Secrets Vol 1

by Hamre-Gaines-Landon-LeGendre

  "Easily said, my little brown-eyed believer. But if they smell blood, they won't stop for you or Dendra or anything else." He brandished the ax. "This is all they know."

  "Hide," she ordered. "I'll protect you."

  He barked out a mirthless laugh. "You? You'd blow away on the first good gust of wind."

  I'm your only hope," she answered. "Hide now, or I'll run out and leave you to their mercy."

  His eyes widened ever further. "You'd do that?"

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  Of course, she wouldn't. But he couldn't know that. So she simply stared back at him, giving him a choice between trusting her and facing ten or so blood-thirsty churl-catchers with only an ax for protection.

  At that very moment, a heavy knock sounded on the door. "Open up, in the name of Lord Rabal."

  Breath of the Beast. She had to do something, now. Her intruder churl still held the ax in strong hands, the muscles of his arms and shoulders bunching, clearly visible even beneath his flowing cape. If one of his pursuers got inside alone, the catcher would likely end up in pieces.

  The knocking turned to pounding. "Open up."

  "Lord Rabal rules not here," Kareth called back.

  "Of course my lord doesn't rule here, woman," the voice grumbled outside. "We've had to travel these four days to get here from his province."

  "Then you can travel four days back. I obey no one but Dendra."

  "We're chasing an escaped churl. A dangerous man," the catcher shouted through the door. "You'll want us to stop him, or who knows what he'll do to you? Now, be ah obedient female and open this door."

  Obedient female, indeed. No man referred to a priestess of Dendra as an obedient female, even if she was still a novice. She'd show these males—all of them—who obeyed whom in her own private haven. She glared over at the churl and waved her arm toward the wardrobe. He opened it silently and slipped inside, taking the ax with him.

  She walked to the door and lifted the latch" The door flew open, pushing her back toward the center of the room. One of the catchers, the leader, strode in, his long-knife raised. "Where is he?"

  "He's not been here."

  The man's gaze traveled slowly around the room, taking in every corner. "We saw him come this way, and he hasn't left, or one of my men would've found him."

  She folded her arms over her chest. "I've seen no one."

  He leered down at her. "Then you're blind as well as deaf, little mother-

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  That churl was making enough noise to raise my grandam from the dead."

  She stood tall and lifted her chin. "I must ask you to leave."

  "I must decline." He sketched a sarcastic imitation of a bow. Then he straightened and headed toward the only place in the room where a man could conceal himself—the wardrobe. She backed up to intercept him then stood her ground.

  The man continued until he stood nearly on top of her, until she could easily make out his stubble of beard and the grease stains on his shirt, from Dendra knew how many dinners. In a moment he'd push past her to the wardrobe. And when he opened the door, he'd be greeted by a swinging ax.

  She rested her hand on his chest and let herself sway into him. Then she let out a loud cough. He caught her shoulder in his free hand and shoved her away from him, staring down into her face. "Here, what's wrong with you?"

  She covered her mouth with her hand and coughed some more. More emphatically this time, long and hard, giving him her best imitation of someone fighting for breath. "Nothing," she wheezed. "Only..."

  She wavered again and made as if to lean into his chest, but he backed away. "I've not been well," she muttered. "Nothing. A fever. I'll cure myself soon."

  His eyes went round. "The pestilence."

  "No. Only a fever," she said. "But there are some soiled things in there," she added, nodding toward the wardrobe. "Not pestilent, not at all." She took a gasp of breath. "Still, I wouldn't have another person see them."

  He backed up another step, staring at the wardrobe as though it imperiled his very life. And indeed it would, if she were pest-ridden, if her wardrobe did contain unclean bedclothes and dressings.

  "I'll leave you then, mother." He lifted his knife as if for protection and backed toward the door. "To cure yourself."

  She coughed again and nodded, following along to be sure that he too not an extra moment to leave. She needn't have worried. He made it to the door and jumped across the threshold, nearly knocking down one ofs cohorts.

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  "Easy, Brath." The other catcher reached out and steadied his leader. "Didyou find him?"

  "No," Brath answered. "You?"

  The second catcher shrugged. "Nothing back there but a privy-house. Empty." He made as if to enter the cottage, but Brath caught his arm.

  "Don't go in there."

  "But we haven't found him out here," the second man protested. "He must be inside."

  "He got past us somehow," Brath said.

  "Impossible," the other one replied, again moving to step over the threshold. Brath held on, now almost throwing the man back down the path they had carved through the forest.

  "What's got into you, man?"

  Brath gave him another shove. "We've disturbed the mother enough." Brath nodded toward Kareth.

  She coughed one more time and nodded back.

  "Round up the others," Brath ordered. "We'll continue the search."

  The second man let out a loud whistle, and the two catchers headed away. Kareth closed the door, turned, and leaned against it.

  The wardrobe door opened slowly, and a blond head peeked out, followed by broad shoulders and then the head of the ax. "Are they gone?"

  "Yes," Kareth answered. "And now you can go, too."

  The churl sidled to the window and peeked outside. "A clever bit

  of deception, the pestilence tale." He glanced over his shoulder at

  her. "That was a deception, wasn't it?" L

  "I'd not have let you into that wardrobe if it wasn't." She glared at him. "Pest-soiled linens would kill you faster than those men would."

  "Thank you."

  "I'm not in the habit of lying, and I don't thank you for forcing me to it."

  He turned to peer out the window again. After a moment he set down the ax, leaning the handle against the wall. Then he ran his hand over his eyes. "They are gone."

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  "Now your turn has come."

  He slumped against the wall. "In a moment."

  "No." He couldn't stay, not with his shining golden hair and flashing green eyes. Not with that jaw and those hands and the muscled thighs that filled his breeches. He'd bring it all back if she let him— the urges, the weakness that had led her astray. He wasn't Jahn, but still...he was so..so male. He couldn't stay.

  "Four days." He sighed. "Little sleep, less food." He yanked on the tie that held his cape, and it dropped to the floor. "And this..."

  Dendra guide her. A rust-red stain colored most of one shoulder of his shirt. Blood. "How..." she gasped.

  "Lord Rabal himself." He laughed through gritted teeth. "Got a dirk into me on my way out of his wife's bedroom window."

  "His wife?"

  "A long story." He closed his eyes and swayed. "For later."

  "We have no later. You have to leave, now."

  He didn't answer but brushed past her and walked to the room's sole chair. Sighing deeply, he dropped onto the seat, tipped back his head, and closed his eyes.

  She crossed to him and stared down into his face. She took one look at the pallor of his skin and the tiny lines of pain around his mouth, and her fingers itched to touch him. To brush the platinum hairs from his face and stroke his brow. Soft feelings, these urges, but they would lead to others. "You can't stay here," she whispered.

  "You can't make me leave," he answered, his eyes still shut. "As a priestess you can't turn me away. Or does your goddess' kindness only go to the powerful of this world?"

 
; "No," she protested. "Dendra cares most for the helpless, the hungry."

  He opened his eyes and smiled at her, stealing her breath with his beauty. "I'm helpless, little mother. I'm hungry. Care for me."

  She stood and stared at him, lost in the heat of his gaze.

  He reached out slowly and took her hand in his. He brought it to his face, studying her fingers, caressing them with his own. "Heal me."

  His words, his breath fanned over her skin—warm and sweet.

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  No, not sweet. She couldn't taste him, wouldn't let her imagination run in

  those directions.

  She jerked her hand back. "Very well. I'll heal your wound. Then you'll have to go."

  He sagged against the back of the chair. "Fine."

  She reached to his shirt to ease it away from his wounded shoulder. The fabric whispered under her fingertips, impossibly smooth shalisse—far too elegant for a churl. And his buckskin breeches had been tanned to a butter-softness that molded around him. No common slave, not even one who served in the household, merited such finery. And yet, slave he was, as his collar garishly proclaimed.

  What had he said? The lord's wife's bedroom. Oh, Dendra, a handsome-man. She couldn't help herself, she took a step backward.

  "So," he gritted. "You know what I am."

  "I don't judge."

  "Liar." He glared at her. "You can't get away from me fast enough."

  "You startled me...l hadn't known..." That much was true, at least. She'd heard of such doings but hadn't credited the stories. That a man would allow himself to be thus used—a noble lady's carnal plaything.

  He stared at her a moment more, his gaze boring into her. "Now that you do know, will you still help me?"

  "Of course." She approached him again and slid the fabric of his shirt away from his wound. "This doesn't seem deep. You've lost some blood. And you'll need to rest for a time."

  "Here?" He glanced around the room. "And where will youput me?"

  "In the bed, of course."

  He laughed, but the sound had little amusement in it. "In your

  bed, little mother?"

  "I'll sleep elsewhere." She pushed his shirt off his shoulders. "As soon as I've cleaned the wound, I'll help you to bed."

  He nodded and sighed, slumping in the chair again. Growing smaller, if that was possible for a man of his size. Like it or not, she'd have to heal him before she could again ask him to leave. Only, please Dendra, let him heal fast.

  ******************

  A groan awoke Kareth—for the third time. She rolled onto her back on the hard floor and stared up into darkness. Maybe the man was just muttering in his sleep this time. Maybe he'd fall silent, and she could rest for a few more hours before the sun came up. But no, he moaned again, louder this time. A cry of pain, of fever. He needed tending, again.

  She threw back her makeshift bedding—his cape—and turned toward the hearth. The fire had dwindled down to embers, so she picked up a stick of wood and tossed it onto the top. It caught instantly, sending more heat and light into the room. That would have been enough for herself, but the man had had chills more than once after falling into a deep sleep. She sighed and added a few more logs. She'd have to gather firewood tomorrow.

  He groaned again—a strangled, helpless sound. He'd robbed her of her bed and then her rest. Now he'd used up her fuel, too. And she had no choice but to go to him.

  She scrambled to her feet and approached the bed. He'd thrown back the blanket and lay curled up on the side of his good shoulder. A sheen of sweat coated his naked shoulders and back. She'd helped him take off his boots and stockings, but his breeches would have to stay on, no matter what.

  Poor fellow. He'd come to her for help, and all she could see in him was danger—a threat to what little inner peace she had managed to find here. She had feared him so much, in fact, for what he was she hadn't bothered to find out who he was.

  But enough of fearing him, or pitying him, either. She took a deep breath and focused her mind on her goal—getting him well so he could go. At least his sweat promised healing. Perhaps his fever had broken.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and checked the bandage on his shoulder. It appeared secure, still holding the herbal poultice tightly against his wound. Now she need only make him comfortable and trust inDendra.

  She reached to the basin of cold water she'd placed on the bedside

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  table earlier. Keeping her gaze on the man, she swished the cloth around and then wrung it out. His face twisted into a grimace, and one leg lashed out, almost sending her flying to the floor. She resumed her seat and pressed the cloth to the back of his neck where his collar rested just below the nape. He arched, and a hiss escaped his clenched teeth.

  "Hush," she crooned to him, all the while dabbing at his neck with the cool cloth. "Hush."

  He sighed, and some of the tension seemed to ease out of him. She continued down his spine. He had a beautiful back—broad and smoothly muscled. The sort of back that would offer shelter, warmth— an anchor. But his scent didn't comfort, no matter how pleasant it might be. She could just make it out now—a spicy perfume that tickled her nostrils and haunted the back of her mind. But she couldn't mistake it, not after spending the night wrapped in his cape and surrounded by the smell of him.

  Dendra guide her, she had to rid herself of such thoughts. She reached again to the basin and replenished the cloth. With her free hand, she brushed stray hairs from his eyes. As delicate as the shalisse of his shirt, the strands slipped through her fingers and back over his forehead. Odd how they could be so soft when the rest of the man was so hard. She placed the cloth against his cheek and dabbed at his temple. He let out a soft "ahhhhh," and rolled onto his back, revealing his chest. The broad expanse glistened with moisture, outlining sinew and muscle, two tawny male nipples, and a furrow down the middle. Sleek and hard it was, naked and vulnerable, with not a hair to mar its beauty.

  But that was what he was, after all—a man cultivated for beauty, kept for a woman's pleasure. She ought not to expect the scars of hard work on the chest of a man who crept in and out of his lady's bedroom window. She ought to expect exactly what lay before her, a man so flawless her breath froze in her chest at the sight of him. A man whose perfection caught the fire's light and held it in shining glory-She let her fingers trail over the length of his throat to his shoulders and then along his collar bone. The man was a test—one that would be all to easy to fail. No intellectual challenge this, no bookish debate of good

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  versus evil, but far more dangerous than that. The goddess knew her, had searched out the weakest part of her soul and had sent this man to undo all her cool contemplation. And if she let down her guard for an instant, she'd be lost.

  She moistened her cloth and brought it to his chest. She stroked him quickly, trying to give no heed to the smoothness of his skin where her fingers brushed it accidentally. Forcing herself not to notice the heat of his flesh that penetrated through the cloth as she worked. She'd be finished soon. Her duty performed, she could get away from him. Even if she did have to sleep in his cape, cloaked in his scent, she'd be rid of the vision he made in the glow of the fire.

  Finished, she put the cloth back into the basin and lifted the blanket to cover him. One glance downward, and she dropped it again, a tiny cry escaping her lips.

  There, straining at the front of his breeches—a bulge, long and thick. He was hard in that animal way of men. Impossible but true. And large, so large.

  Dendra, give me strength. She couldn't be tempted by this man, a stranger, as she had been by Jahn. She wouldn't let herself be. No matter how sleek he was...how beautiful...how...

  He grabbed her then. His hand came up, and his fingers curled around her arm, pulling her down. Down until she rested against the width of his chest, her face inches from his, his breath burning against her cheek.

  "No," she cried. An
d she struggled against him. But he held her fast, his fingers like iron bands around her flesh. "No," she said again, a plea this time.

  His eyes opened, and the light of the fire played in their emerald depths. He studied her as if he'd never seen her before. Then his gaze focused, and his features softened. "You," he whispered.

  She swallowed hard and nodded.

  His grip loosened, but he still held her. His fingers played over her skin, soothing now where they had crushed before. He lifted his head slowly, as if the movement cost him.

  "Thank you," he said, his voice as soft as a spring breeze.

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  She nodded again, helpless to do anything else. He closed his eyes and parted his lips as if to kiss her. She couldn't allow that, didn't dare let his mouth touch hers. But, as strong as he was, how could she prevent it without struggling so hard she'd open the wound in his shoulder again? Breath of the Beast, she'd have to find some other way to free herself.

  She pulled back, firmly but cautiously. "Let me go."

  He gave a twist with his hips, and suddenly she found herself flat on her back, looking up at him. His eyes were open, flashing sparks of firelight at her. The hardness she had seen before now pressed into her thigh—more tempting that she could have believed possible. This wasn't Jahn, wasn't the man she had loved. Why did the feel of him make her so weak and fluttery inside?

  "Please, let me go."

  His lips curled into a seductive smile as he gazed down at her. "Not until I've thanked you properly."

  "I don't need any..."

  His mouth came down on hers, stealing away her words and dismantling any protest. His lips moved slowly, softly along hers, in a gentle exploration that pleaded for an answer rather than demanded it. And answer she did, helpless Creature of the flesh that she was. She took the urgings from his mouth, amplified them, and gave them back until the kiss burned hot and sweet enough to singe the edges of her heart.