Warrior's Lady

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Warrior's Lady Page 12

by Amanda Ashley


  Sherriza took Jarrett’s hand, her gaze searching his face. “Tell me, Jeri,” she said, “tell me all.”

  With a sigh, Jarrett covered his mother’s hand with his own and told her, in as few words as possible, about being captured on his way to see the King, of being taken to the Pavilion.

  He made light of the tortures he had endured, dwelling instead on the comfort he had found in Leyla.

  “It seems I owe you an even greater debt,” Sherriza said, giving Leyla a look of deep gratitude.

  “No, Milady. I am only glad that I was there, that I was able to ease his pain.”

  Sherriza nodded. There were not words enough, nor enough lucre in all the known world, to repay Leyla for Jarrett’s life.

  “I cannot believe that Rorke would dare abduct you in such a fashion. And to reinstate the Games without Tyrell’s permission…” She spread her hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “What did he hope to gain by stripping you of your title and locking you away in that dreadful place?”

  Jarrett shook his head. “I don’t know, but I mean to find out. Let us speak of it no more, for now.”

  “Ah, Jeri,” Sherriza murmured, “It is good to have you back. Well,” she said, her voice steadier now, “when you are ready, Tannya has prepared First Meal. I shall see if I can’t find a change of clothes for our guest. Perhaps, after we have broken our fast, she would like to bathe.”

  Sherriza smiled at her son affectionately, then wrinkled her nose as if she had caught scent of something unpleasant. “Of you, I demand it.”

  “Yes, my Lady,” Jarrett replied.

  With a parting smile at Leyla, Sherriza left the room.

  “Thy mother is lovely,” Leyla said. Swinging her legs over the side of the big square bed, she stood up, refusing to meet Jarrett’s eyes. “What must she think of me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She found me in thy bed like some common strumpet.”

  “Leyla, my mother knows I would not bring such a woman into her house or my bed. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Come now, let us go down to First Meal.”

  Two hours later, Leyla accompanied Jarrett on a tour of the castle. She had enjoyed a leisurely bath, then dressed in a gown of emerald-green that had been left on her bed. Matching slippers adorned her feet.

  She slid a glance at Jarrett as they walked down a long hall. He wore a pair of snug black breeches, costly black boots, and a wine-red shirt. He looked at home here, she thought. Jarrett of Gweneth, Lord of the Manor.

  Greyebridge Castle was square in shape, with massive towers at each corner. They started on the first floor, which was below ground level. It held a guard room, storerooms and the granary.

  The second floor housed the Great Hall, the kitchens and the servants’ quarters.

  The chapel was located on the third floor, as were the sewing and weaving rooms. There were also several small apartments to accommodate guests.

  The fourth floor was where the family resided. Sherriza occupied the east tower, Jarrett, the west. Leyla had been given the south tower. There were several large apartments located along the hallways between the towers.

  Jarrett said little as they toured his home. Once, it had been a place filled with people, a city unto itself. Now it was virtually deserted. The servants had left soon after his disappearance. His men had been pressed into the service of the King. Only Tannya and his mother had been allowed to remain in the castle.

  In the months that he’d been gone, the keep had fallen into disrepair. The grounds were barren, unkempt. The cottages on the hillsides had been abandoned; the moat had filled with debris. The mews and the stables were empty of the fine falcons and destriers that had once been the pride of Greyebridge.

  And he was an outlaw.

  The words rang in the back of his mind as they toured the dungeon located in the bowels of the castle. The air was heavy and damp and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. His heart began to pound as, all too clearly, he recalled his cell in the Pavilion, the constant darkness within the hood. He stared at the torch in his hand, his nostrils filling with the remembered stink of his own scorched flesh.

  “Come,” he said, and grabbing Leyla by the land, he practically dragged her up the narrow stone staircase that led into the courtyard.

  He dropped the torch into a bucket of water and drew several deep breaths, filling his lungs with the fresh, sweet scent of freedom.

  “Jarrett?” She placed her hand on his arm, her eyes dark with concern. His face was suddenly pale, his breathing harsh and erratic.

  “I’m all right.”

  “Thee must not think of that place,” she said. “Thee is home now.”

  “I know, but I can’t forget…” He wiped a hand across his eyes, haunted by the nightmare images that were never completely out of his mind.

  In the beginning, before Leyla had been assigned to take care of him, there had been no one to heal him. The worst of his wounds had been treated by one of the Giants. Sometimes they had left him alone until his wounds healed, sometimes not. But then Leyla had come. With her there to heal him, it was no longer necessary to excuse him from the Games for several days at a time. In that respect, her coming had been both blessing and curse; a blessing because he didn’t have to endure the pain of his wounds for days at a time, a curse because her healing power made it possible for him to participate in the Games more often, much to the delight of his tormentors.

  “Jarrett, think of something else.”

  He nodded, knowing she was right. He had to put the past behind him. Perhaps then the nightmares would stop. Perhaps then he could think of the future.

  “Leyla.” Murmuring her name, he drew her into his arms and held her close. She was his strength, he thought as his lips brushed hers. She was his future.

  Taking her by the hand, he led her toward the portal at the rear of the castle. The gate opened onto a large meadow. A narrow path led to a small lake surrounded by yellow willow trees and giant ferns. A wooden bridge spanned the lake; there was a covered porch where one could sit in the shade and enjoy the solitude.

  Hand in hand they circled the lake, then Jarrett knelt on the grass and drew Leyla down beside him. For a long moment, he gazed into the depths of her eyes—eyes as deep and blue as the lake, as calm as a midsummer day.

  “Leyla…”

  “My Lord?”

  “Tender words and pretty phrases do not come easily to a man who has spent most of his life in battle.” He took her hand in his. It was small and warm and soft, everything his was not. Just as she was everything he was not, he mused. And yet he loved her wholly, deeply.

  He took a deep breath, wishing he were as skilled with words as he was with a sword.

  “Leyla, I had thought to ask thee to be my wife, but…” He shrugged helplessly. “I have nothing now to offer thee.”

  “Nothing, my Lord Jarrett?”

  “Nothing,” he repeated, his voice harsh with regret.

  “Thee holds thy love cheaply then.”

  “My love? Thee has that already.”

  “It is all I will ever ask of thee.”

  “My love won’t put food in your mouth or clothes upon your back. It won’t keep you from the king’s wrath if his men come here looking for me.”

  Leyla lifted her chin defiantly. “Had I desired a life of ease and security, I would have married Tor.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be my wife?”

  “Any day thee chooses.”

  “I’ll go into the village tomorrow and fetch the priest.”

  “I will go with thee.”

  “No, it’s too dangerous. I’ll bring Father Lamaan here, if he’ll come. It is my wish that we be married in Greyebridge chapel.”

  “Then it is my wish, as well.”

  “Are you sure this is what you want, Leyla? You will lose your gifts when we are wed.”

  Leyla shook her head. “That is only a myth.”

  “A myth? I don’t understan
d.”

  “It was never true,” she explained. “It was a lie told in hopes of protecting our women from harm if they fell into enemy hands.”

  Jarrett smiled with relief. It had bothered him, knowing she would be sacrificing her powers, a part of herself, to be his wife.

  He squeezed her hand and then frowned when she lowered her gaze. “What is it?” he asked. “What troubles you?”

  “Nothing, my Lord.”

  “Leyla, I cannot read your mind as you read mine, but I can see that something is bothering you. Tell me what it is.”

  “My father…”

  “What about him?”

  “He threatened to revoke my powers if I married against his wishes.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “Yes, by means of an old and seldom-used rite.”

  “Will he do it?”

  “I do not know, but it matters not.” She made a vague gesture of dismissal. “It is a small price to pay to be thy wife. Do not trouble thyself about it.”

  “It is not a small price. It is a part of you that will be forever lost. Are you sure you’re ready to give it up? I want no regrets between us, no doubts.”

  “I have no doubts, my Lord Jarrett, only love for thee.”

  She gazed up at him, her eyes luminous, her lips slightly parted. Her name was a sigh on his lips as he pulled her into his arms and rained kisses upon the soft velvet of her mouth, the tip of her nose, the pulsing hollow of her throat. He could feel the beat of her heart, the warmth of her breasts against his chest.

  His fingers burrowed into her hair, reveling in the silky softness. A deep breath brought him her scent, warm, fragrant, feminine. It stirred him to the core of his being, to the depths of his desire. He had yearned for her, dreamed of her, long before he’d seen her face or knew her name. In the awful despair of the Pavilion, she had become all things to him—mother, sister, friend, a haven from pain, warmth on a cold night, a ray of sunshine in the constant darkness in which he had lived.

  Now, knowing her, he could not help but love her, could not help but want her.

  With a groan, he pressed her back on the grass, his body covering hers as his tongue ravaged her mouth. She was life and breath and he would be lost without her.

  One last kiss and he drew away, his breath ragged.

  With a rueful grin, he stood up. “We should not be out here alone,” he said, offering her his hand. “You are far too beautiful, and I am much too weak.”

  “My Lord?”

  “I fear you will not be an innocent on our wedding night if we stay here much longer.”

  A sudden flood of color washed into Leyla’s cheeks as she grasped his meaning.

  Hand in hand they walked back to the keep.

  Tomorrow, he thought, tomorrow she would be his in every sense of the word. He would live for her; die for her, if necessary.

  Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow all the mystery would be gone and she would know what it meant to be a woman. Jarrett’s woman.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jarrett kept off the main road as he made his way toward the small village located some two and a half leagues from the castle. He knew he had no business being seen in public. Everyone knew he was an accused traitor. By now, it was probably common knowledge that he had escaped from the Pavilion. No doubt there was a price on his head. But someone had to fetch Father Lamaan and he couldn’t send Leyla or his mother, not without a proper escort.

  He walked briskly, enjoying the gentle caress of the wind on his face. It felt so good to be free, to see the sun, feel the earth beneath his feet. Freed of the restricting shackles, his arms and legs felt as light as the air.

  It was near midday when he reached the village. For a time, he stood out of sight behind a tree, watching the villagers come and go. There was no sign of any of the king’s men. Indeed, the village was relatively quiet, but there was nothing unusual about that. Third Day was not normally a busy day.

  He drew the hood of his cloak over his head and then, with one hand on his sword, he crossed the road and entered the small white brick church located at the south end of the village.

  It was dark inside, cool. A single candle burned on the altar. A lone figure clad in a long brown robe knelt at the intricately carved wooden railing before the altar.

  “Father?”

  The priest rose at the sound of Jarrett’s voice, a smile of welcome lighting his florid face as he turned around.

  “My Lord Jarrett,” Father Lamaan murmured. He made the sign of the cross, then held out his hand. “Is it really you?”

  “Aye.” Jarrett swept the hood from his head as he walked down the narrow aisle and took the priest’s hand. “It’s good to see you again, Father.”

  “And you, my Lord.” A frown creased the cleric’s brow. “But, tell me, where have you been all this time, my son?”

  “In the dungeons of the Pavilion.”

  “Ah. We heard a rumor to that effect, but could scarce believe it.”

  “Believe it, Father.” Jarrett shoved his hands into his pockets, his fists clenching.

  “The Pavilion,” the priest said with a shudder. “How is it that you escaped?”

  “By the grace of the All Father,” Jarrett replied fervently, “and the help of a very courageous lady.”

  “Was it…very bad?”

  “The Games are still being played there, Father,” Jarrett replied flatly. “Does that answer your question?”

  “But that’s impossible!” Father Lamaan exclaimed. Everyone knew that the Games had been outlawed long ago, that the Pavilion had been turned into a prison to hold incorrigibles. “Impossible,” he said again. “The King would never permit it.”

  “The King doesn’t know.”

  “And you survived the Games.” There was a note of awe in the priest’s voice.

  “My lady happens to be a Maje, Father. It is only because of her that I am here today.”

  “A Maje… I have never met one.”

  “You will. We are to be wed.”

  “I see.” The priest looked thoughtful for a moment. “It is said that when a Maje weds an outsider, her powers are lost.”

  “So they say,” Jarrett replied, unwilling to reveal what Leyla had told him about the myth, even to a holy man.

  “And this does not trouble her?”

  “She says not.”

  “And it does not trouble you?”

  “Of course it does! But…” Jarrett shrugged. “I cannot live without her.”

  “I see.”

  “I doubt it, and I cannot explain it, except to say that it seems as if we are already one. She knows me as no other does, or ever will. We would like you to perform the ceremony. Today, if possible. You’ll like her, Father. She has a beautiful soul.”

  “Is a marriage wise at this time?”

  “Is marriage ever wise?” Jarrett replied with a grin. “It will not be a large affair, just Tannya and my mother.”

  “And how is your mother? She was not well when I visited with her a fortnight ago.”

  “She’s much improved.”

  “May the All Father be praised! Well, if there’s to be a wedding, we had best be on our way.”

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to walk back to the castle, Father.”

  “I am used to walking, my Lord.” The priest paused, as if he feared saying something offensive. “Have you… I mean…” He cleared his throat. “Is there food enough at Greyebridge?”

  “There’s nothing at Greyebridge,” Jarrett said bitterly. “In the King’s absence, Rorke has taken everything except the castle itself.”

  “I feared as much. Wait here.”

  Jarrett stared suspiciously at the priest for a long moment, then glanced away, ashamed of what he’d been thinking. The good Father had been a friend to Jarrett’s family ever since he could remember.

  A sad smile tugged at Father Lamaan’s mouth. “Were I in your place, my Lord, I would not trust anyone, either.”


  “Forgive me, Father.”

  The priest laid a gnarled hand on Jarrett’s shoulder. “I’ll not be gone long.”

  Alone in the chapel, Jarrett drew the hood of his cloak over his head and stepped into the shadows. The silence within the church was absolute. He stared at the flickering light of the candle, remembering the awful stillness of his cell in the bowels of the Pavilion, where the only sound had been that of his own harsh breathing and the echo of his screams…

  The Pavilion, a place of darkness, of despair, of days and nights without hope, until she came. Leyla. Her name rose on his lips, soft as a child’s sigh, fervent as the prayer of a dying man.

  He whirled around, his hand reaching for his sword, as the heavy oak door swung open, but it was only Father Lamaan, his aged shoulder sagging beneath the weight of a heavily laden sack.

  “Are you ready, my Lord?”

  With a nod, Jarrett took the sack from the priest, slung it over his own shoulder, then followed the old man out of the church. Neither said a word until they were safely out of sight of the village, and then the priest spoke.

  “You took a grave chance, coming here. There are signs posted about the village that offer a goodly reward for your capture.”

  Jarrett grunted softly. It was what he had expected.

  Father Lamaan fell silent after that, his expression thoughtful. He had heard stories of the Pavilion, whispered bits and pieces of the horrors that had once taken place there; indeed, who had not heard at least one tale of the sadistic Games that gave the place its reputation? But they had been outlawed eons ago by every province in the realm. It was a miracle Jarrett had survived, Maje or no Maje.

  The priest shook his head in silent wonder. A Maje. All his life, he had wanted to meet one. Now, it seemed, he would have his chance.

  They reached Greyebridge an hour after dusk.

  Sherriza made Father Lamaan welcome. The priest was an old friend of the family. He had been there to comfort Sherriza when her second child was born dead. He had been there when Jarrett’s father was killed, offering prayers for the soul of the deceased, holding Sherriza while she wept bitter tears.

  Leaving the priest with Sherriza, Jarrett went in search of Leyla. He found her in her room, a piece of delicate embroidery in her lap.

 

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