Warrior Untamed

by Mayhue, Melissa

  Destiny might have snatched her dreams away from her, but not even Destiny could force her to live the timid life of an ordinary woman.

  Twenty-three

  HE SHOULD HAVE taken his brother’s advice. He should have trusted his instincts.

  Mathew had felt uneasy and suspicious every time Dobbie had suggested they take a different path, but in spite of every warning Hugo had shared about the dangers of trusting people, he’d allowed himself to trust Dobbie anyway. He had wanted to trust the boy. Had wanted Dobbie to need his friendship as much as he had needed Dobbie’s.

  And just look where trusting another person had gotten him. Lost, that’s where. Lost and penniless and without any means to accomplish his goals.

  Mathew clutched his Dream Guardian to his chest and scanned the campsite once more in the vain hope that Dobbie might have left behind some small belonging.

  Nothing.

  Dobbie had disappeared sometime in the night, taking everything with him. Everything but the plaid upon which Mathew slept and the sword he clutched in his arms.

  At least he still had his Dream Guardian.

  What would he do now? What could he do?

  His dreams of wealth were dashed. Without the scrolls to sell to the MacLeod laird, there was nothing to be gained by continuing his journey to Dunvegan.

  He had no horse, no food, no money.

  “But all is not lost,” he announced defiantly to the forest, a small spark of optimism undaunted.

  He still had a head on his shoulders, unlike his brother, Hugo. He still had his wits about him. And he still had this wonderful sword that kept his nightmares at bay and made him all but invincible.

  He didn’t for one moment doubt its supreme power. It had taken that great warrior to his knees with only the lightest touch.

  A wave of guilt swept over him and he struggled to push it away. He had never intended to hurt anyone. It wasn’t his fault the big man had gotten too close to him. And once the damage had been done, there was nothing to be gained in staying by the warrior’s side. Had the big man survived the wound, there was still the other attacker. Running away had been his only real option. Even Dobbie had agreed upon that.

  Not that Dobbie Caskie was any measure of right and wrong. Dobbie, after all, had robbed him blind, disappearing with what few possessions he had left.

  “All is not lost,” Mathew repeated stubbornly.

  He would no longer have the advantage of wealth he’d counted on, but that was no reason to abandon the rest of his plans.

  He could still locate the Tinklers and reunite with his cousin, Eleyne. They could return to their home, where, if necessary, he would challenge his uncle for what was rightfully his. With his Dream Guardian at his side, he had no doubt that he would win any challenge, even one against a man as ruthless and powerful as his uncle.

  After a stop at the water’s edge to wash the sleep from his face, Mathew wrapped his cloak tightly around him and headed out to find the trail he and Dobbie had abandoned after they’d been attacked.

  Find the trail and double back north. That was his best bet now. Somewhere along the way, along one of the well-traveled roads, he hoped to cross paths with the Tinklers and Eleyne.

  Twenty-four

  BRIDGET GALLOPED AHEAD of Hall, her bow raised, her long hair flying in the wind.

  He drew his horse to a halt to watch. She cut across the flat stretch of open land, building speed as she went. Riding like the wildling she was, she controlled her mount without use of her hands. Like a natural-born warrior, she let loose her arrow and lifted her arms high in the air in an instinctively joyous celebration, as if she knew her shot would meet its mark even before it left her string.

  It had.

  Tonight they would feast on fresh rabbit.

  She slid down from her mount and ran to retrieve her catch. Uninhibited, wild, untamed—the descriptions pounded at Hall’s thoughts, each of them more fitting for the woman he watched than the one before.

  If he were to design his perfect woman, everything about Bridget was what he would wish for in a life partner.

  Too bad his life was destined to be spent alone.

  “You see?” she asked as she rode up next to him, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of her catch. “I told you we’d have better than dry bread and oats for our meal this night. Our deal stands. I caught it; you clean it and cook it.”

  On second thought, perhaps she wasn’t perfect. But damn close.

  He accepted the carcass without comment and draped it over the back of his saddle. A deal was a deal.

  “Impressive marksmanship,” he said, acknowledging her extraordinary abilities.

  Bridget shrugged off the compliment, but a deep pink colored her cheeks as she guided her horse next to his.

  “Is it possible we err in following the others toward Dunvegan, do you think?” she asked.

  Hall had considered that very question more than once since they’d first found the tracks he was sure had been left behind by the party from Castle MacGahan.

  “I only bring it up because it feels fair odd to me that we’ve found no sign of Mathew and his young companion for the past day. After following their tracks to the glen where we met, we’ve since found no sign of them on the trails. No sign of anything but the tracks of our own men.”

  “You raise a good point,” he agreed. “Tomorrow we’ll begin again with a fresh eye to refocus our efforts. We’ll scour the area until we find some sign of the ones we need to find.”

  Another half hour of travel and Hall located what he sought, a safe place for them to set up their camp for the night.

  “If I’m to clean your little beastie here, we’d best make camp now, before it’s too dark for me to deal with him properly.”

  “A good spot,” she murmured appreciatively, pulling ahead of him to investigate his choice. “Our backs to the rocks and running water beyond. I approve.”

  Just as she had a gift for the bow and arrow, one of his talents lay in his ability to locate a good campsite. After so many years spent living off the land, he’d learned to seek his comfort where he could.

  Together they set up camp and tended to their animals, before Hall busied himself with preparing the rabbit.

  “While you finish with that, I’m going upstream a bit. I’ll be back shortly.” Bridget pulled a small bundle from her pack and walked toward the water.

  “Stay close.” He knew that she didn’t really need his reminder, but he felt compelled to give it anyway. “Within hearing distance of my voice.”

  She laughed over her shoulder, a lilting, happy sound that slid under his best defenses.

  “And how far might that be, eh? How am I to ken the distance yer voice will reach? Will you sing for me, Hall, that I might know when I’ve gone too far?”

  If he hadn’t enjoyed the sound of her laughter so much, he just might have been offended by such an audacious woman.

  “O’Donar men do not sing.”

  She stopped and turned to look at him, her face clearly showing surprise. “Never? Everyone sings a bit now and then.”

  He shook his head in denial. “Not without several tankards of very strong ale, and a crowd to drown out the pitiful noise we make.”

  His reward for his honesty was more of her beautiful laughter as she turned and disappeared beyond the bushes.

  With the rabbit cleaned at last and threaded upon the spit, he decided to take it down to the water for a quick rinse. He couldn’t abide biting into meat covered with the small hairs left behind by a neglectful cleaning. He might live as a heathen, but that didn’t mean he had to be one.

  As he made his way beyond the bushes, he caught the faint sound of something equally as lovely as Bridget’s laughter. Somewhere upstream, just around the curve and hidden from his view, her voice lilted on the air. Not a melody he recognized, but an ancient one, he felt sure, based on the language in which she sang. Perhaps her song, like the markings on her body, originated w
ith her ancestors.

  Like a bee to a blooming flower, he found himself drawn toward the source of the enticing sound.

  She kneeled at the water’s edge, wearing only her shift in spite of the cold. The last rays of the day glimmered on the fast-flowing water as she dipped her hand down and brought it back up to scrub against her face.

  She stood, and sunlight reflecting off the water glowed up around her in shades of pink and silver. Her shift slipped down to reveal the shapely contours of her back, where a blue serpent wound its way around a sword that disappeared below what the shift still covered.

  Hall couldn’t have turned away if his life depended upon it. Though the markings on her face had faded a bit, those on her back were a bright vivid blue and he could almost swear the lines glowed with movement as the sunlight shone upon them.

  Listening to her voice, seeing her standing there, Hall wanted nothing so much as to toss aside the spit he held and rush forward. To take her in his arms and cover her luscious, full lips with his own. He wanted to lay her down on the furs she’d dropped at her feet and bury himself inside her warmth.

  He wanted her, body and soul. He wanted her for his very own.

  Fool that he was. She was not meant for the likes of him.

  He began to back away as quietly as he’d approached, stopping when her melody abruptly ceased.

  “I dinna recall having invited an audience to watch me bathe.”

  Damn. He was caught.

  “Begging your pardon, my lady.” Stalling for time to invent some halfway reasonable excuse for his presence, he cleared his throat. Twice.

  There was no reasonable excuse.

  She drew the neck of her shift up to cover her shoulders but kept her back turned to him, making no attempt to speak into the silence hanging between them.

  “I was . . . I was cleaning the rabbit.” Like a half-witted sop, he lifted the spit in his hand as if that might explain his standing there fumbling for words, ogling her like some common lecher.

  When she didn’t respond, he hurried to add to his growing story. “The waters took it from my hands and I had no choice but to follow after. I came this way only to . . . to retrieve our dinner.”

  The words sounded as false to him as if he’d shouted, “I’M LYING!” at the end of his sentence.

  He had no doubt they sounded equally false to Bridget. She still made no move to respond, leaving him to wiggle on the spear of truth.

  “I’ll leave you to your . . . I’m going now.”

  Making no effort to muffle his departure, he stomped back to camp and fixed the spit over the fire.

  When the time came to compile a list of the world’s greatest fools, he’d have no competition at all for the top spot on that list. He’d just proven his eligibility.

  Prince of All Fools! A perfect title for him.

  Spying on Bridget had been bad enough. But having lied to her about it was shameful.

  Unwilling to face her after his complete lapse of acceptable behavior, Hall had busied himself at the fire, eyes downcast on his work, when he heard her approaching.

  “Is the rabbit done?”

  “Not yet. It’s barely begun to brown.”

  He poked at the flames with a stick, wishing the beastie were done. Wishing they’d already eaten and wrapped themselves in their blankets for the night. He could only hope his luck would hold and Bridget wouldn’t discover his stupid falsehood.

  The coming meal was likely to be the worst—and the longest—of his life.

  “Strange . . .” She drew the word out, as if puzzling over some great mystery.

  A shiver of apprehension rolled down his back. “What is that you speak of?”

  “Well, yer fire there must be blazing hot, given that you had to chase our dinner into the water, and yet the clothing you wear is already dry. A fine trick, that.”

  “I never entered the water.” He considered admitting everything, but only for an instant. Like the fool he was, he chose to compound his error. “The current kept the end of the spit close enough to the shore for me to reach it.”

  “Really? Now, that is truly unusual. I’ve never seen a current such as you describe. One that flows along the shore.” She paused for a moment. “Upstream.”

  Not a prince of fools, but a king.

  He stared into the flames, knowing he had nowhere to go but to the truth. “I heard you singing. I followed the sound.”

  “Why would you do that? You need only yer ears to hear, no yer eyes.”

  Why? Because he couldn’t help himself. But that wasn’t something he could bring himself to confess to her. Instead he would apologize. Apologize and pledge never to lie to her again.

  “I should not have lied to you. I should have . . .” He turned to face her, and all thoughts evaporated from his mind.

  She stood at the edge of their campsite, still wearing only her shift. Her thick brown hair, released from its heavy braid, rippled over her shoulders like a silken cloak.

  He’d never seen a more beautiful woman. Or one he that wanted more than he wanted this one.

  “Why did you kiss me?” she asked. “That day you found me with the Tinklers on the road to Castle MacGahan, when you left me behind to begin this search. Why did you come back and kiss me?”

  With four strides he found himself in front of her, close enough to pull her into his arms. He refrained from that unwise action, calling on every bit of willpower he’d ever had, searching her eyes for some clue as to why she asked.

  It would be easy enough to brush away her question, but he’d pledged himself to truth with this woman, even if the pledge hadn’t been spoken aloud.

  “Because I could do nothing else when I saw you standing there. You were days delayed in reaching Castle MacGahan. The need to touch you, to prove to myself you were safe, consumed me.”

  “So you felt entitled? As if you had the right to kiss me?”

  He shook his head. “I felt . . .” How could he make her understand? The blood in his veins warred, demanding he follow the dictates of all his ancestors, both the ancient gods of Asgard and the Fae. “In my family line, the men are not known for their restraint. They take what they want and the consequences be damned.”

  The actions of his ancestors on both sides were the origin of untold legends and stories, most of which rarely portrayed them as the good guys. And with good reason.

  One lovely eyebrow arched in response to his statement. “That’s not how it is in my family line. Men would never dare to think they could take what they want, simply because they want it.”

  Of course they wouldn’t. Mortals didn’t behave with the same reckless abandon demonstrated by the gods or the Fae. Neither did they condone the ill behavior of those two races.

  “With us, it is the women who take what they want.” Brie’s eyes sparkled dangerously and her hand reached out to rest at the back of his neck. “Be ye warned, my warrior. The women in my line give as good as we get.”

  Her lips grazed over his, and need, hot and heavy, swelled in his veins. He wrapped his arms around her and clasped her to him.

  Shivering in his embrace, she moaned against his lips and he was lost.

  With one arm behind her knees and one at her back, he swept her up and carried her to the place where she’d dropped her heavy fur. He kneeled to lay her down upon it, pausing to see whether she meant to continue what she’d started.

  One long, slim arm reached up toward him and the sleeve of her shift slipped down, revealing the intricate blue markings curling from her wrists upward toward her shoulder.

  He traced one finger along the curving line, noting the trail of chill bumps left in the wake of his touch.

  “I’ll chase away the cold if you’ll allow me,” he offered, his voice hoarse with need.

  “Allow it?” she asked, her voice equally as hoarse as his. “I insist upon it.” Her fingers wound into his hair and guided him down, his body covering hers.

  They’d been here
once before. But unlike last time, he was in full control of himself now, his powers fully restored. There would be no storm splitting the skies to interrupt them tonight.

  THE LAST TIME she’d willingly lain beneath Hall’s body, the evening had ended in her dreams being shattered. This time would be different, she told herself. This time there were no dreams attached to her actions.

  She was not tumbling for some great laird who wanted to bed her. No, this time she was boldly taking what she wanted. Her need for him was like a nettle in her skin. Coupling with him would either pluck the nettle away, or give her a marker with which to compare every other man she would ever meet. Either way, this was her choice. Her decision, on her terms.

  He drew her shift up over her head and tossed it aside, leaving her body open to the cold air and his heated gaze. She lay still as his fingers followed the blue lines Orabilis had drawn upon her body.

  The lines he traced seemed to come alive, heating with his touch, and she felt her desire for him writhing inside her, building to the point where she was surprised the lines themselves didn’t squirm right off her body.

  She refused to be ashamed of the markings; they were a part of her heritage. And though he might not be able to understand why she’d done this, they were as much a part of her now as her nose or her eyes. They were her.

  Her breath caught when he pulled his tunic over his head, and she reached up to run her hands across his chest. The muscles were hard as stone, but his warm skin was all man.

  He lowered himself over her and his head dipped to her neck. The lines where his finger had trailed only a moment before, he now traced with his tongue. Hot, insistent, moving along the paths of the markings, nibbling his way down her neck, along her chest, around her breast.

  Again her breath caught, and he chuckled against her skin, the heat of his breath setting her heart pounding so hard he must hear it.

  Her muscles trembled as his hand tracked across her belly and down between her legs.