deep. Sweet, exquisite agony clenched each muscle and she vaulted into his dominance. Vibrations of ecstasy gripped her and his slick back moved under her clenching hands. So hot. So hungry. So taut.

  A flutter of fear lit in her belly. Too much. Like an overfull winesack struck with a blow, she would shatter and fly apart. Every thrust tightened the coils. She would break. She would explode. There. So near. Fright triggered a flight instinct and she bucked.

  Taric caught her hands, laced his fingers with hers and pulled them above her head. Hot beside her cheek, his words came on a hoarse melody.

  “Trust me, Myla. Let go and fly, my love. Trust me to catch you. I will. I promise.”

  She could trust no other but Taric. Her body stretched tight and quivering, she obeyed his plea and let the blow fall as he moved within her. A single unknown force propelled her.

  Her fear became reality in an eruption of erotic, pulsing sensations. Her molten core quivered around him. Hot. Hungry. Sweet. Taric. Fire exploded. She flew within his embrace, his name singing from lips unaware that they sung. Released in a wash of welling softness, each fiber twanged with joy, trembled with magic.

  He caught her as he promised, his arms holding her through a haze of blistering flight. Dimly, she heard her name chanted before it too rose in a song of a deeper octave.

  This is what it means to be whole, to be alive, to be complete. This is what it means to truly belong to someone. For the first time Myla understood she belonged to Taric on every level. Magic did not bind her to him, love did.

  ab

  “Stay with me.” Uttered in a voice gruff with sated passion, Taric’s request brought a smile to her lips and she fingered a front lock of his hair. She bent to press a gentle kiss against his mouth, her hair swinging forward. He smoothed it back with a gentle hand.

  “I’m always with you.”

  “No. Stay with me, beside me. I want to hold you while we sleep.”

  Sleep? Myla frowned in thought. Do I sleep outside? For Taric, she would do anything. Nodding with tenderness, she feathered golden silk away from his brow. His pallet was not meant for two but she curved into his body and his arms came around her. Nestled against his frame, she sighed. So much power between them, a beautiful charging rush of magnetic force that reaffirmed life and love.

  “I love you, Myla.” His lips pressed to her crown and the words rumbled through his chest.

  Surrounded by nothing but the feel of his skin and the cocoon of his love, Myla closed her human eyes and slept. The sleep was not different from her norm, simple blackness without thought. From somewhere deep, an image appeared. It began as a single splash of color, flaming fire orange against the midnight backdrop of her mind. It fluttered, mutated, shifted…then flew away.

  Rainbow wings flittering along a sunburst of gold, yellow and amber…a hand floating across the fragile blooms, billows of sparkling pollen rising into the wind…blackberry clusters of sun-sweetened pleasure flowing across her tongue…lips like petals caressing hers…fingers against her cheek…a whisper in her ear…

  “Taric!”

  Myla jerked to wakefulness, her mind reaching for danger’s pulse.

  Taric shielded her body. His chest heaved in sudden awareness and he snapped the blanket over her naked shoulder. “Damn it, Bry.”

  Bryton gaped at them, his wide eyes flitting from Taric to her. Coldness seeped into his icy glare and his jaw firmed. “It’s nearly dawn. You wanted me to wake you.”

  Taric nodded and ran a tongue across his lip but made no move to rise from beside her. Silent words chimed between the two men and although she could not read them, she sensed Taric’s stiffening before she felt it.

  Bryton’s tone held frost. “You’ll do as you please but I’m captain here. If she walks among the men, find her some decent clothes and not that thin scrap of red that shows everything.”

  “I don’t remember asking your opinion of her wardrobe,” Taric snapped.

  “You wouldn’t have heard it anyway.” He stared at Taric’s naked flesh and spun on his booted heel. “I hope she was worth it, Your Highness, because you just condemned us all for a piece of make-believe ass.”

  The tent shuddered with the force of his exit. Blowing out a sigh, Taric lay back beside her, his palm reaching for her shoulder.

  Myla rose to her elbow and tilted her head. “He is angered. Why? Bryton has entered your tent before to find women in your bed. Why is this different?”

  “Forget about him.” He drew her close and pressed a sweet kiss to her lips. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes.” She smiled in memory. “I dreamt.”

  “Of what?” His grin brightened the gloomy interior.

  “The meadow.” A dimple appeared and she touched it, her fingertip tracing the curve above his lip. “Are all dreams so pleasant?”

  “I wish yours to be.” His fingers stroked her cheek for countless silent moments before he closed his eyes in regret. “I have to go.”

  “I know. Shall I return now?”

  “If you’ll come to me again tonight.”

  Lips curved wide, she kissed him. A funny sound broke from her throat and it shocked her to recognize it as a giggle. “You call and I’ll obey.”

  “I’ll…I do love the shorter words. I love you, Myla. Return to me, my guardian, and come when the night has fallen.”

  Lilac mist surrounded them as her hand reached for her chiton. Within a blink, Taric lay alone but with his heart pounding in exhilaration. The bitter words of his best friend stole his smile and he pressed his lips firm and quickly dressed. He had a few words to say to Bryton as well and went searching.

  His bodyguard stood beside the smoldering fire ring, kicking dirt over hot gray embers. His wavy hair, tied back in a strip of leather, was dulled to deep brick by the dampness.

  Fog hung thick and blinding, shrouding the gray morning in haze and hushing Taric’s voice. “Have the men left for Bridgecord?”

  “Not yet.” One more vicious kick sent a small cloud of dust over the smoking pile. “They’re almost ready to ride out.”

  “Go with them.”

  Bryton whirled, shock and anger etched across his tense face. “Go with—?” Rust-colored brows met above his nose in a scowl.

  Separating Bryton from him, from his duty, was a slight. If the distance persisted, some would view it as royal dissatisfaction in his performance and a degradation of his status. This was far from the truth. Taric valued him too much to allow bitterness to alter what they shared and sought only space for flaring tempers to cool.

  A deep breath expanded Bryton’s chest and he bowed with such exaggerated insult, Taric fisted his hands to prevent himself from knocking him over. His friend had never bowed to him and that he did so now in mockery spiked his fury. Those around saw and scurried away. The two rarely fought but when they did it was likely to end with blows.

  “What the fuck is your problem?”

  “No problem, Your Hind-ass, none at all. Except the man I pledged my faith to just screwed me and everyone else in his kingdom for a romp with a pretty piece of pussycat.”

  “What I do with Myla is none of your d
amned business.”

  “Really?” Bryton glared. Quickly he stepped in and gripped Taric’s shirt and dagger. Taric didn’t flinch at the knife sailing toward him. It sliced through linen with a rasp. Bryton tore the shirt open and slapped him in the chest. “Guess again, Prince Hard-on. You just bonded with a magic spell. How the fuck does that secure your line? What child can she give you, kittens? You going to take the pick of the litter to wear your crown?”

  Taric glanced down at the bright red imprint of Bryton’s hand. Beneath it, above his heart, was the wide line of the Segur bonding mark. His destiny was set. Myla was his heartmate. A smile tickled his mouth before Bryton’s words sank in.

  His destiny was set. Nothing could now change the future. He had to find a way to keep Myla with him, make her his princess and one day his queen. There could be no other mother for children he’d barely thought about but knew were his duty.

  His fingers shook, touching the roughened edges of the mark. He knew when it had happened, when the mark appeared. Looking back, he knew the exact instant. A warmth had exploded in his chest but he’d been concentrating on heat farther south. Myla had given him her virginity and her love freely and he’d gladly voiced his heart. In that moment, his chest had warmed. He became bound to a woman who wasn’t real.

  Fog captured his breath and pasted earthy grit on his tongue. He breathed deep, sucking in moist cool air to calm his pounding heartbeat. He caught Bryton’s furious and frightened eyes. Only Bryton was close enough to challenge him.

  Normally, Taric listened to his view, his opinion, but not this time. Myla meant too much and his emotions were too raw and tender. “You’re going to have to trust me in this. I know what I’m doing.”

  Bryton snorted and spun away. “Yeah, I saw what you were doing. How could you, Tar? Your family isn’t exactly prolific. If you don’t have an heir, what happens to the crown? To Eldwyn? You don’t have any siblings, Myla killed your uncle before he had any children, so who inherits?”

  Brow wrinkled, Taric considered. He’d never given it much thought, actually. Children one day in the distant future just seemed a foregone conclusion. He racked his brain, mentally viewing the family tree in his father’s library. It didn’t have many branches at his level and he couldn’t recall any specific names. There were distant relatives—he vaguely recalled meeting an elderly aunt as a child. He thought she had a daughter…

  “Shit, you don’t even know, do you?” Disgust tinged Bryton’s tone and he shook his head. “You always did suck in history. Let me give you a hint. Your great-great-aunt Claudina had a daughter named Vesa. Vesa had three children, only one of which had kids—her son…Emerto.”

  The fog seeped into Taric’s exposed chest with chilling fingers and his eyes flew to Bryton’s face, but his friend kept speaking.

  “Emerto, as you know, has two children, Elora and Emeric. So unless you can figure out how to knock up a cloud, you just handed your kingdom to your enemy. Nice legacy. The history books are going to love you.”

  “Shut up, Bryton.” His insides screaming, he wanted to lash out, deny the truth but his throat clenched and he could barely breathe. Destiny couldn’t be that cruel, could it? There had to be someone else, some forgotten cousin or…

  His shoulders shot back. No, he wouldn’t worry about it because he would not fail. He’d figure out how to keep Myla here, in his world, have children with her. He would not let his kingdom fall into his enemy’s hands. He’d burn every timber to ash first, lighting the torch himself.

  Chapter Six

  Bryton rode west with fifty men and a sorrowful, resigned look to his normally bright eyes but with his back straight. Taric led his troops east, the parting as bitter as any he’d had.

  Within hours, his battalion found a portion of the brigade rumored to be assembled. A battle raged long and bloody with casualties high on both sides. Taric fought as if possessed, as if he alone could halt the destruction and any who came close fell in a swath of red. The song from his sword’s swing rang through the wind.

  Bryton’s absence stayed foremost in his mind as his sword arced and fell. Each twist and jab reminded him that his back was unguarded and he called on every ounce of training and skill he possessed. He hefted his weapon again and again until numbness seeped into his screaming muscles. Thunder struck out with gleaming hooves, felling approaching men until the crush became too close and forced Taric to climb from the steed’s back. He slapped the ebony haunches and the horse fled away from the fight to await his whistle.

  Marchen, as before, sent the fiercest of his warriors straight for the prince. Taric wondered anew what his weight in gold tallied to for these men. A year’s wages? More? Did he carry the promise of a manor home or a title with his demise? What reward did the Eldwyn Butcher promise to the man who brought him the prince’s death?

  When his blade was buried to the hilt in an opponent’s chest, a flash of silver shone behind him. Taric yanked the weapon free and whirled to find a helmeted knight behind him, his sword severing a bearded head from a neck. Without pause, the fully armored soldier lunged again and engaged an approaching foe. His steel shimmered with near-holy light in the bright sun and Taric struggled to place the armor. He’d seen it before but where?

  There was no time for pondering. A trio of militants broke rank and descended toward them, axes drawn. He and the helmeted knight moved in perfect unison, a deadly waltz that left only them standing.

  “Who are you?” he shouted in a brief break.

  The helmet visor rose and feline eyes twinkled at him. Behind his plated shielding, his stomach plunged to his knees and he gaped at his guardian. Shock ripped the words from his tongue. She feinted to the left and halted a blood-caked blade no more than twelve inches from his shoulder.

  Above her outstretched arm, a mace hurled toward her. Taric spun his sword into flesh. Limb and weapon fell to the bloody grass, an agonized scream splitting the air. He halted the cry with another quick jab, silencing it forever. He’d saved Myla as she was saving him. The irony made him grin.

  Seeing her clad head to toe in mail, he would never have guessed she possessed the curves he’d caressed the night before. She was a fighter, a soldier and a killer. Myla as a lover was incredible. Myla as a jaguar was mesmerizing. Myla as a warrior was breathtaking. If war could be called music, she would be its dancer for her grace and speed were choreographed to a deadly melody. Each twirl and vault of her stance seemed more ballet than fight but her blade drew blood time and time again. In the midst of death and bloodshed, she captivated him.

  Night descended and the enemy seemed to vanish, their numbers found neither up nor down the borderline. His wounded sought treatment, the worst heading home to Thistlemount along with the dead, the lesser injured rejoining ranks.

  Days passed. Skirmishes occurred along the way, small outbursts of activity from a handful of soldiers that were quickly handled and quieted by steel. But the threat of a larger backlash existed in all minds and every soldier prepared for the clash.

  It never came. Either Marchen had pulled his troops or they had deserted like a belch in the wind.

  Daily, riders carried messages between Taric and his captain, always speaking only of causalities, maneuvers and goals, never of friendship. Bryton had similar reports, a harsh battle then a retreated foe with no sightings since.

  Taric’s sourness grew. Myla came to him at night and he lost himself in the sweetness of her embrace, ignoring the prickle of unease that fluttered along his spine.

  Two enemy scouts were discovered late after camp had been made, boys barely old enough to shave but who glared at Taric with hatred. He sent them back to Thistlemount in shackles but doubled the night patrols. Staring into the night sky, he wondered what information they’d gleaned before discovery and how it would play out.

  ab

  Emerto Marchen reviewed the latest reports. Two of the three scouts had not returned. No matter, they were inconsequential. All that mattered were
the bits and pieces of information provided from their skulking. Taric and the idiot with the fire-topped hair had fought over a woman and parted on bad terms. Interesting. He filed the knowledge away for later use. Two other messages held far more appeal.

  First, Taric walked the camp in the company of a great black jaguar. The feline stalked the outlying ground, blending with the shadows and searching for prey as if it possessed intelligence. Once satisfied, it would slink inside the tent and not be seen until dawn the next day. Second, Taric had a heartmate. Marchen fingered his lip with a grin. This was the most promising bit of news. Balic’s only child had given his heart. How better to injure his nemesis than to bring torment to the one he held most dear?

  He’d been trying to get rid of that princely pain in the ass for decades, but Taric wiggled out of every attempt like a worm through a grave. He’d nearly had the little bastard in his hands once. Arnon Segur had been easy to tempt into betraying his older brother. After all, if Taric were gone and Balic were to die, who would inherit the crown? Somehow, the little brat escaped. Taric had slipped through his fingers just as his mother had before him.

  His fingers dropped from his lips and stole to his scarred chest. Tarsha. Her hair had shone like a candle flame in the sunlight and her eyes had danced with evergreen. He’d loved her from childhood, felt her mark burn his chest after a single innocent kiss in the hayloft. Far more talented than he in the enchanted arts, she enthralled him with her ease and power.

  She would have come to be his in time, he knew it. Until Balic had appeared on a diplomatic errand for his father and ripped her from under his nose. Tarsha was besotted with the handsome young man from Thistlemount. It was an infatuation Marchen had brushed aside as the whim of a fickle young woman enchanted by the lure of royalty. How wrong he’d been.

  Heart-tearing agony had torn through him when his formal challenge was denied and she’d become Balic’s bride. Grief and pain had nearly maddened him. Marchen squeezed his moist eyes tight and fought a wave of misery recalling how beautiful Tarsha had been, gowned in the colors of autumn, walking to her promised groom.