Come Back to Me (12 page)

He tasted her with light, nicking touches and deeply, driven to know her in this way and rewarded with her swift waves of passion. That first kiss they shared had not misled; she was fire in his arms, holding back nothing, taken again and again by pleasure's relentless fury.

But not taken by him. Somehow, though it killed him, he would get through this. His body screamed for relief but he ignored it, all his attention focused on his enthralling warrior woman.

Rycca gazed into his features cast in sharp relief by the glow of the fire's embers and knew a moment's helpless fury. He was doing this deliberately, denying her what she most wanted even as he gave her what she had never imagined could exist. The revelation of ecstasy was yet one more discovery in this strange land but it was not enough. She wanted…
Sweet heaven, yet again
…

She was panting, scarcely able to bear anything more, yet she knew full well it was the man she wanted, not simply the shattering release he gave her.

With strength she would not have thought still to possess, she twisted suddenly beneath him, gripped his shoulders again, and pressed him down onto the ground.

"Enough, lord," she whispered against his burning skin as her lips skimmed down his chest to the dark whorls of hair circling his navel and beyond. "Enough and enough again. You cheat us both."

"No!" he said and made to stop her but she was swifter just then. His love play had taught her well but her instincts might have been guide enough. He gasped and fell back at the first stroke of her tongue, shivering like a man struck down by fever. Good, she thought, he felt the same, then thought nothing at all as she yielded to the most primal need to savor him.

Somewhere far in the back of Dragon's fire-drenched brain the realization occurred to him that he
really
could die from this. Then the roar of his blood drowned out all else and he became for some lost time only pure sensation.

When next he was aware of anything, the girl was straddling him. She tossed her hair back, away from the twin moons of her breasts. The sight of her would have stolen his breath had he any left. Frowning slightly, with determined concentration, she lowered herself toward him.

Suddenly realizing her intent, Dragon tried to stop her but the effort proved stunningly feeble. She merely seized his hands, laid them upon her breasts, and brought the tip of him within her tight, wet heat.

He knew he had to halt this, absolutely knew it, and could do nothing. His passion had become paralyzing, save for his merry fellow in which all strength and will were focused.

Dragon stared, helplessly fascinated, as she lowered herself onto him. Her concentration was intense. Small white teeth dug into her lower lip as she frowned. She hesitated, adjusting herself, struggling to accommodate him. He thought certainly she would stop when she came to the moment of it but he should have known better. His warrior woman did not so much as pause but took the pain and him together.

Dragon cried out; she threw her head back and made a keening sound that struck him to the bone. His big hands clasped her hips. Vainly did he try to hold her still but her inner muscles proved no match for him. She clasped him firmly, stroking rhythmically, and the world dissolved. His orgasm came on him in a fierce rush, the essence of his life pouring into her. He fell back against the ground, gasping, and fell further still into sweet oblivion.

RYCCA STIRRED SOME TIME LATER. HER BACK was chilled. She lifted her head slowly and realized she had collapsed on top of the man. His chest was her hard pillow. She hurt inside but it was a strange, exultant pain that seemed to have far more to do with the excesses of pleasure than the gifting of her virginity.

Gifting… given… gone. Truly, she was a fool, for only now did she realize what she might well have thought of sooner but had not—her value had just become as nonexistent as her maidenhead. She was—glory of glories—a fallen woman. And as such, she just might be disowned by the enraged family no longer able to barter her for kingly favor. She would no longer exist to them and she might—just might—be able simply to disappear. It was a slim hope but more than she had felt earlier in the night and it spurred her to action.

She had involved the man far too much already, taking advantage of his willingness to help her. However high he stood with his lord, and she did not doubt it was high indeed, he might be blamed if his part in what had happened between them became known. Honor demanded that she put him at no greater risk. Yet it was still a struggle to force herself from him. Slowly, reluctantly, she drew away from him and rose to her feet. With a last, lingering glance, Rycca squared her shoulders and hurried into the lodge.

Moments later, dressed once again in her boy's garb, she slipped out into the darkness. She did not allow herself to look back at him for she knew that to do so would be to shatter her brittle resolve.

DRAGON WOKE TO THE SQUABBLING OF SQUIRRELS. Wincing in the bright sun, he threw a hand over his eyes. He was halfway to his feet when memory flooded back. Thought, motion, purpose, everything stopped as he stood riveted, stunned by recollection. The girl…

He shook his head, struggling to clear it. Surely he must have imagined her coming to him, incandescent with passion, exquisitely responsive, defeating his noblest intent. A dream, no more— No dream, for just then, glancing down at himself, he saw the evidence of her vanished virginity. A low, virulent curse broke from him.

His life had just become vastly more complicated. So be it. She was Saxon and of a noble house. That would have to suffice. Hawk, Alfred, even brother Wolf would simply have to accept it.

A faint smile eased the grim set of his features. All in all, this might work out for the best. The more he thought of it, the more it seemed so. Had there been any wine left in the jug, he would have poured a libation in Frigg's honor, for he suspected the goddess had played her part.

That would have to wait, for first he had to find the girl. Let the minx try to withhold her identity from him now. He grinned, thinking he would inform her that she could tell him or wait and tell the priest, it mattered not. He could just imagine her reaction to that.

But imagine was all he could do, for not quite half an hour later he accepted that she was not in the lodge or the immediate area. Romulus and Remus were in their stalls, happy to see him as always. He paused just long enough to give them fresh water and grain before continuing his search.

She was not in the sauna or at the riverbank though he could track her as far as the water's edge. There her trail vanished.

Dragon stood for a little time, staring down at the slowly moving water, before he turned abruptly and rammed his fist into the nearest tree trunk. The pain of the blow would have felled a lesser man. He did not even notice it. Damn her! Twice and thrice damn her! She had lain with him, gifted him with her virginity, given him every reason to believe she was, at the very least, in lust with him, only to vanish into thin air without so much as a fare-thee-well.

He had been duped by a scheming, treacherous, cold-hearted maiden who had played him well and truly for a fool. And he'd thought getting kicked in the balls was bad.

This was vastly worse, a wound to the heart he could not admit even to himself. Only anger was allowed and he gave full vent to it.

She would pay and pay dearly for breaking her promises to him, both explicitly to remain the few days for which he had bargained and implicitly in the gifting of her body. He would find her, wring the truth of her identity from her, and then decide how the most exquisitely sensual woman he had ever met would pay for her transgressions against him.

Scant moments later, Dragon was ready. He rode Grani, who had been called Romulus but was really named for the mount of the god Sigurd, and was followed by Sleipnir, formerly Remus, named for the mighty Odin's own horse. Never mind his dislike of horses, they offered the swiftest way to track her.

One more quick sweep of the ground in all directions confirmed what he already knew. She had learned from the experience of two days before. There was not a trace of her beyond the few footprints at the water's edge. She had entered the river. He could not do the same without risking the horses in the uncertain footing of the stream bed. He would have to follow as closely alongside as possible, knowing there would be times when the path veered inland through the forest. Yet was there also advantage, for there were only two directions in which she could have gone—upstream or down.

Upstream meant north, against the current and into the hinterland from which she had fled. Downstream was Hawkforte, its port and the chance, however remote, of escape.

Grim-faced, the Dragon turned south.

RYCCA STUMBLED, STRIKING HER KNEES YET AGAIN on the treacherous rocks. She bit back a curse, hauled herself upright, spat out a mouthful of water, and went on, just as she had every other time she had slipped and fallen in the hateful, damnable, seemingly endless river. She was soaking wet, half blinded by the hair trailing in her eyes, and hurting in every inch of her body that wasn't outright numb. She was also chilled to the bone, for despite seeming to have swallowed enough water to turn the river into a dry bed, she was still submerged to her waist.

The temptation to just crawl up onto the bank and lie there in a huddled mass of misery was almost overwhelming, but some part of her, as she observed with a certain dazed detachment, was too pigheaded to give up. No, she would plod on likely to the ends of the earth, slipping and sliding, gasping and groaning, until either the river won or she did. Had she been inclined to wager, she would have bet on the river.

A soundless laugh broke from her, mute because she had scarcely any breath left. To think she had been afraid of drowning. With hindsight, that might have been merciful if only for being swift, unlike the seemingly endless torment into which she had plunged. She could not even say her heart ached unless emptiness could be said to resonate with pain as a cavern does when sound pours into its void.

Never to see him again, not even to know his name, how was that to be borne? Yet what else could she have done? He was already at too great a risk merely for being with her and vastly more so now that they had lain together. What poor thanks it was for his care of her to place him in such danger. Yet she had done so selfishly, without thought to his welfare, merely to seize a memory.

She tasted salt on her lips and knew it did not come from the river. Enough then, what was done was done. Whatever anguish filled her, whatever longings dogged her every breath, she was still driven to live. Step after painful step, grasping on to branches and rocks yet falling many more times, Rycca made her way downstream. Not until she judged that she had covered several miles did she drag herself from the river. Lying panting with exhaustion on the bank, she tried to think. Surely by now she had gone far enough to elude pursuit? Even so masterly a tracker could not follow where there was no trace at all. Could he?

Best not to think of that, for truly she could not endure the river any longer. Sitting up, Rycca glanced around, trying to gain some sense of where she was. All around was forest, revealing nothing. With a sigh, she rose to her feet and began wringing water out of her tunic and hair. When she was no longer quite so wet, she girded what strength she had left and plodded on.

An hour or so later, when the sun had dried her almost entirely, she came to a bend in the river where the bank simply disappeared. Nothing was left save a sharp incline along which she could not crawl, much less walk. Carefully marking the position of the sun to guide her, Rycca struck inland.

The forest was dense and the going hard but at length she emerged onto what appeared to be a well-traveled road. That was both good and bad. She could make much faster progress but the chances of being caught were vastly greater. Listening constantly for the sound of anyone approaching, she hurried along as quickly as she could.

She managed several more miles, her pace slowing as weariness crept over her. Despite her best resolve, she was sinking into a daze of mingled fatigue and sorrow. Through it, the sound of approaching horsemen did not reach her until long and precious moments after it should have. Even so, once she recognized her peril, Rycca responded swiftly. She had almost reached the safe obscurity of the trees when the lead rider spotted her and called out.

"Halt! You there, boy! Halt!"

Not for an instant did Rycca consider obeying. One swift glance at the banners carried by the outriders told her that she was in far more danger than she had been when she fled from the unknown man. She darted into the forest and ran, zigzagging among the trees, praying to find a route a horse could not follow. But her efforts were in vain. She felt the ground tremble beneath pounding hooves just as she was snatched up. The horse turned, she was scratched and snapped at by swiftly passing bushes, and in scarcely a heartbeat she was dropped, firmly and unceremoniously, back on the road.

"Boy—" The voice was harsh and haughty. It reverberated through Rycca, casting up in its wake fragments of haunting memories. Swept with cold, struggling to show no fear, she got to her feet slowly. Slower still, she raised her head and faced her fate.

The man before her, mounted on a proud war horse, had known forty and more years, most violent, even more dissipated. He was balding, with tufts of gray-streaked hair clustered in an unruly fringe around his ears. He had a big head but it went with the rest of him. His skin was weathered and creased, his jowls drooping. What had been muscle had long ago turned to fat, yet he was still formidable if only for a will that did not hesitate to kill or otherwise dispose of anyone who challenged, annoyed, or merely inconvenienced him. Of late, with the peace of blessed Alfred, he had enjoyed little chance to vent his spleen. Hence was he unusually ruddy and narrow-eyed as he looked at what he thought, at first glance, to be a lone boy.

Alas, that mistake did not last long. He knew her too well.