Warrior's Lady

by Amanda Ashley

  He winced as the dark-skinned man’s blade slipped under his guard and pierced his left side. Oblivious to the pain, Jarrett took a step back, feinted to the left, and brought his sword up in a smooth swift motion, sinking the blade to the hilt in the chest of the tattooed man.

  For a long moment, there was only silence. The dark-skinned man remained on his feet, his eyes clouding with pain and shock as he stared at the blade embedded in his flesh. The sword slipped out of his hand.

  Jarrett swallowed hard and then, with a jerk, he withdrew his blade. The life went out of the wounded man’s eyes and he sank slowly to the ground, a bright splash of blood staining his chest.

  And now the crowd was on its feet, cheering for Dumah, the Masked Swordsman of Keturah.

  As if acknowledging the crowd, Jarrett moved slowly toward the tunnel where Leyla waited. He turned as the Master of the Arena rode toward him to collect his sword.

  Covered with sweat and blood, his heart pounding, Jarrett waited for the man to close the distance between them. And then the Master of the Arena was leaning toward him, his gloved hand outstretched to receive Jarrett’s sword.

  With a wild cry, Jarrett drove his sword straight up into the man’s throat. Then, grabbing the man by the arm, he pulled him out of the saddle, grabbed the man’s sword, and swung onto the horse’s back.

  Stunned by the unexpected violence, the crowd fell silent and then roared to life, some screaming for Jarrett’s blood, others urging him on.

  Ripping off the mask, he rode toward the tunnel, tossing one of the swords to Tor. Leaning over his horse’s neck, he caught Leyla around the waist and dropped her, none too gently, across the horse’s withers. Not stopping to see if Tor followed, Jarrett rode out of the tunnel, his heels drumming against the horse’s flanks.

  Outside the arena, he reined the horse to the left, heading out of the village toward the low foothills beyond. He glanced over his shoulder only once. Tor was behind him, mounted on Keturah’s big black stallion.

  Jarrett pushed his mount steadily onward. The wind stung his wounds and whipped his hair into his face, but he rode on, ignoring the blood that welled from the deep gash in his left side and dripped onto Leyla’s back. More blood welled from a cut in his right thigh. He knew she must be uncomfortable, riding belly down over the horse’s withers, but he dared not stop to let her right herself.

  They rode hard for over an hour before Jarrett drew his winded mount to a halt. Taking Leyla by the arm, he lowered her to the ground, then slid down beside her. A moment later, Tor rode up.

  A pithy oath escaped Jarrett’s lips as he glanced up at the Maje. Tor’s face was as white as his hair, and his eyes were glazed with pain. His shirt, once a pale-green, was wet with blood.

  “We made it,” Tor murmured, and toppled from the saddle.

  Leyla ran to him. Kneeling at his side, she brushed a lock of hair from his face. “Tor? Tor, can thee hear me?”

  A faint smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “I hear thee.”

  Leyla sent a pleading glance at Jarrett. “Do something!”

  Slowly Jarrett shook his head. Tor had sustained a wicked sword wound deep into his belly. There was nothing to be done.

  Hand pressed over the bleeding gash in his side, Jarrett sank to his knees on the other side of the Maje. “You fought well,” he said.

  Tor smiled weakly. “Keturah…will not…follow you.”

  Jarrett nodded, his heart filled with remorse. The Mage, born to heal, had sacrificed his own life, and taken the life of another, to save his and there was nothing Jarrett could do for him save sit and watch him die.

  Leyla ripped a strip of cloth from the hem of her skirt and placed it over the horrible wound in Tor’s abdomen, watching in horror as the cloth quickly turned from white to red. She placed her hand over the gaping wound, tears of despair washing down her cheeks as she lamented her helplessness.

  With an effort, Tor placed his hand over hers. “I would…have…cherished thee…always…always…loved thee.”

  “I know.” A fresh wave of tears flooded her eyes. “I know.”

  Tor’s gaze sought Jarrett’s. “Take care…of her.”

  “I will.”

  Tor’s pain-glazed eyes moved over Jarrett. “Thee…is wounded.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Thee cannot…protect her…if thee…is dead.” Summoning every ounce of strength he possessed. Tor lifted his hand and placed it over the deep gash in Jarrett’s left side. “Leyla…help me.”

  Wracked with silent sobs, she placed her hand over Tor’s, holding it in place, feeling the power of his gift pulse sure and strong through his fingertips. A low groan rumbled from deep in his throat as he absorbed Jarrett’s suffering into his own pain-wracked body.

  Jarrett’s eyes burned with unshed tears as he felt the rejuvenating heat of the Maje’s touch flow into him.

  “I am…afraid…I lack the strength…to heal…the others…”

  A low gurgle rattled in Tor’s throat, a soft sigh escaped his lips, his hand went suddenly cold, and Jarrett knew the life had gone out of the Maje.

  “No!” Leyla’s anguished gaze met Jarrett’s across Tor’s body. Lifting Tor’s hand to her breast, she held it tight, as if she could will her life force into him. “No, please, no.”

  “Leyla, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all my fault.” She kissed the back of Tor’s hand, then laid it across his chest. “All my fault. If he had not come after me, he would be alive now.”

  “Leyla…”

  She buried her face in her hands, rocking back and forth, her tortured sobs terrible to hear.

  Rising, Jarrett went to her. Gathering her in his arms, he held her close, his hand stroking her hair as he murmured soft words of comfort, his own guilt like a knife in his heart. He had taken Leyla from the Maje, taught Tor to fight, to kill, and now Tor was dead. If it was anyone’s fault, it was his, not Leyla’s.

  But there was no time for regret now, no time to mourn. Keturah might be dead, but there was always a chance that his men, angered by the death of their leader, might come after them.

  “Leyla, we have to go.”

  “No, I cannot leave him.”

  “Leyla…”

  “No!” She twisted out of his embrace, her eyes wild with grief, and then she gasped. Tor had healed the worst of Jarrett’s wounds, but a dozen other cuts and gashes marred his flesh, the worst of which was the wound in his thigh. Lifting her skirt, she unfastened her petticoat and stepped out of it.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, thinking she meant to use her undergarment as Tor’s shroud.

  “Thee is bleeding.”

  Jarrett glanced down at his thigh. “We’ve got to get out of here before Keturah’s men decide to come looking for us.”

  “At least let me bandage it.”

  She felt his impatience, his need to be moving, as she bandaged the wound.

  She didn’t argue as Jarrett lifted her onto the black’s back. She saw him grimace as he concealed Tor’s body in a thicket of tangled brush and vines before mounting his own horse. And then they were riding north, toward the Cyrus River, toward home.

  But Leyla, casting a last glance at Tor’s bloodstained body, knew that Majeulla would never be the same.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  They rode for hours, not stopping until well after dark. Leyla was exhausted when Jarrett helped her from her horse, but the touch of his hand drove all thought of sleep from her mind. He was burning with fever.

  He swayed unsteadily on his feet as she unsaddled the horses, then gathered an armful of leaves and covered it with one of the horse blankets.

  He stretched out on the makeshift bed without argument, his eyelids fluttering down. For a moment, she hovered over him. They had no food, no water, no shelter. What was she to do?

  Standing there, she heard the faint whisper of purling water. Following the sound, she discovered a small stream at the foot of a gentle
slope. Tearing the hem from her skirt, she dipped it in the cold water, then hurried back to Jarrett’s side and bathed his face and neck with the cool cloth.

  She washed the wound in his thigh as best she could, wrapped it in a strip of clean cloth, then sponged the dried blood from the numerous cuts on his chest. Time and again, she made the trip to the stream, soaking the cloth, drawing it over Jarrett’s chest and arms and legs, praying that he wouldn’t die, that the fever would go down. She wished fleetingly that Tor had lived long enough to heal all Jarrett’s wounds, then felt a deep sense of guilt for even thinking such a thing.

  She wept softly for Tor’s death, for the creeping fear that was stealing over her as the night deepened around her. In the distance, she heard the howl of a black-furred wolf, the answering cry of its mate. A great gray owl swept past her head, searching for prey. Nearby she heard the reassuring snuffle of the horses.

  She stayed at Jarrett’s side all through the long cold night, gathering him into her arms when he shivered with a chill, wiping his body with cool cloths when the fever raged through him.

  She could feel him drifting away from her and she began to talk to him, begging him not to leave her.

  “A child, Jarrett, we are to have a child. Do not leave me. Please do not leave me.”

  Toward dawn, she drew the other horse blanket over both of them and fell into a restless sleep.

  He was smothering, drowning in heat instead of the dark water of the pool. It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t dreaming.

  He opened his eyes to find he wasn’t smothering at all. The heaviness across his face wasn’t the hated mask but the silky softness of Leyla’s hair. She was lying on her stomach, one arm flung across his belly, her head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder.

  He brushed her hair from his face, then groaned softly as he tried to sit up.

  Leyla woke instantly, her expression one of alarm. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he said, then frowned. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  “Last night, I seem to remember hearing your voice calling to me.”

  “Yes.”

  “You mentioned a child.”

  “Yes.”

  A child. He’d hoped it had all been a dream.

  “Thee is not pleased?”

  Pleased was hardly the word, he thought ruefully. He was wounded, on the run. His silence brought a look of immeasurable sadness to her face.

  “Beloved.” He took her hands in his, wishing he could give her the kind of life she deserved. “I just wish the timing was better.”

  “Babies rarely consider such things.”

  The hurt in her voice pierced him to the quick.

  “We will speak of it later.” She lifted a hand to his brow and frowned. “Thee is still warm.”

  “I’m fine. A little sore, that’s all.”

  She didn’t believe him. She examined his thigh, relieved that there were no ugly red streaks spreading from the wound. She ran her hands lightly over his chest, making small sounds of distress as she examined the half dozen minor cuts that crisscrossed his torso.

  “I’m fine,” he said again. In truth, he was feeling more than a little lightheaded, but he attributed it to the hunger that was making itself known. “We need to go.”

  She didn’t argue. Jarrett looked pale, his skin was damp, his eyes had the look of someone who was ill. The sooner they got to Majeulla, the better.

  She watched Jarrett carefully as he saddled their horses. Though he tried to hide it, she saw the way he winced when he lifted the saddles in place, saw the fine sheen of sweat that broke out on his brow as he insisted on lifting her onto the stallion’s back. He paused a moment, his head pressed against the horse’s neck, before he mounted his own horse.

  Needing food, they stopped at the first village they came to. Jarrett bartered Tor’s sword for food and ale, as well as a waterskin, eating utensils, and a warm cloak for Leyla. Then they were riding again, nibbling on fresh black bread and cheese as they went.

  They rode all that day and into the night, stopping only to rest the horses. Jarrett’s fever rose that night and Leyla held him close, worried that his wounds were becoming infected, fearing he might die before they reached Majeulla.

  He seemed better in the morning and they rode as before, eating in the saddle, stopping only long enough to let the horses rest.

  That evening, they crossed the Cyrus River and bedded down in the foothills of the Mountains of the Blue Mist.

  After making Jarrett comfortable, Leyla searched the hillside, looking for the tiny orange berries of the Boarsh plant. Its root, when ground to pulp and boiled with water, was effective against fever.

  Jarrett eyed the pewter cup suspiciously. “What is it?”

  “Drink it while it is hot,” she exhorted. “It will make thee feel better.”

  Without further argument, he took a drink, shuddering as the bitter brew slid down his throat. “Tastes awful,” he muttered, but she lifted the cup to his lips, urging him to drink the rest.

  A sudden lethargy settled over him almost immediately. He gazed up at her through heavy-lidded eyes. “Have you poisoned me?”

  “No. ’Tis only to help thee sleep. Thee will feel better when thee wakes, I promise.”

  “Hold me.”

  A rush of tenderness flooded Leyla’s heart as she wrapped Jarrett in her embrace. She caressed his cheek, running her fingertips over the black beard that roughened his jaw and shaded his upper lip.

  “I’m happy about the baby,” he murmured, his eyelids fluttering down. “Truly, I am. I just wish…”

  “I know. Sleep well, my Lord Pirate.” She bent to kiss his cheek and then, with a sigh, she stretched out beside him, covering them both with her cloak.

  Leyla woke to find Jarrett much improved in the morning. A familiar light gleamed in his eyes as he propped himself on one elbow and gazed down at her.

  “Good morrow, wife.”

  “Good morrow, husband. Did thee sleep well?”

  “Very well.” His gaze moved over her face in a slow glance that made her blood heat, and then he tossed the cloak aside, a question in his eyes.

  “Now, my Lord Jarrett?” she asked, her voice husky.

  “Will it harm the babe?”

  “No, but thee has been ill.”

  “Thee can make me well.” His hand slid over her breast and down one thigh.

  “Thee thinks so?”

  “I know so.”

  Cupping his face in her hands, she drew him down toward her, pressing her lips gently to his. “Is that better?”

  “Oh, yes,” Jarrett murmured.

  “And this?” She kissed him again, longer this time, a little cry of pleasure sounding in the back of her throat as he tucked her beneath him.

  Jarrett’s lips grazed her cheek, the length of her neck. “More.”

  “Anything to aid thy healing, my Lord Jarrett,” she replied, and kissed him again and again, their breath mingling as their hearts began to beat in the sweet rhythm of love.

  Slowly, oh so gently, he made love to her there, with the lacy branches of the trees forming a canopy above and the earthy scent of fallen leaves surrounding them.

  She threaded her fingers through the ebony silk of his hair, loving the feel of it in her hands. His beard-roughened jaw abraded the tender skin of her breasts, his tongue trailed fire wherever it roamed. Her hands moved over his shoulders and back, restlessly, drawing him close, closer. His name spilled from her lips as she arched to meet him, her body welcoming him home, filling her, making her complete as only he could.

  Later he sat beside her, his hand on her belly as he tried to imagine his child growing within her body.

  “It will be all right,” she murmured, placing her hand over his. “Truly.”

  And when she looked at him like that, how could he doubt it?

  It was near dusk when they passed through Dragora’s cave. Leyla felt her heart
begin to pound with trepidation as they rode up the narrow path to the Fortress. Her parents loved her, she had no doubt of that. But would she still be welcome at the stronghold? Would her father forgive her for defying him?

  With each passing moment, her uneasiness grew. What if her father refused to receive Jarrett?

  Sudann was waiting for them when they rode up to the front door. Dismounting, Leyla walked toward her father, waiting, hoping, for some sign of welcome.

  Jarrett watched as father and daughter gazed deeply into each other’s eyes. After a long moment, Sudaan held out his arms and Leyla embraced her father.

  “Leyla.” Sudaan hugged her, his arms holding her tight. “Welcome home, child.”

  “Father.”

  Looking over Leyla’s head, Sudaan leveled a hard gaze at Jarrett. “I had not thought to see thee again.”

  Jarrett shrugged. “I will leave if you wish.”

  Sudaan shook his head. His daughter had made her choice, and he had made his. “Are thee well, daughter?” he asked, his gaze searching her face.

  “Yes.”

  “Have thy feelings for me changed?”

  Leyla shook her head.

  “I warned thee of the consequences should thee defy my wishes,” Sudaan said quietly. “Thee must know I took no pleasure in recanting thy powers, nor do I find satisfaction in it now.”

  “I understand, Father. Thee did as thee felt was best, as I did.”

  “I would hear thy forgiveness from thy lips,” Sudaan said.

  “I forgive thee. Let us speak of it no more.”

  Sudaan nodded, the tension draining out of him as her words poured over him.

  Releasing Leyla, he took her by the hand and entered the Fortress. “Thy mother awaits thee.”

  Feeling about as welcome as a heathen in a nunnery, Jarrett dismounted and followed Sudaan and Leyla to their apartments.