Rising, she hurried toward the front of the cave. Jarrett was sprawled beside the fire, his face contorted. His hands were curled into tight fists, his knuckles white, every muscle tense.
The cry that rose in his throat seemed to be torn from the very depths of his soul.
“Jarrett.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Jarrett. All is well.”
He came awake with a start, staring at her through wide green eyes void of recognition. “No!” The single word, filled with anguish, made her heart ache. He was dreaming, she thought, reliving the nightmare that had been his life for so long.
“Jarrett.” She placed one hand over his forehead.
He blinked up at her. “She?” Caught in the web of a nightmare, he called her by the name by which he’d first known her.
“I am here.”
I am here. How many times had she come to him in the darkness of the night, her voice low and soothing, her touch healing the pain in his flesh?
He reached for her hand, the terror receding as her other hand stroked his brow, her warmth spreading through him, driving the demons away.
“All is well,” she murmured. “Thee is free, remember?”
Free. He let out a long breath, then released her other hand, embarrassed to be caught crying in the night as if he were a child afraid of the dark. “I’ll be all right now,” he said gruffly. “Go back to bed.”
His tone rebuffed her, but she knew the cause of it and was not offended. It was his pride striking out, that fierce pride inherent in all true warriors. He had been forced to humble himself so many times there in the dungeons, she knew he could not bear for her to think him weak. And yet she did not wish to leave him alone.
Jarrett felt the heat stir in his loins. She was so near. He could hear the soft sound of her breathing, sense her gaze upon his face, hear the soft rustle of her clothing as she stirred beside him.
“Leyla, go back to bed.”
She heard the barely restrained desire in his voice and quickly rose to her feet, leaving him there, alone in the darkness with his thoughts.
Chapter Six
He was reluctant to face her in the morning. Once, he’d been a warrior, a leader of men. Now he woke in the darkness, beset by dreams that were all too real, haunted by nightmares that left him trembling and afraid.
He avoided her gaze during First Meal, then left the cave and busied himself with saddling the horse while she washed their few dishes and stowed them in the saddlebag.
He sensed her presence at the mouth of the cave even before he turned around.
She was wearing the dress he had bought her and he knew immediately that he should have left her in rags. The gown, the color of freshly churned butter, lent a soft golden glow to her skin. She looked like the Hovis sky in midsummer—the dress the color of the sun, her hair the color of the three moons, and her eyes as blue as the sky. The full skirt made her waist seem incredibly tiny. The bodice hugged her upper body, revealing the swell of her breasts.
Wordlessly, he took the saddlebag from her hand, swung it over the back of the saddle and lashed it into place. “Ready?”
“Yes, my Lord Jarrett.”
“Do you mock me?”
“No. I speak to thee with the respect that should be thine.”
Jarrett snorted. “Respect! For a man who wakes sniveling in the night like a frightened child?”
“Thee has no reason to be ashamed.”
He didn’t answer. Instead he vaulted onto the back of the stallion, then, taking Leyla by the forearm, swung her up behind him.
Lifting the reins, he turned the horse eastward.
As the morning progressed, he grew increasingly aware of Leyla’s arms around his waist, of her breasts pressing against his back. He tried to ignore his longing for her, reminding himself that she was a Maje. To defile her was to rob her of the gift of healing that was her birthright. To take her against her will was unthinkable. And she would not give herself to him willingly; to do so would forever ruin her chance of marriage to one of her own kind.
Leyla married to another. It was a bitter thing to contemplate. Try as he might, he could not shake the thought that she belonged to him. She had healed him, brought him back from the brink of death, of madness. He had admitted his fears to her, slept in her arms. He would gladly kill any man who dared lay a hand on her to do her harm, and yet she was not his and never would be. He was a rebel, a renegade, a traitor…
Bitterness welled within him. He had refused to kill the Aldanites who had begged for sanctuary in the chapel at Greyebridge and so he had been sent to prison. And the Aldanites had died anyway, killed by two warriors sent by the Minister of War.
He felt Leyla’s arms slacken their hold around his waist, felt her body slump forward against his, and knew she’d fallen asleep. He placed his arm over hers, holding her close, feeling the soft sigh of her breath penetrate the fabric of his loosely woven shirt.
A short time later, he reined the stallion to a halt in the shade of a tree beside a slow-moving river. Lifting his right leg over the horse’s neck so that he sat sideways in the saddle, he gathered Leyla into his arms and slid to the ground.
She made a soft, sleepy sound but did not awake. For a moment, he held her close in his arms, his gaze moving over her face. Her skin was smooth, perfect, her lips the color of roses, her lashes dark and thick.
Carefully he laid her on the thick new grass beneath the tree and then he knelt beside her, his fists tightly clenched at his sides as he watched the rise and fall of her breasts, the faint flutter of her lashes. A small smile played over her lips and he wondered what she was dreaming about. Not dungeons, certainly, or she wouldn’t be smiling. Unicorns, perhaps, or yellow-winged fairies dancing in the wind.
Leyla stirred, feeling his nearness even before she was fully awake.
“My Lord Jarrett?”
“I am here,” he replied, and thought how often she had said those words, her voice soothing him in the darkness that had ever been his.
She opened her eyes, looking vaguely bewildered. “Is something wrong?”
“No.”
“Why are we here?”
“You fell asleep.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
She started to get up, but he placed a hand on her shoulder, urging her to stay where she was.
“It’s all right. I’ve been pushing you too hard these last days.”
“I’m fine.”‘
“I know.” He couldn’t stop looking at her, couldn’t stop wanting her. Eight months. Eight months without a woman. He’d never been licentious, taking his pleasure with every woman who crossed his path, but he’d never been a monk either.
Eight months. He swore under his breath, wondering if she had any idea of the effect her very nearness had on him. She was so lovely, her skin like rich cream, her blue eyes luminous, her lips as pink as a wild rose. The rise and fall of her breasts tempted his hand, the scent of her enflamed him. He longed to close his eyes and bury his face in the rich silver mass of her hair, taste her sweetness, caress her cheek…
He saw the change in her, saw the fear in her eyes, in the quick intake of her breath. Too late, he tried to clear his mind of its wayward thoughts.
“Leyla…” His voice was ragged with longing and regret.
She scrambled to her knees and scooted backward, only to come up hard against the trunk of the tree. Feeling trapped, she stared at him in silent entreaty.
“Leyla, do not be afraid of me. I would rather cut off my right arm than cause you a moment’s unhappiness.”
“I want to believe thee,” she said. “I would believe thee if…”
“If you could not see what I was thinking. I know.” His smile was small and cheerless. “I cannot help what I feel. You’re so lovely, and I’ve been without a woman for so long. Perhaps, if your eyes weren’t as blue as the flowers at Greyebridge, or your hair didn’t shine like the sun at midday…”
His gaze moved over h
er like a caress. “Perhaps if your skin wasn’t so fair, your mouth not quite so perfect, I wouldn’t want you so badly.” He shook his head. “Perhaps, if your face were pocked and your teeth were black and you didn’t smell so very, very good, I wouldn’t ache for you day and night, waking or sleeping.”
“Jarrett, I wish I could love thee, but I cannot. I am betrothed to another.”
“Betrothed!” He felt as if Thai’s knife had cleaved his heart in two. “Betrothed.”
“Yes, since I was a child.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“’Tis true, nevertheless. His name is Tor.”
He stared at her for several moments; then, with a grace that was innate, he rose to his feet and walked away from her.
Betrothed! To some soft-spoken Maje who would never appreciate her, never see past her serene facade to the fire that he knew burned deep within.
He clenched his fists, longing to strike out at something, someone. His blood ran hot with a sense of betrayal, as if he’d discovered that his woman had been unfaithful to him.
He stopped beneath a tree and pressed his forehead to the rough bark. Closing his eyes, he tried to still the rage churning within him. Unbidden came the memory of her hands gliding over his flesh, healing him with a touch. A hoarse cry of despair rose in his throat as he imagined her hands touching another, not to heal, but to arouse.
Betrothed! Eight months of torture and darkness and humiliation had not hurt as much as this.
“My Lord?”
He flinched at the sound of her voice. Wiping all emotion from his face, he turned away from the tree to face her.
“I prepared Second Meal. I thought, since we had stopped, and it is near midday, thee might wish to eat.” He looked at her without speaking, the hurt in his dark-green eyes stabbing her to the heart.
“Do you want to marry him?” he asked gruffly.
“I…” Leyla shrugged. “It is my father’s wish.”
“Do you love him?”
“He is a temperate man, soft-spoken and of a kind and gentle nature.”
“Not a renegade,” Jarrett replied with a sneer. “Not a rebel wanted for high treason and rebellion. I suppose he’ll bring you midnight flowers and sea shells and whisper Majeullian poetry in your ear.”
“Perhaps.”
Impulsively, Jarrett closed the distance between them. Grasping Leyla by the arms, he drew her against him. “Answer me! Do you love him?”
She stared into his eyes, her expression mildly reproving. “I will learn to love him, as my mother learned to love my father.”
His fingers tightened on her arms. With a low growl, he covered her mouth with his. It was a brutal kiss, meant to hurt her, to brand her as his. Only when he tasted the salt of her tears did he release her. Only then did he see the fear and the disappointment in her eyes.
Jarrett knew he should apologize, promise her it wouldn’t happen again, but he rarely made promises he couldn’t keep.
He ignored her the rest of the day and stretched out on the ground on the other side of the fire that night.
She sought her bed immediately after Last Meal. Moments later, she was asleep.
For a long while, he gazed at her through the shimmering flames, the heat of the fire as nothing compared to the throbbing heat of desire that pulsed through his veins…
Jarrett choked back a groan as the lash sang its cruel song. He felt the skin of his back split, felt the warmth of his blood trickling down his sides, pooling beneath him.
The blackness inside the hood was oppressive, smothering. He whispered Leyla’s name, sobbing because the dream was over…he wasn‘t free—he would never be free. And Gar’s whip played endlessly across his back and shoulders, until there was no flesh left, until he was only a skeleton bathed in blood and sweat.
He cried for Leyla, pleading with them to let her touch him, to take away the pain, and then one of the Gamesmen removed the hood and he saw Leyla standing beside him. “Help me,” he begged, but she shook her head.
“I cannot,” she replied.
“Help me!” He screamed the words, and then screamed again when she raised her arms, revealing two bloody stumps where her hands should have been…
“Jarrett! Jarrett! Wake up! Please, wake up!”
“She?” Breathing hard, he jackknifed into a sitting position, his gaze darting wildly from side to side.
Leyla grabbed his hand and held it tightly. “I am here, my Lord Jarrett,” she murmured fervently. “I am here.”
A low groan erupted from Jarrett’s throat and he fell back, flinging an arm across his eyes. It had been so real. So real.
He grasped Leyla’s hand when she started to pull away. “Don’t go.”
“No,” she promised. “I will not.” Gently she drew her hand from his. “Sit up,” she instructed and when he did so, she moved behind him and began to massage the tension from his back and shoulders.
Jarrett closed his eyes, his chin dropping to his chest as he began to relax. Sitting there, feeling the magic inherent in her hands, he made a decision that was simple and totally without honor.
He would take Leyla to Greyebridge Castle with him, and keep her there, willing or not. The decision was made quickly, irrevocably, and then he put it from his mind lest she should peer into his thoughts and discover what he meant to do.
Chapter Seven
In the days that followed, he was careful to keep his distance from Leyla, careful not to touch her if he could avoid it. The long hours in the saddle were nothing short of agony. There was no way to avoid her touch then. Hour after hour, he felt the heat of her arms at his waist, the soft seduction of her breasts pressing against his back. He tried riding behind her, but it didn’t help. Then it was his arms around her, holding her close, the scent of her hair rising in his nostrils.
Bad as the days were, the nights were far worse. The nightmares continued to plague him so that he dreaded the darkness. He tried sleeping during the day and riding at night, but even that couldn’t keep the bad dreams at bay. Night after night, he woke drenched with sweat, the sound of Leyla’s voice leading him out of the darkness.
Tonight was no different. His own screams were still ringing in his ears, the phantom images still fresh in his mind, as Leyla drew him close, rocking him as a mother might rock a troubled child.
“It is all right,” she murmured soothingly. “It is all right. Thee is safe now.”
Safe… He willed his body to stop shaking, despising himself for his weakness, for being frightened by nothing more substantial than shadowed images. But the dreams were so real. He could feel the sting of the whip, hear their laughter, smell the blood—his blood. He could feel the blades of the Gamesmen slicing into his flesh, smell the fear that rolled off him in waves, hear the sound of his voice crying for mercy. It was that above all else that sickened him. He’d never thought of himself as a coward until he’d been forced to play the Games, but he knew he’d rather die than go back and face it all again. The worst of it was, none of the Games in and of themselves had been unbearable, at least not until the end. They weren’t fatal, they weren’t crippling, but, taken as a whole, day after day, they had been more than he could stand.
He closed his eyes, feeling himself begin to relax under the touch of her hand, the sound of her voice.
“Leyla…”
“I am here.”
A faint smile touched his lips. I am here. She spoke the words and all the demons vanished. He would take her home, he thought again, home to Greyebridge. Home to his mother. He would grant her anything she desired, clothe her in silks and satins, adorn her with jewels to rival those in the king’s crown—anything, so long as she would remain at his side.
“No.” Leyla jerked away from him and stood up.
“What?” Jarrett blinked up at her, confused by her sudden withdrawal.
“Greyebridge! I will not stay there! Thee promised to take me home.”
He swore under his breath,
cursing her ability to read his thoughts.
“Leyla…”
“I wish to go home, Lord Jarrett. I wish to go now.”
“I need to go to Greyebridge. We can rest there, get fresh horses, clothing, food.”
“I will not go.”
“I’ll take you to Majeulla afterward.”
“Thee is lying.”
Jarrett shook his head sadly. “I cannot let you go.” Hating himself, he took the scarf from her hair and lashed her hands together, not trusting her to stay with him now. “I’ll untie you in the morning.”
She refused to look at him. With an air of injured dignity, she turned her back to him and curled up on the ground. This was what came of trusting one not of the blood, she thought bitterly, of letting herself care for a man not of her race. She was a prisoner again.
Jarrett released her hands in the morning. He tried to apologize, but she would not look at him, would not speak to him, would not eat the food he offered her, though she did accept a drink of water.
He understood her anger but it didn’t change his mind. He wanted her. He needed her and he meant to keep her near, for a while at least.
He lifted her into the saddle, swung up behind her and turned the horse eastward.
The hours passed slowly. The quiet companionship they had shared was gone. He tried to talk to her several times, but he could not break through the barrier of her silent condemnation.
At dusk, he made camp in the hollow of a hill. Again she refused to eat, refused to speak.
“Leyla, please try to understand.”
She looked at him blankly, as if he were a stone or a tree, then gazed into the fire. The flames danced in her hair, turning the silver to gold.
“I won’t tie your hands if you promise you won’t run away.”
“I make thee no promises, Lord Jarrett, except one. Thee will regret this before the night is over.”
With a curt nod, he grabbed her hands and tied them together. Her look of wounded innocence cut his heart like a knife.
He stayed by the fire long after she’d fallen asleep, staring into the glowing coals, hating himself for what he was doing to her, yet unable to face the future without her. He did not think of loving her—such a thing was impossible. She was a Maje, a healer. He was a man who had been robbed of his titles, his land, his legions. He had nothing left but a castle that had been in his family for generations.
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