Unbound Heart

by Jane Atchley

  Table of Contents

  Unbound Heart

  Copyright

  Praise for The Garrison Hearts Series

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press publication.

  Unbound Heart

  by

  Jane Atchley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Unbound Heart

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Jane Peterman Atchley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Tamra Westberry

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Faery Rose Edition, 2012

  Print ISBN 978-1-61217-018-3

  Published in the United States of America

  Praise for The Garrison Hearts Series

  “WARRING HEART is Jane Atchley’s first novel and it was truly an enchanting read. The end hints that this is only the first in a series, and I would definitely read more.”

  ~Bitten By Books

  ~*~

  “Jane writes with beautiful language and exquisite descriptions.”

  ~Tricia Lee, author

  ~*~

  UNBOUND HEART: “Intense, filled with passion, and a story that will keep you riveted.”

  ~Diana Cosby, international best-selling author

  Dedication

  To the great ladies as always.

  Thank you Vikki and Patsy.

  Elhar doesn’t exist without you.

  ~

  SI HERREOACRITER HORREAM

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my editor, Frances Sevilla,

  and to everyone at The Wild Rose Press.

  You make it fun.

  Special thanks to Diana Cosby,

  whose insightful critique helped keep it real.

  Prologue

  His captain was insane.

  Not that it surprised him. He had heard it whispered a thousand times since coming to the mainland from Maoliou, his island home, to serve at the frontier garrison at Qets. What surprised him was he did not see it coming in time to dodge a direct hit.

  First Lieutenant Aimery Duncan leaned against the heavy wooden doors as if the tumult raging in Elhar City’s domed council chamber might break through at any moment. His blood ran to ice. If his rash appointment as field marshal of the Kingdoms’ allied armies held, his bid for anonymity had just died where it was born, at the cultural and intellectual crossroads of the three Kingdoms, in Elhar, the city that legend said fell from the stars. Weak minds trusted in legends. Duncan trusted facts. The metal used to forge his sword was not found on his world. Fact.

  Duncan sucked down a deep breath and propelled himself forward. “Are you certain, sir?”

  Captain Fawr sloshed wine into a pair of shallow cups. Fat red drops splashed over their rims and spread like blood on the snowy white marble table. “Hell yes, I’m certain.” He drained his cup and refilled it. “You have the right temperament for this business. Imagine me, ordering around a bunch of infantry pukes. Sit. Drink with me.”

  Oh he could imagine it—as an epic blood-letting.

  Duncan accepted the proffered cup and pretended to swallow. It was not yet three in the afternoon, a bit early for a beverage the affects of which held so little appeal for him.

  Captain Fawr sprawled on the tufted white leather sofa. “Don’t look at me like I’ve kicked you in the balls. Most men jump at the chance to make themselves a name.”

  “I am not most men.” Duncan eased into a chair opposite his senior. The last thing he wanted was a name. He wanted to be as he was, just another man in a dragon’s eye blue uniform serving under the most conspicuous captain to ever command the frontier garrison at Qets. Invisible. “First Lieutenant suits me, sir.”

  “I know what you’re thinking.” His captain scrubbed one broad hand across his mouth. “You’re untried and concerned what the men will think of you. You’re prettier than most women—I grant you, it’s a big damn handicap—but the troopers learned to respect your instincts and these men will too.”

  “After two years of bruised knuckles and bloody noses,” Duncan murmured under his breath.

  His captain sat forward, frowned. “You’ll outrank everybody on the damn field.”

  Artificial respect, thank you, captain bright side. Duncan kept his mouth shut this time but must not have looked convinced.

  His captain frowned harder. “I need you to solider up here.”

  Duncan blew out a resigned sigh. “Sir, soldiering-up is not the problem so much as not being the soldier for whom the council voted.”

  “Because they’re fools. There’s a solid fact. They’ll come around. Mark my words, before the day is out, they’ll crawl to our door like unfaithful lovers begging us to take them back.”

  “And you claim you are no tactician?”

  “Politicians are easy,” Captain Fawr chuckled. “They want me. They want my cavalry. They believe they’ll have neither unless they accept you as field marshal.”

  “No one believes you will hold our garrison out of a war.”

  “Yes they do. My tantrums are legendary.”

  “Is that so, sir?” Duncan smiled for the first time since his captain’s reckless proclamation before the council. “I had not heard.”

  The captain laughed as he reached for the violin case lying open on the sofa. “They’ll fold. You’ll see.” Tucking the instrument under his chin, he closed his eyes and began bowing a sweet sad melody.

  Duncan sat with his arms resting on his knees, idly turning his wine cup between his palms. On his island home, fiddlers played spirited tunes and people danced. In his experience, his captain knew no jigs. Every tune the man played wrung his heart out. “We need reliable intelligence, sir. I suggest capturing some of their raiders.”

  His captain’s eyes snapped opened, and his look said go on.

  Relegating his untouched wine to a side table, Duncan purposely ignored the white marble table’s gold-veined perfection. Beautiful objects called to him and once something snag
ged his attention he might study it for hours. It was best not to look. He focused on his captain, and warmed to his topic. “We cannot run a defensive campaign. These invaders enjoy too much success with their raids. We must seize the initiative, herd them onto a field of our choosing or we will never get them to stand and fight—”

  At the sharp rap on the door, Duncan paused, and his captain’s bow paused on the strings. “That will be our repentant lovers come to their senses.” Captain Fawr flashed his infamous crooked grin, never a good sign. Duncan’s heart turned to ashes, so much for anonymity.

  Chapter One

  “I didn’t join the army to kill people.” Faelan Foley dropped the veil concealing the lower half of her face and met her indulgent older brother’s worried gaze.

  “No? You joined the army for equality. We are at war. What did you think that meant? The possibility must have crossed your mind.”

  “I am a shape shifter, same as you. I descend from the same star-traveling ancestor you do, and I am as eager to defeat those so called Great Ladies of Elhar who betrayed our ancestor. I want to reclaim our peoples’ birthright as much as any man in this army. Women are not less intelligent because we have wombs, Quinn. I plan to do whatever I’m called on to do.”

  “I know. I know,” Quinn soothed. “Equality is a two-edged sword. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Poor Quinn, he deserved neither her ire, nor her lecture. He understood a woman’s plight better than any man in their male-dominated society.

  His nose wrinkled. “God, our camp stinks. Give me a few days in the forest breathing clean air and I forget what the scent of unwashed bodies and human waste smells like.”

  He had a point. Faelan glanced around the shabby little tent they shared and tried not to breathe through her nose. The glorious Army of the Descendants, what farce.

  Faelan plucked the tortoise shell combs from her hair and its length uncoiled down her back. Picking up the scissors lying on the rickety storage crate doubling as her dressing table, she handed the shears to her brother.

  Quinn’s hand skimmed over her hair. “When you were a little girl, your hair reminded me of ribbons of moonlight.” He barked a short laugh. “Come to think of it, it still does. Is this necessary?”

  “If we’re shifting to wolf form often or holding wolf form for days on end, I either cut it or spend hours picking snarls and twigs out of my hair while you report to the chief-men. Left out is not part of my plan.”

  She felt him lift her hair.

  “But it’s your glory, Lannie.”

  Yes, it was. Without her hair, she’d look more like a freckle-face lad than a woman nearing her thirtieth birthday. For a moment, she was an unattractive little girl again seeking comfort from a kind brother. The moment passed. Faelan squared her shoulders. “It’s not important.”

  “Nicholas will have a fit. You know he hopes to wed you.”

  “Nicholas is a stray dog. Feed him once and you can’t get rid of him. He isn’t important, either.”

  Quinn heaved a sigh. He would do as she asked—cut her hair—and then he’d listen to the camp speculate about what she’d done to deserve such drastic punishment. No one else knew that in their wolf pack of two, Faelan was Alpha.

  ****

  Faelan raised her muzzle to a near starless sky. Her sensitive nose quivered testing the crisp predawn air. Fear had sharpened the scout’s scent trail and made him easy to track.

  Her prey, a tallish athletically built man mounted on a leggy chestnut gelding, wore the cursed bright blue jacket Faelan had learned to hate over the last few months. He had spotted her on his flank as she darted between two oak trees. Alert now, caution set his shoulders. His gloved right hand whispered across the hilt of his saber. Faelan’s ears twitched involuntarily in response. She had learned a healthy respect for blue-jacket weaponry.

  These blue-jackets, professional fighters from a garrison to the north called Qets, took command of the local enemy army a few months past. Their new commander’s style changed the conflict’s dynamic. The Army of the Descendants required rest between clashes with the blue-jacket led enemy, and their rest depended upon neutralizing scouts like this one.

  A twig snapped under Faelan’s front paw.

  The scout’s head whipped around.

  His horse caught her scent on the night breeze, or perhaps it caught its rider’s anticipation. The gelding pranced in a tight circle. Controlling his mount required more of the man’s attention.

  Faelan gathered her hind leg under her and sprang. Her teeth sank deep into the animal’s elegant muscled neck. The horse, mad with terror, plunged and reared while its rider fought for control. Hot equine blood splattered Faelan’s white fur. She pulled with all her strength. The horse went down.

  Employing expert horsemanship, the blue-jacket stayed in the saddle. Leaping free at the last possible second, he rolled and sprang to his feet, knife in hand. Faelan released the horse. Lowering her head, she laid her ears back and growled low in her throat.

  A shadowy blur shot out of the trees. Quinn crashed into the enemy scout’s shoulder. The man fell under black fur and flashing white teeth. Moonlight glinted off the knife still clutched in the enemy’s hand. Terrified for her brother, Faelan lunged. Her teeth shredded the man’s sleeve tearing into flesh. His grip loosened. His knife slid harmlessly along her brother’s ribs and fell into the leaves. Quinn shifted his jaws to the man’s throat and twisted. The enemy scout went limp.

  Quinn raised his bloody muzzle to the dying moonlight, howling their victory. Their people were safe, secure until the next scout came snooping. And he would. The new enemy field marshal suffered no shortage of manpower.

  Faelan rubbed her face in the leaves and pine needles trying to wipe their enemy’s taste from her mouth. They would never stop the blue-jackets by picking off their outriders one by one. The Army of the Descendants needed something to sap the enemy’s momentum. If she could only get close enough to see how the enemy camp ran, maybe a plan would come to her.

  Her brother nosed her belly. Get up his gesture said. Faelan rolled to her paws, ran a few feet into the trees stopped, turned, and with a yip urged him to follow.

  By the time they reached the enemy’s campsite dawn painted the sky, but shadows still clung to the trees, darkness adequate to hide a pair of wolves as they slipped ever closer. Feeling intimidated, Faelan studied the enemy camp spread across a wide swath of cleared land. Was it by design or chance? Design, she decided. His actions told her the enemy field marshal did nothing by chance. She rested her muzzle on her paws, pricked her ears forward, and studied the camp. In her wolf form, her enhanced senses picked up the smallest details.

  Row after row of white tents angled ruler-straight off a large round central tent. Colorful regimental banners fluttered above each perfect square. Beyond this precisely laid-out tent city stood another, almost as large, made up of kitchens, laundries, smithies, wagons, and stores. Strategically placed near what could only be cook tents, pens held sheep, goats, pigs, and chickens. The enemy army didn’t strip the land as the Descendants did. They depended upon supply lines. She and Quinn could disrupt supply lines. All they need do—

  A man emerged from the central tent, and Faelan’s scheming stopped cold. Her breath stilled in her lungs. She had seen handsome men before, but this man transcended handsome. Something about him radiated beauty. The sinuous masculine grace with which he moved saved him from femininity. Broad shoulders and hard lean-muscles fit his compact stature to perfection. Sun-streaked brown hair brushed the high collar of his hateful blue jacket. Almost as if he felt her gaze, he glanced toward the edge of the clearing where she and Quinn lay hidden. Faelan bit down on the whine that tried to claw its way up her throat. Great ancestor, people did not have eyes the color of desert lightning.

  Submissive to no one, her wolf side recognized a dominant predator when it saw one, and her wolf side wanted him. Wolf’s strong reaction to this human male confused Faelan. He was st
unning, but since when did her wolf care about looks? Accustomed to working in harmony with her wolf side, conflicting emotions rattled her confidence.

  Eager to move on, Quinn nudged her shoulder giving voice to the whine she’d held in check. Faelan’s gaze slid back to the man. This sparkling example of male perfection was without doubt the relentless bastard who herded her people toward defeat.

  Another blue-jacket joined the field marshal, a point-eared creature, beautiful too in an alien sort of way. The Descendants’ oral history spoke of such creatures, naming them demons. As the story went, they had allied with Elhar’s Great Ladies and used their magic to help cast out Faelan’s ancestor. A shiver ran through her body from ears to tail.

  The field marshal accepted a steaming mug from the demon, tilting his head back to meet the other’s gaze. This familiar youthful gesture caused Faelan to take a hard look at her enemy. Unless he’d been born on a battlefield, he could not have seen enough action to merit command of a large army.

  Faelan mulled over how they might take advantage of the field marshal’s inexperience at some future time until shouting pulled her back to the here and now. She glanced at her brother. The enemy scout’s horse had limped back to camp.

  Quinn dropped his tail, laid his ears back, and once more whined his concern. It was full daylight, dangerous to be abroad in wolf form. What good was daring reconnaissance if they did not live to report it? Faelan agreed. The sooner they slipped away from the enemy field marshal with his lightning-blue eyes and his disturbing affect on her wolf, the sooner she would stop feeling as though rolling belly-up at his feet was a sensible thing to do.

  Chapter Two

  “What did this?” Duncan stood aside while the corps’ senior veterinarian ran expert hands over the injured horse. Once a topnotch animal, deep gouges scored its neck from throat latch to shoulder point. It broke Duncan’s heart the way war chewed up these noble animals. Troopers understood the why of battle, but their horses only understood devotion to their riders. It was unfair. Old sayings notwithstanding, Duncan found nothing in war fair.

  The horses he’d imported from Maoliou, his beloved Chucker ponies turned cavalry-mounts, had escaped serious injury thus far. If his luck held, he would not lose any of them. But Duncan was not counting on it. With an all-over shudder, the horse folded its legs and crashed onto its side.