“In your tent, later.”
“I mean forever, Shannari.” He buried his face in her neck, his hands hard on her shoulders. His big body actually shuddered against her. “Hells.”
Releasing her, he sat upright, obviously trying to gather his control. She couldn’t help but glance down at his memsha. Oh, definitely, he was sincere in his desire. Not even the loincloth could conceal his need. “I’m not going to marry you. I can’t. We’ve been over this before.”
“Aye, so you say.” His smoldering gaze nearly seared the flimsy clothes right off her body. “I say otherwise. If you want me enough, you will.” He took a long, deep breath and smiled, his nostrils flaring. “And you will want me enough. I’ll make sure of it.”
What did he smell that sent the flames shooting higher in his eyes?
Turning his attention back to the warriors surrounding them, he slid an arm around her back, drew her into his side, and leaned down to whisper. “I smell your heat, woman. Hot summer nights and a flower. No flower I’ve ever seen but in a dream ages ago. Your Rose, I believe. The more you want me, the thicker and sweeter the fragrance in your scent. You are all flowers right now.”
Sitting beside him, thigh to thigh, his powerful arm wrapped around her, was torment. She’d never been fully dressed before and yet still able to feel a man’s skin, his heat, like this. He radiated heat, searing her everywhere they touched. And the damned barbarian made sure they touched.
She had no memory of what they ate. What people said. All she could do was concentrate on keeping her hands to herself and longing for his tent. She just hoped the Blood kept his promise.
* * * *
“Are you ready for our challenge, Khul?” Drendon asked, his eyes bright with excitement. “I’m certainly eager to draw your blood.”
Concerned, Shannari turned to Rhaekhar. Was this her fault? His own friend challenging him, threatening to hurt him?
He stood and offered a hand to draw her to her feet. “Merely a demonstration between friends. For every wound he gives me, I shall return one in kind.”
“Isn’t he the only one who ever beat you in a challenge?”
His eyes flared with surprise and he nodded. “Aye, once. Don’t concern yourself, na’lanna. I shall not lose this challenge.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I fight for you.”
Dread and guilt rolled through her. Why couldn’t he have just left her in the Green Lands? Why did he have to bring her here, ruin his life, his Camp, his friendships? She’d tried to warn him. Shadow followed her wherever she went.
“There’s one thing you could do that would help me win.”
She ran through her options. With the sword at her hip, she could fight, definitely, but he’d already defeated her not once but twice. Drendon must be nearly as good if not more so. Why didn’t the Blood refuse to allow this fight? “What?”
His voice thickened and heat surged through the bond. “You could let me taste your blood. For luck. For strength. For love.”
Hardening her face, she nodded. The answering blaze in his eyes drew a small moan from her. “For luck and strength, yes.”
The lust burning in his burnished gold eyes didn’t diminish. With a quick yank, he removed the cloth about his hips, standing before her clad only in his loincloth. Despite the crowd, she couldn’t help but drink in his body. The loincloth enhanced the shape of his genitals and buttocks, leaving nothing to her imagination. His muscular, sinewy legs appeared longer, even more powerful. His entire body screamed supreme and confident warrior.
She wanted to kiss and bite every inch.
With a low, rumbling growl, he unsheathed his rahke and wrapped his other arm around her, drawing her into the heat of his body. “For love,” he repeated, his voice rumbling through her. “My love.”
Rock-hard muscle against her. Desire roaring off him, his scent flaming, his skin searing. The wicked sharp blade flashed in the firelight, tinged red by the flames. He made sure she saw it, that she thought about him using it on her. He forced her to acknowledge her trust that he wouldn’t hurt her, that he wouldn’t draw too much blood.
That he wouldn’t kill her.
Her heart slammed frantically against her ribcage, and she waited. She waited to feel terror shrilling through her nerves. She waited for the Lady’s warning to crash inside her head.
All she felt was aching, trembling need. Need to feel his mouth on her. Need to feel her blood rushing into him, the bond blazing in her mind.
Smiling, he trailed the rahke down her neck, nudging open the vest enough to reveal the horrid scar on her left breast. Despite the trust he’d earned, she still tensed and gripped his supporting arm. She fought her instincts, the urge to rip her sword free and drive him back.
He didn’t force her. Drowning her in his scent and heat and longing, she made a small pleading sound that he took for acquiescence. A quick pain to her breast, and he pressed his mouth to her skin.
He licked and sucked at the small cut, rumbling with such pleasure and hunger he sounded more beast than man. She wrapped her hands in his hair and held him close, while wave after wave of need rolled through her. How could the simple feel of his mouth drive her insane? Her knees trembled, weakening, opening her legs for him. Her body wanted him hard and fast, now, right now, right here.
Groaning, he set her aside, steadying her when she wobbled. “Thank you, na’lanna. With your blood pounding in my veins, I shall never lose to Drendon.”
Rhaekhar joined his friend in the circle of warriors, leaving his Blood with her. Varne pointedly ignored her, but Gregar stood on her left, Alea on her right. Struggling to calm her breathing, she didn’t protest when the Blood steadied her with a knowing wink.
An elderly man placed a hand on each warrior’s chest, and the crowd stilled expectantly.
“Two warriors stand before You, Great Wind Stallion, with fire in their blood. They offer their blood to You in honorable combat. May You strengthen their arms and hearts and show Your Grace on the victor.”
Evidently the elderly man was a priest of Vulkar. He removed his hands and took one step back. “Who will take first blood?”
Drendon answered at once. “I shall.”
“And what do you demand?”
“I’m sure Alea would appreciate a new bow, chosen by Khul’s own hand.”
“Indeed.” Rhaekhar smiled. “And if I draw first blood, I desire a rahke for Shannari.”
The holy man continued. “Who will be the victor?”
“I shall,” Rhaekhar answered immediately. “If I win, I demand one na’kindre of my choice from Drendon’s herd.”
Drendon’s eyes narrowed. “If I win, I demand one of my choice of Khul’s trained warhorses.”
The crowd murmured excitedly while the two warriors stared each other down. Drendon grinned, obviously excited; Rhaekhar stoic and formidable in his silence. Unshakeable.
“Is this dangerous?” Shannari asked the Blood. Inwardly, she cringed at the husky, shaky timbre of her voice. Her heart still thudded and a heavy, liquid warmth pooled in her stomach. Giving the barbarian blood felt almost as good as tasting his.
“It can be,” Gregar replied. “Otherwise, there would be no honor to gain. Drendon does this to benefit you and Khul.”
She thought Drendon hated her. “What do you mean?”
“Drendon is slightly faster than Khul and will most assuredly draw first blood. He knows this. He could have asked for something that would impede Khul’s honor. For instance, he could have demanded you and Khul share his tent every single night for a week, a month, indefinitely. Instead, he asked for something he wanted, that would increase his honor, without risking Khul’s.”
Shannari cringed again at the thought of sharing a tent with the other couple indefinitely. Alea muttered beneath her breath. Evidently, she wasn’t too thrilled at such a prospect, either.
“Drendon is a true friend,” Gregar said. “He even arranges for yo
ur mount. None on the Plains can match the beauty in Drendon’s herd. Yet the risk is great. Drendon has long coveted Khul’s golden warhorse, Khan. Don’t worry, though, Shannari. If Drendon and Khul truly had any grievances, this would be formal challenge. No betting would happen and they’d fight for blood only. This fight is for amusement and blood.”
Oh, well, that sounded like fun. She shook her head, her mouth quirking. She tried to imagine such a spectacle at court and failed.
The holy man removed his hands and stepped back to the edge of the crowd. “Let the kae’rakhe begin.”
The two warriors began a strange, deadly waltz and she couldn’t look away. The flames writhed behind them, casting eerie shadows across the ring. They leaped at each other and whirled, the sharp blades a part of their bodies instead of distinct weapons. The excitement of the watchers was palatable, so heavy in the air she found it hard to breathe.
The sound of the two warriors’ struggle was loud in the silence. Their rough breathing, the screech of blade on blade, the shredding of the air itself as a rahke ripped toward an opponent.
Drendon’s blade almost caught Rhaekhar, but he leaped back at the last possible moment, sucking in his stomach tightly to avoid the swinging arc of the rahke. Her heart tried to hammer out of her chest, and her hand hurt from gripping the hilt of her sword. It was all she could do to keep from drawing her own weapon.
Gregar moved closer, a subtle press against her. When the next blow actually did draw Rhaekhar’s blood, she leaned into Gregar’s side and he squeezed her reassuringly.
“Watch, now. Drendon is slightly faster but shows his emotions easily. He doesn’t control his excitement well and has fought wildly and hard. Khul has allowed his friend’s excitement to run its course, and the first thrill of the battle has passed. He knew he would probably bleed first, and now he will ruthlessly and systematically attack, his greater endurance and control giving him the advantage.”
Indeed, Drendon’s rahke drew blood several more times, but he soon wore many more wounds than Rhaekhar. Sweat glistened on their bodies in the firelight, smearing with the blood. She knew the tremendous strength in his body, though, and he fought even harder when he sensed his friend’s tiredness.
She strained with him, every fiber of her body pushing with him, urging him to move faster, to strike harder. In a sudden flurry of moves that she could barely follow with her eyes, he pushed Drendon across the ring and a rahke fell to the ground. Rhaekhar held his knife up under his opponent’s chin, his chest heaving with exertion.
The warriors stomped and clapped, cheering when the holy man stepped back into the makeshift ring. “For blood,” the old man said, smiling, and gave each warrior a small black bead. A kae’al. After her discussion with Gregar, she now recognized the honor implied.
Rhaekhar slipped the bead onto a leather string in his hair, still talking to his friend. Even from this distance, she could tell his body vibrated with tension. If the fight was over, why was he so stiff and controlled?
Suddenly, she realized everyone was staring at her. The stomping continued, expectant but not quite as enthusiastic.
“What am I supposed to do?”
Gregar leaned closer and whispered, “Remember our agreement.” Then louder, as he gave her a little push, “Show us how much you appreciate your warrior and his skills.”
Her ears roared, and not from the noisy crowd. Blood. Gregar wanted her to taste the blood running from at least a dozen wounds. Did Rhaekhar want this too?
Definitely, she decided, coming to a stop before him. Hot, blazing need roared in his eyes. The loincloth bulged more than ever. Slick with sweat and blood, high on the fight and his victory, he stared at her like he contemplated dragging her to the ground here and now before all his warriors.
That didn’t sound as distressing and humiliating as it should have.
“I made a blood sacrifice to Vulkar this night.” His low, rumbling voice was thick and raw, thrumming through her body. “Are you going to waste it?”
Her gaze dropped to his muscled chest, arms, and stomach, examining the wounds. Most were neat and shallow, bleeding freely but not jagged. Only one in his side, gaping across his ribs, likely needed stitches. She was impressed at the skill used to place such wounds so carefully in the heat of a fight.
Which one to use, though, that wouldn’t cause him too much pain? That wouldn’t embarrass her too much with so many onlookers? She decided the cut high on his shoulder. Stepping closer, she stretched up on her tiptoes to reach it, but his hands settled on her shoulders.
Golden eyes blazing, he pushed hard enough to make his desire known, but gave her a chance to refuse. She hesitated, trying to decide whether a small battle was worth it. Resistance would be stupid when she wanted what he offered just as badly as he did, and allowing him to direct her in this would give him more pleasure. The damned arrogant barbarian certainly enjoyed giving his commands.
Sighing, she allowed her knees to sag. Sliding his hands into her hair, he pushed her to kneel in front of him. Staring at the washboarded planes of his stomach, she knew exactly which wound he wanted her to taste. The knife had caught him just above the loincloth, actually nicking the material slightly in its southerly route. Her face would practically be in his groin.
He liked that thought, oh yes indeed. Breathing hard, he tightened his fingers in her hair, tugging her closer. To keep her balance, she gripped his waist, fingers slipping in the sweat and blood to settle lower on his hips.
Blood, all he wanted to give her was blood. Right?
Closing her eyes, she let him put her mouth on his stomach exactly where he wanted. Salty skin, rock-hard muscle, hot blood so thick and sweet. She dug her fingers harder into his hips and licked the blood carefully from his skin, even slipping her tongue beneath the loincloth. The blood was hotter, here, richer, scorching down her throat to heat her stomach.
Fire spread through her veins, a pulsing wave.
Drowning, she tried to back away before the inevitable, but he knew. The bond hummed and strained between them so hard even she felt it. She could almost hear his thoughts with his rough growl.
:Come for me, my heart.:
Blessed Lady, she did just that. Forgetting their audience, everything but him and his blood and the gleaming golden threads in her head tying her to him. Crying out against his skin, fingers scrambling for purchase, need scouring the flesh from her bones until she felt so raw, so vulnerable.
So helpless in the onslaught of vicious pleasure.
She hated it, this crushing need. Need that demanded she jerk that ridiculously small cloth away and put her mouth to better use. Need that demanded she beg him to take her now, immediately, before she died. Need that demanded she surrender all pride, all hope, all plans, simply to be with him.
:Need me, aye. It’s one step closer to loving me.:
Jerking her mouth aside, she would have fallen without his hands closing on her shoulders. He pulled her up against him, another torment, and walked her back toward their spot at the fire as if nothing happened.
As if she hadn’t just climaxed in front of so many people. As if she hadn’t gone against her natural inclinations to do something that would please and honor him. As if—
She refused to think it.
Head down, stumbling along beside him, she didn’t make any protest when he sat and dragged her into his lap. She couldn’t have stood without his help anyway. She couldn’t bear to look around, to see the reaction of so many people who must have got quite the eyeful.
He cupped her chin in his palm, but she resisted, burying her face deeper against his chest. She couldn’t bear to look at him, at anyone right now. If Gregar mouthed off about their “agreement” or if Varne said one word in disapproval…
“Well done, Shannari.”
She didn’t know the voice. Reluctantly, she peeked up into the holy man’s face. Up close, he looked even older than she’d thought. His face was deeply lined, tanned to leathe
r by long summer suns and age.
Rhaekhar rubbed his thumb across her cheek and chin. “Shannari, this is Kae’Shaman, the most honored shaman of the Nine Camps of the Sha’Kae al’Dan.”
Horrified, she realized she must have blood smeared all over her face. She started to swipe her sleeve across her face, then remembered her clothing. Or rather, the lack thereof. She’d only embarrass herself more if she tried to find a scrap to wipe her face.
Her cheeks flooded with shame and mortification. To meet such a holy man, covered in blood, inner muscles still clenching and aching with need…
Rhaekhar handed her the cloth he normally wore about his waist, and she buried her face in it.
“She is honored to meet you, Kae’Shaman, I’m sure.” They both laughed, accompanied by Gregar, the perpetual jokester. Her stomach rolled queasily, and Rhaekhar pushed her head lower against her legs.
“I’m most honored to meet a Daughter of Leesha.”
Embarrassment or not, that drew her attention. Bracing herself, she raised her gaze to Kae’Shaman’s.
“I See— ” His eyes flashed, his voice singsong, his gaze locked on her, but deeper. As if he saw her heart. “A circle of golden flowers on your head.”
“The Rose Crown,” she whispered. Her heart raced. The High Priest often received visions from the Lady, but understanding them was difficult at best. “What else?”
“Oh, many things.” The old man gave her an enigmatic smile all priests must be taught early by their Gods. He placed something in her hand. “Welcome to the Sea of Grass, Daughter. We’ve been waiting for you. I hope to give your warrior several of these by morning.”
Kae’Shaman turned and shambled away. Shannari opened her palm. A white bead.
“Did you obtain the item I asked for?” Rhaekhar asked his Blood.
Varne immediately offered a leather thong a finger length or so. “Aye, Khul.”
Shaking his head, Gregar winked at her and offered his own, as long as his forearm. “Perhaps such a thong would have held your white kae’als, Varne, but Khul needs one much longer for Shannari. This may be sufficient for a night or two.”
The Rose of Shanhasson Page 16