“Damn Petrand. I'll see him banished from Shanhasson for this. Whatever he told you, I don't want this. You must release me at once.”
He gently wiped her back and sides. The bastard hadn't drawn blood yet, but the welts were angry and red. Her desire for anonymity entraps her. “By whose authority?”
Mulish, she tossed her head, drawing his attention to the luxurious mane coiled at the base of her neck. Sinking his fingers into her hair, he worked it loose until the dark-golden silk flowed down her back.
When she spoke again, her voice was fragile. “Do you know why they brought you here?”
His heart crumpled with her courage. “I need no explanations. If I can please you in this small thing, then I shall die the happiest of Masters.”
“Please,” she choked out. “I don’t want to do this.”
“Fear must be faced, not fled. I'm your Master, and I'll turn your head to face the fear. We must gallop forward, fearless and proud, until we trample this fear beneath your hooves.”
“Are you going to torture me?”
“Never.” He trailed his fingertips over the fragile skin of her wrists, checking for chaffing or binding. Silken ropes wrapped in another layer of silk bound her wrists and ankles, luxurious and strong yet soft enough that not a single mark would be left on her skin. “Are you thirsty? Hungry?”
She shook her head, lifting her chin but averting her face. Despite his cursory bath, she must smell the stable odors, and worse, the raw sweat and rising heat of a dra'gwar. She likely preferred perfumed nobles and baby-soft skin, not massive paws and a great hulking brute of a body.
A small sound escaped her throat. Dread, fear, shame, he wasn't sure which, but she might as well have sloshed a bucket of icy water onto his face, dousing the fiery urge to risk all for this chance of heaven.
He couldn't push himself on her, not when she’d already suffered so much. How could they ask her to endure his touch, even if he kept the dangerous fire at bay?
“I know you.” She jerked her head around, breathing deeply. “I can't see you, but Lady help me, I know your voice. I know your scent.”
Her breasts rose and fell with her rapid breathing. She was perfect, all velvet skin, lush body, silken mane, pride and fire and spirit. The scars merely reflected her courage, enhancing her steely core of strength. How he longed to kiss each scar, to erase any lingering hurt and shame she might bear.
Flames licked across his skin.
Desperately, he concentrated on her fear, firming the image of an injured mare in his mind. He must help her through this without the singe of flames injuring her even more. The last thing she needed after surviving such a horrible nightmare was to endure an inferno of blood and violence.
“Come closer.”
Eyes narrowed, he hesitated. She must accept him as her Master for this to have any chance of working. While every muscle in his body demanded that he obey his Queen, he couldn't for that very reason.
“Please?”
The quaver in her voice brought him another step closer. She leaned toward him. Her lips brushed his chest, her breath fanning his skin. He shuddered, gripping his hands into fists. His skin felt scorched and too damned tight. Flames curled through him.
“You.”
Eyes closed, he fought the dark memories. He’d pulled her from the lathered horse's back, her fingers tangled in the mane so badly he’d used a knife to cut her free. Naked and bleeding, eyes wild and huge like Somma's full moon above, she’d clung to him, trembling like a flimsy tent in a sandstorm, but no tears. Not from her.
She wobbled, her head darting from side to side, panic increasing her breathing again. It wasn't the whip she feared, or whatever torture she thought the Lord Steward had advised him to employ. It was fear that he knew exactly who she was that sent the spasms of terror screaming through her.
“Shhh, za'hira. I work in the stables. Of course I smell familiar. Safe and warm stall, sweet bed of hay.”
“Leather,” she breathed, swallowing down her fear. “I smell leather.”
“Iyeh, saddles, bridles, harnesses, braided ropes.”
Her voice came out strangled. “Whips.”
Uncoiling the supple leather on his hip, he trailed the tassled tip against her cheek. She jerked back, blowing hard, flanks quivering. When no harsh word or blow came from him or the whip, she edged her head forward, breathing deeply of the leather and oil he rubbed into his tack each and every night to keep it supple.
“In the miserable heat of the desert, leather dries up to brittle hide if not properly cared for.” He spoke softly, letting her smell and feel the leather against her cheek and mouth. “When a mare is first introduced to restraints, a Master rubs her down with each piece to help her accept his command.”
He trailed the whip across her neck, shoulder, and down her arm. Muscles bunched, she strained away to the limits of the ropes binding her. Keeping his voice and touch gentle, he continued the slow and deliberate stroking. No hands, no pain, nothing sexual, just the leather touching her. He listened to her breathing and watched her body, just as he would a mare.
When she ceased fighting the restraint and the touch of whip, he added his hand. He smoothed his palm down her back, gently kneading her flesh. “When we're finished here, I'll rub you down head to toe with liniment. My own secret recipe, passed down from my mother's mother. Every ache and pain will disappear, and on the morrow you’ll gallop miles and miles without stopping.”
“Your hands.” She swallowed again, shifting beneath his palm. “So big. Powerful. Calloused.”
Hot shame flooded his face and he snatched his hand away. He mustn't forget that she was his High Queen, and he, the lowly stable hand, work-roughed hands and all. “Forgive me.” Barely, he bit back the words, Your Majesty.
“No.” She turned her face toward him, dipping her head slightly. “I didn't mean… Please don't stop.” Her voice quivered, shyness trembling through her body. “It's the first time I've been able to bear a man's touch in years. Your hands feel wonderful.”
Her scent ripened like a rose blossoming in the summer sun. All pretenses of wild mare and Master fled from his mind and all he could see was the woman he’d dreamed of all these years, maimed more than his darkest worries, yet desiring his hands above any other's.
Tears trickled down her cheeks, wetting the silken scarves blinding her. She whispered, “Blessed Lady.”
Horror clutched his heart, roiling fear that he’d worsened her terror.
“Thank you.”
He sagged, nearly falling to his knees with relief.
“Touch me, Jakon rav'Tellan. Take away this fear I have.” A smile curved her lips, stoking his blood even more. “Tame me, Master. Please.”
TWO
“IT ALL BEGINS WITH TRUST.”
He breathed into her ear. Standing behind her as closely as possible without actually touching her, he simply let her feel his heat and the strength of his body.
Restless, she leaned back toward his voice, but he carefully prevented their bodies from touching.
“You must trust that as your Master, I'll not let any harm come to you. When I touch you with whip or rope or hand, you must trust my guidance, safe and secure that I would never injure you in any way. If I release your bonds but leave you blinded, you should go when I say, turn at my command, confident in step and full of grace, for I will never lead you astray.”
Shaking, she whispered, “I'll try.”
The scent of roses was thick in his nose, pure heady temptation. Hardening his control and his voice, he retorted, “No.”
She jerked, flinching at his tone.
“No trying. You will. We shall do this together, over and over, until you obey me without thought or question. Until you trust me in every way. Until you can hear me shout and curse and the whip cracks at your ear, but you never so much as twitch. Because one thing you must believe, deep in your soul, za'hira: Never will any harm come from my hand to you.”
Never. He repeated the vow in his heart, tamping the raging desire down. I must control the fire, or leave her now. This will be my greatest test as Master in my entire life.
He repeated the rubdown with the leather whip, followed by his hands. Massaging her back, thighs, and calves, he finally untied her ankles. He lifted one foot, rubbing the sole with his thumbs in firm, deep circles, and then gave the other the same treatment.
She stood quietly, listening and feeling him. If she were a mare, her ears would have been flickering back and forth intently, but her tail would still be clamped tight to her legs. She was calm, but not trusting, not fully. One foolish move on his part, and she would snap a kick to his head.
“Did you ever see me exercise the horses in the Keldari tradition?”
She tensed, afraid, he was sure, that he was trying to discover her identity. “I know of what you speak.”
“Then you know how we use the whip.”
Her breathing quickened and she tugged against his hold on her ankle, one quick involuntary jerk.
“You saw when a Master lays the whip on a horse. Never in punishment or to harm, merely to direct.” Only when she fully surrendered to his hold did he finally release her foot and allow her to stand normally. “The brush of leather against the horse's side to turn, a flick on the rump to quicken the pace. Just a touch. A caress.”
He stepped away from her, deliberately snaking the whip against the floor in an unmistakable rasp of leather against stone, letting her know it was ready in his hand. She shifted her balance but didn't retreat or fight the restraints. A good sign.
Flicking the whip gently, he let the tip graze her shoulder, a whisper of leather as soft as her hair trailing down her back.
She cried out, flinching away despite the gentle care he’d given her so far, but she steadied quickly. Another good sign, a step in the right direction. He flicked the whip again, gentle grazes against her outstretched arm, her calf, the sleek curve of her side, the rounded muscle of her buttock.
She sidled, twisting against the ropes binding her hands, turning toward him, away from him, trying to guess where the whip would land. He judged her health and state of mind critically, keeping a sharp eye on her even as he continued the soft flicks of the whip on the front of her body.
Sweat glistened on her skin, her breathing short and fast, yet she wasn't panicked. She cried out again, more of a moan, a plea, and he couldn't resist smiling. Iyeh, she began to understand. He let the leather drape across her breast as it fell away.
“A caress, za'hira. I stroke you with the whip, and I wish my hands were on you instead. I kiss you with leather. I urge you to smolder for me, to ache for my hands and mouth to follow. Do you? Do you recognize my whip as an extension of my body?”
With a sharp crack, he snapped the whip feet away from her. Shrieking, she leaped sideways to bolt from the threat. She fought the ropes, crying even as she came to a halt.
He went to her and stroked his hand down her sweaty back, crooning to her softly. “Shhh, za'hira, no harm came to you.”
She sucked in great sobbing breaths. “I'm sorry. I thought I understood, that I believed. . .”
“All is well. You need this time to learn I’m worthy of your trust. I must earn the right to be your Master. We shall take as much time as you need.”
He left her side to fill a cup of water for her. She drank thirstily, still breathing hard.
“Rest a moment while I ask for fresh water and food.”
“Don't leave me.” She dipped her head again, fighting back her ingrained regal command. “Please, Master Jakon rav'Tellan, please don't leave me.”
“You may call me Jake if you wish.” Smiling, he trailed the leather over her shoulder and coiled the tail loosely around her neck. “I won't leave you until you're ready.”
Jake opened the door and the Lord Steward nearly fell flat on his face inside the room.
“Is she. . ?” He saw her unharmed and calm, not even any blood, and he sagged against the doorway. “I heard her scream. My apologies, Jakon. It appears as though you're doing very well.”
Stepping outside into the hallway, Jake left the door open. Alert yet quiet, she waited, head high, body trained on him even though she couldn't see. “I have a few requests for her.”
The Lord Steward straightened, relief spreading across his face. “Absolutely. How may I help?”
Jake lowered his voice so she wouldn't hear. “I understand her need for secrecy, but I despise this cell. She has fear and shame enough without being reminded every moment that we're in a dungeon. Can we not retire to her private chambers? It's not as though I would know the difference from hers and the guest rooms.”
“Very true. We can certainly remove you both to her chambers. Give me a few minutes to clear the halls and prepare her rooms. Anything else?”
“Fresh water, perhaps her favorite wine, fruit, bread, simple, fresh food. This process will take some time, and I want to be sure she's comfortable.”
“Of course, of course.” The Lord Steward dropped his gaze to Jake's hip, noted the absence of the whip, the sweat trickling off him in rivulets, and likely the bulge in his trousers as well. Nothing he could do about that. “Have you. . ?”
“She’s doing well, my lord, but I refuse to rush her.”
“Forgive me, I shouldn't have asked.” The Lord Steward's cheeks heated with embarrassment. “It's truly none of my business. If she chooses to keep you forever, I'll never say a word against it.”
Calling for a guard, the Lord Steward hurried down the darkened hall. Jake blinked with shock. Breaking her fear was a dream come true. The possibility of one night with her sent his blood roaring in his veins. But forever?
She was the High Queen of the Green Lands, and he, a savage. Dra'gwar, dragon warrior, cursed by Somma Herself to flames and blood and death.
He loved her too much to risk hurting her more than she’d already suffered. He’d treasure this time with her. He’d remove all traces of her fear. If she wished, he would awaken desire in her and use every skill he possessed to pleasure her. And then, he would leave her to her throne. I must.
Still blindfolded and engulfed in a heavy cape with her hands bound before her, she walked beside Jake. At first, she shied at any noise or threat, imagined or real. Shielding her, he used his much larger body to offer the protection she sought.
He guided her down the empty hallway and up an endless flight of stairs, down hallways and up more stairs. When he didn't rebuff or correct her accidental touches, she nestled closer beneath his arm. She even dared to lay her cheek against his chest while they waited for the Lord Steward to open the last door to her chambers. The more she touched him, the calmer and steadier she became.
Inside, the servants had laid out a scrumptious feast appropriately fit for a Queen. A cheerful fire warmed the room with cozy intimacy, and candles covered every flat surface, casting a soft gentle glow throughout the room. Even her bedcovers had been turned down, strewn with rose petals in luxurious satin sheets.
At his hard stare, the Lord Steward merely smiled. “If you require anything else, sir, please let us know.”
Sir? Since when had he progressed from stable hand Jake to sir? The Lord Steward shut the door behind him, leaving Jake alone with the High Queen in her royal chambers. She, blindfolded, bound and naked beneath the cape; he with his whip coiled once more on his hip and naked from the waist up.
Now he was the one uneasy with dread. The Lord Steward's deference merely increased his disquiet. Combined with his words earlier about her keeping Jake forever. . . What did they expect of him? He couldn't stay with her, no matter how much he loved her.
She shifted her weight slightly, a subtle reminder from mare to Master that she waited expectantly. Despite the blindfold, she watched him on a deeper unseen level that both pleased and unnerved him.
Soundlessly, he eased behind her, circling with absolutely no hint of whispering cloth or movement to draw her attentio
n. Still, she followed, pivoting on the balls of her feet, body perfectly in tune with his.
How? She couldn't see or hear him.
Uncoiling the whip, he drew it in a whistling circle above his head, deliberately giving her warning. At the sharp, ominous crack of the whip he snapped in her direction, a small quake shimmied through her at the noise, but her unseeing gaze never left him. She didn't cry out. She didn't even flee.
Instead, she took a hesitant step toward him, her delicate nostrils flaring like a wild mare scenting a predator. “You smell different now. Not exactly different, I suppose, but more.”
Fire coursed through his veins, blazing away his unease. Could she truly smell him so well that she sensed his very presence? “What do you scent, za'hira?”
“When. . . when I was hurt. . . an elderly Keldari woman gave me a gift. Fire Tea, she called it, filled with all sorts of spices. The priests wouldn't let me touch it until they tested it themselves, but I loved it.”
“You did?” Startled, Jake laughed. “Fire Tea is a desert staple. We take the precious few plants that survive the blasting heat, roast the leaves and seeds on a rock, throw them in a pot with a little water, and steep it until it's black and thick enough to eat with a spoon. If it doesn't kill you, we call it tea.”
Abruptly he realized exactly what the tea meant, how it was used in the desert, and he choked. Why in Somma's name would the rashida give a foreigner tea said to feed the dragon fire within?
“It smelled delicious, roasted spices, exotic and nutty, hot and sweet at the same time. It burned my throat and stomach, but it was a nice heat. It lingered for hours, sometimes days, and kept me warm when the. . . memories. . . came. I saved the last bit for years until the aroma was long gone. I even slept with it beneath my pillow.” She laughed softly. “I imagined that it helped keep the nightmares at bay.”
Eyes burning, Jake cleared his throat. If only he could have held her through those nightmares. “Did it?”
“Yes, but probably only in my head. Or rather, my heart.” She raised her head and tossed her head impatiently when she couldn’t see him. “You smell like that tea. You smelled the same way when you. . .”
The Horse Master of Shanhasson (Blood and Shadows) Page 2